Zhitang's Yiyou Anthology

Author: Zhou Zuoren, edited by Zhi'an
Country: Mainland China
Publisher:
Publishing Date: 2003-06-01
Features: I learned Chinese literature and could read and write a little from novels. This experience is quite common. In the Qing Dynasty's Jiaqing era, Zheng Shouting's Yan Chu Xian Hua recorded a similar story: "When I was young, I easily understood books, entering through side doors. I remember at the age of ten, I accompanied my grandmother to celebrate her birthday at the Gu family's residence in the western countryside. For ten days of continuous rain, there was a copy of Lie Guo Zhi on the table. I flipped through it and could only understand a few sentences at first. After reading three or four copies, I understood more, and then I reread it from the beginning, understanding most of it. After returning home, I borrowed and read easier novels, understanding about eight or nine of them. On New Year's Eve, while accompanying my grandmother to stay up late, I read half of Feng Shen Zhuan and half of Romance of the Three Kingdoms, without time to read the detailed comments. Later, when reading Zuo Zhuan, I could understand the events, but there were still sentences I didn't grasp. I listened attentively when explanations were given, and thus reading other books became easier."
At the age of ten, I was studying The Great Learning with a scholar in my family. I started reading novels later, probably two or three years after that, but I clearly remember reading Notes from the Grass-Roots Studio when I was fifteen.
My experience can be summarized as follows: starting from novels like Mirror of Flowers and Fragrant Blossoms, Record of Scholars in the Forest, Journey to the West, and Water Margin, gradually moving to Romance of the Three Kingdoms, and then to Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio. This is the path from vernacular to classical Chinese. Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio taught me classical Chinese and gave me a glimpse of its charm—it was not a classic or a classical Chinese reading material.
After Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio, naturally came the fake Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio like Night Talk Records and Mysterious Records of Songyin, which then led to Notes from the Grass-Roots Studio. With this, I had entered both schools of classical Chinese fiction and naturally moved on to Tang Dynasty Compendium.
What I've said here is very simple and brief, but in reality, one must have their own judgment. Only by "forgetting the fishing net and remembering the fish" can one gain some knowledge of language and human affairs through novels without getting lost in them for too long.
Now, when I say this in retrospect, it's not about recounting stories, but just briefly discussing a few novels I remember. It's just my own opinions and impressions. If readers want objective criticism, they should look to literary history.
First and foremost is Romance of the Three Kingdoms. This is not the first novel I read, nor is it the best, but it is important due to its immense influence, and much of that influence is negative. About this book, I recently wrote a passage that I can copy here. "A few days ago, I borrowed Romance of the Three Kingdoms and reread it. I used to read it when I was a child, but now I find the impression quite different. It's a bit strange to think about its merits. Over the years, my views have changed. I no longer admire Guan Yu—not even the mythical stories of the Demon-Slaying Emperor, nor the loyalty of Marquis of Hanshou—as I once did. I now see him as just a hero from a secret society, and the only thing that influenced later generations was the sworn brotherhood in the peach garden. As for Liu Xuande, I don't think he had to be an emperor—regardless of whether the lineage of Prince Zhongshan was genuine or not, emperors in ancient China could be anyone, not just those named Liu. Judging by character, he was no better than Sun Quan or Cao Cao. His only advantage was that he killed fewer people than Cao Cao. As for Zhuge Liang, I don't see what's special about him. The schemes in Romance of the Three Kingdoms are no better than Wu Jue's tricks in Water Margin. If one praises his spirit of serving the country until death, then it's a pity that the Postscript to the Memorial to the Emperor is a forgery by later generations. We should acknowledge his kindness in governing Shu, but these are not mentioned in Romance of the Three Kingdoms. After finishing the book, I carefully reflected, but it was hard to think of any character worth admiring. In the end, I only remembered Kong Rong. His story isn't in the book, but he was indeed an outstanding figure. In the woodblock illustrations of Romance of the Three Kingdoms, Kong Haisi is depicted wearing a cloak-like hat, with his long beard fluttering to one side in a side view. That image isn't bad. He was one of those killed by Cao Cao, and I strongly disapprove of that aspect of Cao's character."
