Shen Yucheng's Writings

Author: Shen Yucheng
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-06-01
Features: As days turn and seasons change, brother Shen Yucheng has been gone from us for a mere blink of an eye, a decade has passed. Our four decades of teacher-student bond, when the news of his passing first reached us, left us stunned into silence. Even today, every time I recall it, a wave of sorrow overwhelms me, and I cannot compose myself. I remember once, during a meal at my humble study, Yucheng earnestly and generously said to me, "After my passing, please entrust me with the task of compiling my collected works." At the time, my heart warmed, and I was deeply grateful. Little did I know that in the blink of an eye, as an elderly survivor, I would be writing a preface for his posthumous writings—the bitterness and melancholy of the moment are beyond words. How unexpected life can be, and what can be said beyond that!
Nevertheless, I took the initiative to pen this preface because Yucheng was truly one of the few who truly understood me among his many disciples. He once wrote an article for the journal of the China Association for Science and Technology, describing the contours of my life as a teacher and scholar. In the piece, he candidly criticized my shortcomings, though veiled in subtle yet incisive language. After reading it, I felt no resentment but rather deepened my respect for Yucheng. Such open and unbounded teacher-student relationships are rare even among the ancients, and Yucheng truly deserves to be called a modern ancient.
Yucheng graduated from the Peking University Chinese Department in 1955, having transferred there in 1952 as part of the university restructuring. In his final year at school, I served as an assistant to Professor Pu Jiangqing and taught parts of the literature history course in the classroom, which made me quite familiar with most of his classmates. This class was particularly distinguished, and Yucheng was among its finest. Yucheng loved Peking Opera and possessed exceptional talent, often finding the right insights in his studies. Thus, he frequently visited my humble study for casual chats, and our friendship grew gradually. After graduation, Yucheng stayed at the Peking University Chinese Department, assisting his mentor, Professor You Zecheng (Guo En). Meanwhile, I was also annotating the A Reference Book for the Literature of the Pre-Qin Period, edited by Master Chengze, and often visited Professor You’s home for guidance, meeting Yucheng daily. This way, apart from our teacher-student relationship, we also shared the bond of fellow disciples.
As far as I know, during the short one or two years Yucheng spent studying under Professor You, he basically mastered the research methods of the older generation of scholars, especially those with the Peking University academic tradition. Some might view this approach as merely a continuation of the old (Qian-Jia school of learning), but in reality, it demands a greater scientific rigor. Simply put, if researching a topic, one must first start with historical documents and extensive evidence (including primary and supplementary sources), grounding the analysis in the broader social context of the time, gradually arguing to reach conclusions, and repeatedly verifying them to ensure they align with objective facts of the era. The eight-character academic maxim advocated by Mr. Hu Shi—"，" (bold conjecture, meticulous verification)—was largely inherited by the school of doubt about the ancient past; yet it was the second half—"meticulous verification"—that was truly carried forward and practiced by the elite scholars of Peking University across generations. On the surface, this research method resembles the textual research of the Qian-Jia school, but in practice, most Peking University scholars, whether studying philosophy, literature, or history, generally begin with collecting documentary evidence, seeking various forms of proof, and then delving deeper based on their expertise in (textual criticism, phonology, etymology). Ultimately, they arrive at the conclusions they seek.
Among my own mentors, such as Professor Zhu Ziqing, Professor Yu Pingbo, and Master Feng Wenbing (Fei Ming), not to mention Professor You Guoen, they were all scholars of literature. Even Master Shen Congwen, who later switched to archaeology, followed a remarkably similar path. This tradition, especially Professor You’s own research methods, is clearly reflected in both Yucheng and myself. Of course, Professor You’s knowledge was vast and profound, far beyond our reach, but through personal instruction and exposure, his approach deeply influenced our generation. This is evident in Yucheng’s posthumous works.
Yucheng worked successively at the Peking University Chinese Department, the Zhonghua Book Company, and the Cultural Relics Publishing House. During that period, his research primarily focused on the Pre-Qin and Han dynasties, such as the Zuo Zhuan, the Book of Songs, and the Records of the Grand Historian, for which he devoted considerable effort. Upon joining the Institute of Literary Research at the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences, his work assignment led him to focus on the literature history of the Wei, Jin, and Southern and Northern Dynasties, collaborating with brother Cao Daoheng, who complemented him perfectly. These contributions are reflected in this book. From the content of his numerous short and long articles, it is clear that Yucheng remained a scholar of (literary studies). Yet, from formulating research questions to arriving at specific conclusions, he always started with primary sources, then sought multiple forms of evidence, and finally, the conclusions emerged naturally. This is precisely the traditional academic ethos of Peking University scholars I mentioned earlier.
Let me cite two extremely minor examples. First, in his research on the term "," Yucheng concluded that it was not exclusively gendered—it referred to someone, regardless of sex, who was young, handsome, and had delicate features with thick hair. This conclusion may seem at odds with the views of ancient scholars, yet it is well-supported. Second, in explaining the opening lines of Li He’s famous poem "The March of the Yue Gate General," "Black clouds press the city, the city seems about to collapse; armor glints in the sun, like golden scales." Yucheng interpreted the colors of the soldiers’ uniforms—black outside the city and yellow on the walls. Though the author called it "a different interpretation," it comes closer to the poem’s original intent. Such examples abound in the book and should not be dismissed as trivial. On the contrary, Yucheng expressed dissent toward certain pseudo-scientific phenomena that seemed plausible. For instance, in a footnote to a book review, he wrote: "Take, for example, the recent Peking Opera selection competition, where a group of promising young actors emerged. However, the scoring was mere 0.01 to 0.05 points. As the ancients said, 'victory lies in the slightest advantage,' and the judges’ scores were well-deserved. Yet, on the scales of art, even a 0.01-point difference could be clearly marked—truly a marvel. His words were gentle yet full of irony, revealing his disapproval of such precision. The so-called 'slightest advantage' may seem scientific, but in reality, it is merely arbitrary and irresponsible. A single instance reveals the whole picture—the research methods and writing style of Yucheng are evident from these examples."
Yucheng once said, "After the age of sixty, a scholar enters a second golden age." Yet he passed away suddenly just as he was about to enter it, which is a significant loss to academia. Since the age of seventy, I have often been moved by the sentiments once expressed by Cao Zixuan: "To mourn the departed is also to reflect on oneself." This small piece can serve as a belated eulogy for Yucheng, as well as a testament to the grief of those who outlive him. Those who knew Yucheng and understood his character will not find my words empty or self-pitying.
Written at the end of the Jia Shen year (2004), I began drafting this piece. It was only completed five days after the Lantern Festival of the following year (2005), a testament to the difficulty of expressing my suppressed emotions.