Concubinage Was a Deeply Entrenched Social Institution in The

Hsian.g LectQres on Chinese.Poet:

Centre for East Asian Research . McGill University

Hsiang Lectures on Chinese Poetry

Volume 6, 2012

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Centre for East Asian Research McGill University

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Contents

Editor’s Note vii

How to View a Mountain in Medieval China 1 David R. Knechtges

Poet-Nun of Nanyue: The Mountain Poems of Jizong Xingche (b. 1606) 57 Beata Grant

When Dōgen Went to China: Chan Poetry He Did and Did Not Write 75 Steven Heine

Editor’s Note

The three Hsiang Lectures published in this volume were delivered respectively by Professors David Knechtges (October 23, 2009), Beata Grant (September 17, 2010), and Steven Heine (March 11, 2011). It is a happy coincidence that the three lectures share common themes on mountains as religious sites of spiritual, particularly Buddhist, practice and inspiration, and on classical Chinese verse as the medium for self-reflection, contemplation of nature, and the very embodiment of mystical experience and religious insight. Professor Knechtges provides an erudite close reading of the medieval poet Xie Lingyun’s (385–433) “Fu on Dwelling on the Mountain,” in which Xie records his exploration and experience of the mountain landscape in his estate in Shi’ning, in present-day Zhejiang. Professor Knechtges suggests that this long poem reflects new visual experiences informed by Buddhist meditation practices introduced to China in this period. Professor Grant examines the nature poems written by the seventeenth-century woman Chan Master Jizong Xingche (b. 1606) of the Linji sect. Jizong developed a love for Nanyue (the Hengshan range) in her native Hunan, where she began her religious practice as a Chan nun and where she returned to spend her final years after traveling to other mountain sites and serving as abbess in temples in Jiangsu for much of her life. Co- sponsored by the Centre Zen Enpuku-ji as part of its biennial Zen Poetry Festival, Professor Heine’s lecture provides an illuminating discussion on the Chinese poetry collection of Dōgen, the founder of the Sōtō sect in Japan, who spent four years training in Chan monasteries in Song China. By examining the “types” of classical Chinese verse that Dōgen did write or eschewed in the more than three hundred Chinese poems in his collection, Professor Heine elucidates Chinese poetry’s multifaceted functions and openness to new themes in the context of Dōgen’s Zen practice.

I would like to note here that acclaimed translator of classical Chinese poetry David Hinton gave a talk in the Hsiang Lecture Series entitled “The Deep Ecology of Chinese Poetry” on March 6, 2009. Hinton’s talk was also co-sponsored by the Centre Zen Enpuku-ji as part of the biennial Zen Poetry Festival.

Montreal, June 2012

vii

How to View a Mountain in Medieval China

David R. Knechtges ⹟忼䵕 University of Washington

In Memoriam: Francis Abeken Westbrook (1942–1991)

In Seattle where I have resided for over fifty years mountains are a constant presence. We have not one but two mountain ranges (the Cascades and Olympics) within view. When the clouds liftġĩan occasion that is regrettably all too rare in our rainy climate), I have a clear view of Mount Rainier from our tenth floor condominium. If I go up one flight to the rooftop garden, I can see both the North Cascades and the Olympic mountains. Mountain viewing was not always so simple. Indeed, humans did not always find mountains so inviting. Although the ancient Greeks showed some feeling for the mountain landscape in which they lived, as Walther Kirchner has put it, for the ancient Romans: “Mountains, and particularly the Alps, evoke … no aesthetic response.”1 The changing European perception of mountains has been well researched in a book by Marjorie Hope Nicolson (1894–1981) titled Mountain Gloom and Mountain Glory. Professor Nicolson shows that in Europe even as late as the seventeenth century, writers and travelers depicted mountains as warts and blisters and even worse. James Howell (c. 1594–1666) in one of his Familiar Letters on Important Subjects gives the following account of his trip to the Alps in 1621: “[The Pyrenees] are not so high and hideous as the Alps; but for our mountains in Wales… they are but Molehills in comparison of these; they are but Pigmies compared to Giants, but Blisters to Imposthumes, or Pimples to Warts.” 2 Mountains were frequently called rubbish heaps—as Nicolson puts it, they were “waste places of the world with little meaning and less charm for men who crossed the Alps only to reach the plains.”3 The view that mountains were a garbage heap had much to do with the notion that before the Great Flood the earth was level and smooth, but after the fall of Adam and Eve nature began to decay. Mountains in particular were regarded as hideous monstrosities. This notion of the mountain Nicolson calls “Mountain Gloom.” She argues that it was not until the nineteenth century that European writers began to sing the praises of mountain splendor—what she terms “Mountain Glory.” One can of course view a mountain from afar or by physically climbing it. Mountains can also be viewed in the imagination or in the “mind’s eye,” 2 David Knechtges