The two passages above, though written casually, clearly express my fondness for geographical records and customs. However, what I said earlier about prose as literature now applies to verse as well—the principles are the same.
What are these kinds of verse customs? Two Capitals, Two Capitals, and even Three Poems of Kuaiji are examples, but I'm not referring to such major works. I'm actually talking about what is known as Zhuzhi Ci.
When it comes to the history of Zhuzhi Ci, everyone traces it back to Liu Yuxi. In reality, it has existed since ancient times. For people, there is Liu Zizheng's Record of Women in the Han Dynasty; for things, there is Guo Jingzun's Praise of the Mountains and Seas in the Jin Dynasty. However, the use of seven-character quatrains and naming it Zhuzhi is attributed to Liu Yuxi, which is also a fact. According to The Collected Works of Liu Mengde, Volume 9, the nine Zhuzhi Ci poems and two additional ones are included in the Yuefu category. From the preface, it is clear that they were originally imitations of folk songs, chosen for their subtle meanings and the charm of the Qiqi and Puye rivers. It can be said that they are a more refined form of the Ziyue songs. From this, we can see that the essence of Zhuzhi Ci is four-line, seven-character poems that celebrate customs and human affairs, with a touch of humor. However, later, they were extended to include historical events, famous scenic spots, and local products, connecting them to ancient tuanzan (picture praise). Moreover, the number of poems often reached a hundred, though their charm was slightly diminished, their variety became richer, and they occupied a place between geographical records and poetry collections.
These works were originally called hundred odes, and the earliest surviving work is Hunjiang Hundred Odes, written by Ruan Yue, who also compiled The General Mirror of Poetry. This book was written during the Xuanhe era of the Song Dynasty, eight hundred years ago. Between the Yuan and Ming dynasties, many such works were created. However, it was not until the early Qing Dynasty, with Zhu Zhuqian's Ode of the Mandarin Duck Lake, that they gained greater fame. The popularity of Zhuzhi Ci truly began with this work. Zhu Zhuqian wrote Ode of the Mandarin Duck Lake in the Jiajin year of the Kangxi era, and Tan Shizhou responded with his own odes. By the Jiawu year of the Qianlong era, Lu Hezhong and Zhang Qichang each composed a hundred odes, creating massive collections. The gap between the two events spanned exactly one hundred years, a remarkable achievement.
After that, many authors emerged. Ji Xiaolan's Miscellaneous Poems of Urumqi and Cai Tiegeng's Hundred Quatrains of Wu are particularly noteworthy. Initially, these collections were simple poetry anthologies, occasionally with brief notes or explanations. Later, as notes increased, they not only became necessary for understanding the context but also almost a standard part of the work. When well-written, they often read like local customs records, sometimes even more interesting than the original poems. Li Tizhai's Four Hundred Quatrains of Zhenzhou Zhuzhi Ci, with a preface of over twelve thousand words describing annual customs and events, and Huang Gongdu's Miscellaneous Poems of Japan, with Wang Xiqi's annotations compiled as Miscellaneous Records of Japan, included in Collected Works of Xiaofanghu Study, are examples of this.
These collections are often titled hundred odes, zhuzhi ci, or miscellaneous odes, and are mostly written in seven-character quatrains, though some use five-character quatrains or regulated verse. Their nature is to celebrate historical sites, customs, local products, or annual events. Sometimes, they also include poems about specific aspects of society, such as markets or the lives of courtesans. In summary, they can all be called fengtu poetry, carrying historical, geographical, and folkloric materials in poetic form.
I am not confident in my understanding of poetry, though I enjoy Zhu Zhuqian's Ode of the Mandarin Duck Lake, such as:
"The evil wife flies and cries in the morning mist,
The red silkworm has already slept three times in April.
White flowers are steamed into dew,
Purple mulberry baskets are not taken for money."
I also like the tuofeng (local customs) described in the poem, a sentiment I have expressed before and still hold. Applying this to Zhuzhi Ci is the same.