to use a phrase from Saint Augustine. In a famous passage in book ten of his Confessions, Augustine comments, presumably unfavorably, on those who only go out and gaze on the landscape: “Yet men go out and gaze in astonishment at high mountains, the huge waves of the sea, the broad reaches of rivers, the ocean that encircles the world, or the stars in the courses. But they pay no attention to themselves. They do not marvel at the thought that while I have been mentioning all these things, I have not been looking at them with my eyes, and that I could not even speak of mountains or waves, rivers or stars, which are things that I have seen, or of the ocean, which I know only on the evidence of others, unless I could see them in my mind’s eye, and in my memory, and with the same vast spaces between them that would be there if I were looking at them in the world outside myself.”4 It would seem that Augustine was more interested in his search for God than mountains. Augustine’s lines cited above appear again in a famous European account of climbing a mountain. This is the famous letter of Francesco Petrarca (1304–1374) (hereafter referred to as Petrarch) to Francesco Dionigi in his Familiares, IV, in which he relates an account of his ascent of Mount Ventoux, a limestone peak that soars to a height of 6,273 feet in the Provencal Alps. 5 Petrarch made the ascent on 26 April 1336, but apparently did not write the letter until 1352 or 1353. Thus, this is an example of an event recollected many years later, and perhaps is subject to reinterpretation and even fictionalization. 6 Although the letter has many interesting details that would be of interest to a student of Chinese mountain writing, I do not have space to record them all here. I will simply report the basic outline. Petrarch climbs Mount Ventoux with his brother Gherardo. However, they take separate routes. Gherardo ascends by the ridgeline which is more perilous but shorter. Petrarch follows a smoother but longer path that proves to be more exhausting and frustrating. When he and his brother finally reach the summit, Petrarch gazes out and has a panoramic view of the mountains near Lyon to the right, and the ocean near Marseilles to the left. Flowing immediately below him was the Rhône River. At this point, Petrarch takes out of his pocket a miniature edition of Augustine’s Confessions, a book that he always carried with him. He opened it at random and chanced on the following passage: “Yet men go out and gaze in astonishment at high mountains, the huge waves of the sea, the broad reaches of rivers, the ocean that encircles the world, or the stars in the courses. But they pay no attention to themselves.” Petrarch then says he “was stunned.” Although Gherardo asks him to read on, Petrarch closed the book, angry that he “still admired earthly things.” Satisfied with what he “had seen of the mountain,” he then turns his “inner eye” toward himself. Petrarch says not a word as he descends the mountain. How to View a Mountain in Medieval China 3

In his letter, Petrarch does express some delight at the scenery. For example, just before he takes out his copy of Augustine, he says that he “admired every detail [of the scene].” Nevertheless at the same moment he rebukes himself for “relishing earthly enjoyment.” Toward the end of the letter he remarks that as he descended the mountain “it seemed to me hardly higher than a cubit compared to the height of human contemplation.” As Marjorie Nicolson aptly puts it, “For a moment upon Mount Ventoux, Petrarch had seen the ‘Mountain Glory.’ The moment passed, and his eyes were darkened by the ‘Mountain Gloom’….”7 Indeed, Petrarch’s account has virtually nothing to do with mountain viewing. It is more about his personal spiritual journey. I open my essay with this account of the mountain climbing adventure of the great medieval European writer and thinker Petrarch as prologue to my main subject, the viewing of mountains in medieval China. The medieval period in China is somewhat earlier than the medieval period of Europe. It extends from the third century to the tenth century C.E. Most of what I say will come from the early medieval period, that is the third to the sixth centuries. The mountain has long played an important role in China’s cultural history. Paul Demiéville (1894–1979), arguably the most distinguished European Sinologist of the twentieth century, has written a highly illuminating study of the role of the mountain in Chinese literary art. 8 Demiéville begins his article by citing the following words reputedly uttered by Confucius himself: “The wise take pleasure in waters, but the benevolent take pleasure in mountains. For the wise are active, and the benevolent are still. The wise are content, but the benevolent live long.”9 We can see from this passage some important traditional Chinese views of the mountain. First, it is associated with the moral quality of ren ṩ, which has multiple meanings: benevolence, kindness, and goodness. Second, the mountain is unmovable, and thus it is associated with the quality of tranquility and calmness. Finally, because of its durability, the mountain is associated with the idea of longevity and even immortality. In ancient China, the mountain was also attributed with the power of generation and birth. For example, one of the earliest dictionaries, the Shi ming 慳⎵ (Terms Explained) by Liu Xi ∱䅁 (late 2nd/early 3rd century) glosses the word shan Ⱉ (*srian) ‘mountain’ with the homophone chan 䓊 (*srian) ‘generation,’ ‘production.’10 The mountains were thus considered the site of most living things. This idea is found in the following passage from a work by Han Ying 杻⫘ of the second century B.C.E. who comments on Confucius’ statement that the benevolent take pleasure in mountains:

4 David Knechtges

It is mountains to which all people raise their eyes and look. Grass and trees grow there; all living beings flourish there; the birds that fly assemble there; the beasts that walk take their repose there; and while [all] alike take from them, they show [favoritism to none]. [Mountains] put forth clouds and make the wind circulate; they soar up between heaven and earth. Through them heaven and earth are completed, and the state is at peace. These are the reasons why the benevolent take pleasure in mountains.11

Although the ancient Chinese attributed the mountain with the quality of benevolence, this does not mean that they did not regard the mountain without fear and foreboding. Indeed, mountains were not only considered divine, they were often considered gods. For example, the earliest written Chinese texts, the oracle inscriptions of the Shang dynasty, have numerous records of sacrifices made to mountains. Mountains were also the home of various demons, ghosts, and sprites that were thought to do harm to anyone who entered their realm. As late as the fourth century, the Taoist Ge Hong 吃㳒 (283–344) begins his essay titled “Ascending Mountains and Crossing Streams” (Dengshe 䘣㴱) with the following warning to anyone who would carelessly venture into the mountains:

Of all those who compound drugs for the sake of [pursuing] the Way, as well as those who dwell in hiding to escape from disturbance, there are none who do not enter the mountains. Yet, those who are not aware of the procedures for entering the mountains many times come to hazard and harm. Hence, there is the proverb: “At the foot of Mount Taihua, / Bleached bones are strewn in a clutter.”…. Mountains, whether large or small, are in all cases possessed of divine numina. If the mountain be large, then the divinity is a great one; if the mountain be small, then the divinity is a lesser one. Entering a mountain without being in possession of the proper magical arts, one is certain to find calamity and harm.12

Ge Hong then goes on to enumerate the various perils and hazards that could befall someone who ventures into the mountains. He also provides a long list of magical talismans that one can use to avoid calamity during a trek in the mountains. I should mention that in ancient China the mountain was considered the realm of the immortals, or more precisely the undying, that is persons who by means of various breath control exercises and the ingestion of elixirs and herbs were able to attain long life spans and even immortality. Mountains How to View a Mountain in Medieval China 5