In Ten Talks, I also wrote: "My intention is to lead readers into the study of folklore, to attract a few more people to this obscure path. Scholars of history and geography need not be persuaded, but if others who are concerned about China's past and future wish to broaden their historical interests, they should start with these records, leaving behind the halls and courts to focus more on the fields and lanes, gradually engaging with farmers and elders, and studying the history of national life. Though this is a solitary pursuit, it holds great significance for China."
There are too many geographical records in prose, so I will postpone that for now. For now, I will compile and categorize works like Zhuzhi Ci into a collection. They record customs and are poetry, and perhaps for these reasons, they may attract more readers. But that is not certain. I will take it as my hope as an editor.
July 20, 1934, Beijing.
A few days ago, I wrote in an article: "I don't understand literature, but I know the difference between good and bad writing." This statement may sound arrogant, but it is not necessarily so. What I meant was true, but I expressed it bluntly, so it seemed impolite.
I have been studying since childhood for forty years now. After so many years, I have been handling these bound books like a living tree, yet I still can't distinguish between good and bad writing. Isn't that a shame? When I worked as an apprentice in an antique shop for three or four years, I should have had a rough idea, at least not to mistake a stone Buddha carved into a bald man for a jade Buddha. But our learning requires ten times the effort, and I am truly ashamed.
I said I know the difference between good and bad writing, but upon reflection, it is still filled with regret. Good writing is like an antique that can be seen but offers no benefit to one's own writing. No, sometimes it is not only useless but even harmful. Seeing good writing, one may think it is difficult to do, but this is not a major reason, as we are not particularly ambitious to compare our work with the ancients. The real reason is that seeing bad writing, one may think it is easy to write like that, which is truly disheartening. Although it is common for the mistakes of the past to repeat, if one cannot match the good, they may resort to the bad, which is why bad writing persists.
This is the kind of passion that heroes possess. Ordinary people may not have such enthusiasm and are more likely to give up. For example, the four heroes of the Tang Dynasty admired William the Conqueror, but I don't need to add my own judgment. Just looking at his photograph with bulging eyes and a grimace, I don't like him. If being a hero requires such a face, then I am not interested in being one. It is better to remain an ordinary citizen, though I know life will be hard and unpleasant. A great ambition with a ridiculous appearance can still be redeemed, but ordinary people are not worth it.
One of the most common faults in writing is affectation, and when it appears, the writing is ruined. I have seen some articles that were not bad—they had meaning to convey and sufficient words—but they could have been written well. However, there is a difficult point. Writing is personal, but it is for many people, so it is similar to public speaking, which is even closer to acting. A speaker wants to persuade the audience, but they can easily be controlled by them. If one sentence or action is praised, they may unconsciously repeat it. For example, clapping the table and shouting that everyone should charge forward, receiving applause and cheers, and then shouting even more fiercely that everyone must charge forward, clapping so hard that glasses jump. In this way, guiding the audience and entertaining them are not much different.
I am not familiar with theater, but I have heard that good actors do not act this way. They have their own principles and do not easily yield to others. When I was young, I heard an anecdote about a local actor from my elders. After teaching his apprentice, he told him: "Focus on your performance on stage. Don't pay attention to those guys in the audience with noses like smoke pipes." The fact that rural actors had such insight shows their confidence in their skills, surpassing most politicians and literati.
When I read ancient and modern writings, I often see through their flaws. Like speakers, they seem to be shouting with strained voices, clapping tables, and glaring fiercely, revealing all kinds of strange behaviors on the paper, like a magic circle. The difference is that I don't need to chant spells or draw talismans—I just need to open a book.
When writers write in their studies, their minds are entirely focused on the readers, so the writing may have everything but lack what it originally had.
I have seen many examples of this, and they deeply shock me, making me realize how difficult writing is. Without careful attention, one's own intentions become unclear, and if there is a sense of avoidance, it becomes even more awkward, though the signs may be subtle, they are clearly visible to those who know a bit about antiques.
Often, I find universally praised works repulsive to me, such as Han Yu of ancient times. With these lessons in mind, I realize how hard writing is, but this has been a valuable lesson for me, with many benefits.