were also the source of these life-prolonging substances, and one of the main reasons many people in ancient China climbed mountains was to obtain rare herbs and minerals. In early Chinese writing, one could journey to a mountain not only by physically climbing it, but also in one’s imagination. Such travels were called yuan you 怈忲, or “far roaming,” and involved a journey of the spirit to a far place. Perhaps the most impressive early Chinese literary work that recounts a spiritual journey to a mountain peak is the “Fu on Roaming the Tiantai Mountains” (You Tiantai shan fu 忲⣑⎘Ⱉ岎) by the Jin dynasty writer Sun Chuo ⬓䵥 (314–371).13 It portrays a mystical journey on the Tiantai Mountains of eastern Zhejiang. By the fourth century this area had become an important scenic site as well as a Buddhist and Taoist center. Sun begins by describing the physical features of the peaks, focusing on the two most important sights, the Chicheng 崌❶ (Scarlet Wall), which is a cragged cliff towering over three hundred meters, and the Pubu 㾹ⶫ (Cascade), a huge waterfall located in the southwestern part of the range. As he progresses up the slopes, Sun imagines himself roaming the peak with Taoist immortals:

I meet plumed men on Cinnabar Hill, ṵ佥Ṣ㕤ᷡ᷀ġ I search for the blessed chambers of the ⮳ᶵ㬣ᷳ䤷⹕ġ undying.14

Sun then says the Tiantai Mountain is every bit the equal of the famed Kunlun range in the northwest. At Tiantai he tells us he reaches an exalted, transcendent state that allows him to roam freely over the peaks: ġ As long as the Terrace range can be scaled, 劇⎘ⵢᷳ⎗㒨ġ Why yearn for the Storied City? Ṏỽ佐ḶⰌ❶ġ Released from the constant cravings of the 侣➇ᷕᷳⷠㆨġ “realm-within,” Cheered by the exalted feeling of 㙊崭䃞ᷳ檀ねġ transcendence, I don wooly homespun, all furry and fleecy, 塓㮃墸ᷳ㢖㢖ġ Wield a metal staff, jingling and jangling. ㋗慹䫾ᷳ懜懜ġ I push through a murky mass of wild thickets, ㉓勺㥃ᷳ呁嗊ġ Scale the soaring steepness of scarps and 昇ⲕ⳧ᷳⳊⵠġ cliffs.15

At this point, Sun actually gives a brief account of the various places in the Tiantai range that he visits:

6 David Knechtges

I ford You Stream and straightaway advance, 㾇㤊㹒侴䚜忚ġ Cross the Five Boundaries and swiftly push on. 句Ḽ䓴侴彭⼩ġ Straddling the vaulted Hanging Ledge, 嶐䨡昮ᷳㆠ䢜ġ I look down into absolute darkness, a myriad 冐叔ᶰᷳ䳽⅍ġ fathoms below.

You Stream (You xi 㤊㹒), located thirty li east of Tiantai county, was one of the forbidding barriers one must cross to enter the mountains. The Five Boundaries presumably are the boundaries of the five counties through which the Tiantai Mountains stretch: Yuyao 检⦂, Yin 惆, Juzhang ⎍䪈, Shan ∉, and Shi’ning ⥳⮏. The Hanging Ledge is the famous Stone Bridge of Tiantai. Gu Kaizhi 栏ミᷳ (d. 406) says “the path is not a full foot wide and several tens of paces long. Each step is extremely slippery. It looks down on a brook of absolute darkness.”16 In the following lines, Sun Chuo gives some sense of the horror that a climber felt as he made his way up the slippery slopes of the mountain:

I tread slippery stones covered with moss, 嶸医剼ᷳ㹹䞛ġ Cling to Azure Screen that wall-like stands, 㐞⡩䩳ᷳ侈⯷ġ Grasp the long fig creepers on bending trees, 㓔㧃㛐ᷳ攟嗧 Snatch flying stalks of trailing grape. ㎜吃喇ᷳ梃匾ġ

Azure Screen (Cui ping 侈⯷) is a stone wall located on the Stone Bridge. According to the Guiji ji 㚫䧥姀 of Kong Lingfu ⫼曰䫎 (fl. 460), who owned a large estate in the Guiji area, this was a large boulder that blocked one end of a stone bridge on Scarlet Wall Mountain. It had a path to the side that barely allowed several persons to pass.17 Sun at this point seems to equate his overcoming the perils of the ascent with attaining immortality. At the summit, his path is now smooth, level, and straight. This of course is also a metaphor for the success of his spiritual journey.

Though once imperiled at the brink, 晾ᶨ℺㕤✪➪ I shall exist forever in eternal life. ᷫ㯠⬀᷶攟䓇ġ As long as I steadfastly plight my faith to the ⽭⣹婈Ḷ⸥㗏ġ Hidden Darkness, I can tread the layered steepness and find it Ⰽ慵ⵖ侴忦⸛ level. Once I successfully scale the nine switchbacks, 㖊⃳㾇Ḷḅ㉀ġ I find the road straight and smooth, long and 嶗⦩⣟侴ᾖ忂ġġ clear.

How to View a Mountain in Medieval China 7

Sun Chuo ends the fu in the realm of pure philosophy, in which Buddhist and Taoist concepts are perfectly blended:

And then 㕤㗗ġ When my sightseeing completes its circuit, 忲奥㖊␐ġ My body is calm, my heart is at ease. 橼朄⽫改ġ What “harms the horses” has been expelled, ⭛楔⶚⍣ġ Worldly affairs all are rejected.18 ᶾḳ悥㋸ġ Wherever I cast my blade it is always hollow; ㈽↫䘮嘃ġ I eye the ox but not as a whole.19 䚖䈃䃉ℐġ I focus my thoughts on secluded cliffs, ↅ⿅⸥⵾ġ Clearly chant by long streams. 㚿娈攟ⶅġ Then, 䇦ᷫġ When Xihe reaches the meridian, 佚␴ṕ⋰ġ The coursing vapors are lifted high.20 忲㯋檀壘ġ Dharma drums, booming, spread their sounds; 㱽溻䎭ẍ㋗枧ġ Various incenses fragrantly waft their fumes.21 埮楁楍ẍ㎂䂇ġ Now we shall pay our respects to the 倮奚⣑⬿ġ Celestially-venerated, And assemble the immortal hosts.22 䇘普忂ẁġ I ladle the black jade oil, ㋡ẍ䌬䌱ᷳ儷ġ Rinse my mouth in Floriate Pond springs.23 ▥ẍ厗㰈ᷳ㱱ġ Inspired by the doctrine of “beyond images,” 㔋ẍ尉⢾ᷳ婒ġ Illumined by the texts on “non-origination,” 㙊ẍ䃉䓇ᷳ䭯ġ I become aware that I have not completely ぇ怋㚱ᷳᶵ䚉ġ dismissed Existence, And realize that there are interruptions in the 奢㴱䃉ᷳ㚱枛ġ passage to Non-existence.24 I destroy Form and Emptiness, blending them 㲗刚䨢ẍ⎰嶉ġ into one; Suddenly I proceed to Existence where I attain ⾥⌛㚱侴⼿䌬ġ the Mystery.25 I release the two names that come from a 慳Ḵ⎵ᷳ⎴↢ġ common source, Dissolve the Three Banners to a single Non- 㴰ᶨ䃉㕤ᶱ⸉ġ existence.26 All day long giving oneself to conversation’s 》婆㦪ẍ䳪㖍ġ delights, Is the same as the still silence of not speaking.27 䫱⭪満Ḷᶵ妨ġ I merge the myriad phenomena in mystic 㷦叔尉ẍ⅍奨 contemplation, Unconsciously join my body with the Naturally- ⃨⎴橼㕤冒䃞ġ 8 David Knechtges

so.28

One of the most extensive descriptions of mountain viewing in Chinese writing appears in a reputedlyġ “early” fu, the “Fu on the Gaotang Shrine” 29 (Gaotang fu 檀Ⓒ岎) attributed to Song Yu ⬳䌱 (ca. 319–298 B.C.E.). The Wen xuan 㔯怠 places the “Gaotang fu” in the “Qing” ね or “Passions” category. However, as Qian Zhongshu 拊挦㚠 (1910 –1998) has noted, this fu more properly belongs in the “Youlan” 忲奥 or “Excursion” category.30 Indeed, most of the piece is devoted to describing the marvelous Wushan ⶓ Ⱉ (Shaman Mount), a peak that is inhabited by an alluring goddess, immortals, and seekers of longevity. It is also a place in which kings may enjoy themselves in excursions and hunting. The poet devotes a long section to describing the waters that roar beneath the mountain. Although scholars have debated the location of Wushan, the cataractine character of the waters suggests to me that this must be the Wushan in eastern Sichuan near the Yangzi River gorges. Li Daoyuan 惰忻⃫ (466-527?) in his Shuijing zhu 㯜䴻㲐ġ (Commentary to the Canon of Waterways) clearly associates this Wushan with Song Yu’s fu.31 After describing the raging waters, the poet then focuses on the mountain itself:

Climbing on high and gazing afar, 䘣檀怈㛃ġ Cause one’s heart to be pained. ἧṢ⽫䖩ġ Winding bluffs, sheer and sharp, 䚌Ⱡ⵹ⰷġ Rise layer upon layer, lofty and tall. 塾昛䡹䡹ġ Giant boulders, poised on high, 䚌䞛晒ⲣġ Leaning precariously, topple from the cliffs. ⁦ⲶⲾ晌ġ Rugged scarps, jaggedly jutting, ⵾⴯⍫ⶖġ Run hither and thither in mutual pursuit. ⽆㨓䚠徥ġ Nooks and crannies crisscrossing the slopes, 昔Ḻ㨓⓶ġ With caverns at their backs, block foot passage. 側䨜Ύ师ġ Rocks heaped and piled, one upon another, Ṍ≈䳗䧵ġ In tiers and layers rising higher and higher, 慵䔲⡆䙲ġ In a manner like Whetstone Pillar, 䉨劍䟍㞙ġ Lie beneath Shaman Mount. ⛐ⶓⰙᶳġ

The first line of the passage cited above combines both “climbing high” (deng gao 䘣檀) and “distant gazing” (yuan wang 怈㛃). However, the viewing of the mountain brings grief, not pleasure. The terrain is rugged, filled with steep slopes and piles of large boulders that block the way. It is not exactly the most inviting scene. The poet then follows with a description of the mountain’s summit:

How to View a Mountain in Medieval China 9

Above, one sees the mountain’s crest: ẘ夾Ⱉ⵼ġ Solemn it is in verdant luxuriance, 倭ỽ刲刲ġ As if brightly illumined by rainbows. 䁓侨嘡团ġ Below one sees a plunging precipice, ᾗ夾ⳅⵠġ A vast void deep and dark. 䨸⮍䨰⅍ġ One cannot see its bottom, ᶵ夳℞⸽ġ And merely hears the sound of rustling pines. 嘃倆㜦倚ġ

Despite the bright greenery that covers the top of the mountain, the view downward from the top is terrifying:

By the overhanging bluff where waters race full ⁦Ⱡ㲳㲳ġ and strong, One stands nervously hunched like a bear.32 䩳侴䄲䴻ġ For a long time he does not leave, ᷭ侴ᶵ⍣ġ And he is fully drenched in sweat down to his 嵛䚉㯿↢ġ feet. He is distant and distracted, befuddled and ええ⾥⾥ġ bemused, Distraught and distressed, lost in thought. ⾲そ冒⣙ġ This causes a man’s heart to throb, ἧṢ⽫≽ġ For no reason he is afraid. 䃉㓭冒⿸ġ Even men as resolute as Ben and Yu 屩做ᷳ㕟ġ Could not summon up their courage. ᶵ傥䁢≯ġ

Ben is Meng Ben ⬇屩, a famous warrior of the Chunqiu period who was so brave he did not fear snakes and dragons or tigers and wolves.33 Yu is Xia Yu ⢷做 a famous strongman from Wei 堃 who reputedly could lift a thousand jun 懆 (8.3 tons).34 Even they are daunted by this horrific place, which the poet tells us in the next few lines is haunted by terrifying creatures:

Suddenly he meets strange creatures, ⋺ソ䔘䈑ġ He does not know from whence they come. ᶵ䞍㇨↢ġ In teeming throngs they assemble, ䷙䷙區區ġ As if born of ghosts, 劍䓇㕤櫤ġ As if issued from spirits. 劍↢㕤䤆ġ In appearance they are like running beasts, 䉨Ụ崘䌠ġ Or resemble flying birds. ㆾ尉梃䥥ġ Bizarre and eerie, strange and uncanny, 嫶娕⣯῱ġ They cannot be fully described. ᶵ⎗䨞昛ġ

10 David Knechtges

The fearful, horrific portrayal of Mount Wu perhaps is completely imaginary, for we do not know if the poet who wrote this description ever actually visited it. By the later Former Han, we see writers recording not only imperial or royal progresses (the Song Yu piece is in effect a progress of a Chu king), but their own personal travels.35 This tradition continued into the Wei, Jin, and Northern and Southern Dynasties.36 I do not have space to examine these pieces here. I shall only note that almost all of them contain passages recounting visits to mountains and viewing a scene from a high vantage point. However, there is one Eastern Han prose account of mountain ascent. This is the “Feng shan yi ji” ⮩䥒₨姀ġ (Record of the feng and shan ceremony) by Ma Dibo 楔䫔ỗ (fl. 56) that is a remarkably detailed account of the ascent of Mount Tai by Emperor Guangwu ⃱㬎ġ(25–57) in March of 56. Three hundred hand-drawn carts were used to carry up the mountain dukes, princes, and marquises, and the emperor, who rode in the first cart. All of the court officials walked. Ma Dibo had been able with seventy other officials to precede the imperial entourage by a few days to inspect the stones that were used for the altar. Ma records the events of the imperial progress beginning with the departure from Luoyang on the 4th of March and ending with the shan sacrifice on the 30th of March.37 Although much of this prose essay concerns ritual matters, the author does provide unusual details about the trek up the mountain, including some remarkable descriptions of the view. For example, Ma mentions that he and his colleagues were able to ride part way on horseback, but they had to dismount and lead the horses over more difficult terrain. What is especially striking about his description is Ma’s ability to record things that he sees from a distance. He is even able to use metaphorical language to portray such scenes. Here are a few examples:

At a distance of ten li from level ground, we looked south and could see everything as far as our eyes could see. Looking up toward Celestial Pass, it was like gazing upon soaring peaks from the bottom of a valley. It was so high it was like gazing at floating clouds, and it was so steep, its rocky walls loomed darkly as if no path went there.

As I gazed afar on people [far up on the peak], they just seemed to be climbing a pole. Some I took for white rocks, and I took others for snow patches. After some time these white things moved past a tree, and I then knew that they were people.

How to View a Mountain in Medieval China 11

The road followed the side of the mountain. At its broadest point it was eight or nine chi, and at its narrowest it was five or six chi. Looking upward at the pine trees on the cliffs they were thick and verdant as if in the clouds, and looking down on the stream in the canyon below, it appeared so tiny I could not discern its true size.

At one point Ma even relates the emperor’s annoyance at discovering “litter” on the altar:

When his imperial highness ascended the altar, he saw acidic pears and sour dates strewn about, scattered coins in several hundred spots, along with pieces of silk. When he asked the reason for this, the one in charge said, “When Emperor Wu [of the Former Han] arrived below Mount Tai to conduct the feng and shan ceremonies, before he made his ascent, the court officials went up first to kneel and bow. They placed pears, dates, and coins on the road in order to seek blessings. That is what this is.” The emperor said, “The feng and shan are important rites that are observed once in a millennium. How could gentlemen who wear official caps and robes behave in this manner?”

Upon reaching the summit located southeast of the Celestial Gate, Ma mentions climbing the Sun Viewing Tower, so named because one could see the sun rising just at cockcrow. He tells us “When the sun first came out it was about three feet long.” Ma then describes the panoramic view that could be seen from here: “Looking toward Qin [the west] one can see Chang’an, looking toward Wu [the Southeast] one can see Guiji, looking toward Zhou [the east] one can see Qi. The Yellow River is more than two hundred li from Mount Tai, but looking from the shrine it looks like a belt circling the foot of the mountain.” Ma’s concern with detail extends even as far as mentioning that the line of the imperial procession descending the mountain stretched out for over twenty li or 5.2 miles, and that the path was so narrow in places, people stepped on each other’s heels. All of what I have discussed to this point is introductory to the main focus of my essay, the mountain viewing of Xie Lingyun 嫅曰忳 (385– 433), who is arguably the most avid mountain lover of the Six Dynasties period. Paul Demiéville calls him “le créateur de la poésie de paysage, ou plus précisement de la poésie de montagne.”38 As if there were any doubt about Demiéville’s views about Xie Lingyun’s contribution to Chinese writing about mountains, I cite another of his insightful observations: “C’est avec Sie Ling-yun que la poésie de montagne attaint un degré d’élévation et de raffinement qu’on ne trouve chez aucun de ses prédécesseurs.” 39 Xie 12 David Knechtges

Lingyun was a member of one of the most prestigious families of the Southern Dynasties.40 He is arguably the most distinguished poet of his time. Xie was active at the beginning of the Liu-Song ∱⬳ period (420–479). In 422, when Liu Yu ∱塽 (363–422), the founding Liu-Song emperor died, Xie supported as Liu Yu’s successor Liu Yizhen ∱佑䛇 (407–424), Prince of Luling ⺔昝, a younger son of Liu Yu. When the court regents chose Liu Yu’s eldest son Liu Yifu ∱佑䫎 (406–424) to accede, they expelled all of the members of Liu Yizhen’s faction from the capital. Xie Lingyun received an appointment in the remote seacoast commandery of Yongjia 㯠▱ (Wenzhou, Zhejiang).41 This was in effect banishment. In autumn of 423, Xie resigned his position on grounds of illness, and he returned to the family estate in the area of Shi’ning ⥳⮏, in southern Shangyu ᶲ嘆 and northwestern Sheng Ⳳ counties of Zhejiang.42 The original estate, known as Dong shan 㜙Ⱉ (Eastern Mountain), had been established by Xie Lingyun’s grandfather, Xie Xuan 嫅䌬 (343–388).43 When he retired to Shi’ning, Xie Lingyun devoted himself to expanding the estate, writing poetry, and studying Buddhism. This was a highly productive period for his poetry. Xie describes his life at Shi’ning in a long poem titled “Fu on Dwelling in the Mountains” (Shan ju fu Ⱉ⯭ 岎). 44 Xie wrote the “Shan ju fu” in the period 423–26 while he was residing in Shi’ning.45 He also wrote an extensive commentary to the poem in which he explains in prose many of the details that he mentions in the fu proper. Xie Lingyun’s account of his mountain estate reflects new ideas about mountain viewing and visualization that had emerged in the early fourth century. These new views of visualization are informed mainly by Buddhism but also by Taoism. It was just in this period that many members of the Chinese elite began to take a strong interest in Buddhism. Professor Tian Xiaofei of Harvard University recently has published a long article on what she calls the new discourse of seeing in the fourth century. Using Buddhist and Taoist sources, Professor Tian shows that viewing was conceived of as a process of “stopping and stilling of actions and passions in order to achieve a serene concentration” and applying the power of concentration “to an enlightened observation of the impermanent nature of reality and seeing things as they really are.”46 Tian further shows that in the fourth century, those who subscribed to this notion of visualization argued that “the mind was so powerful that it could override the physical environment.”47 What this means is that place did not matter. One could become enlightened or achieve Taoist transcendence anywhere, even in the court or market place. Although the conventional wisdom of the time was that a person had to go into hiding in the mountains to achieve peace of mind, the advocates of the new notion of viewing claimed that one could attain spiritual transcendence How to View a Mountain in Medieval China 13

anywhere, even in the crowded court or marketplace. For example, the late third century poet Lu Ji 映㨇 (261–303) in his “Fu on Replying to Praiseworthy Withdrawal” (Ying jia fu ㅱ▱岎) says the following:

As long as one can forget his physical body, 劇⼊橠ᷳ⎗⾀ġ Casting aside official hatpins, why need he go 寰㈽䯒℞⽭察ġ into hiding in a valley? One may compare a large mountain to an inch- 㕡ṳ᷀㕤⯢旄ġ high mound, And lodge a dense grove in a single tree.48 妿暚㜿᷶ᶨ㛐ġ

The most eloquent expression of the idea that one can attain spiritual transcendence even in the midst of noise and commotion of human settlements is the following passage from a poem by one of Xie Lingyun’s contemporaries, Tao Yuanming 昞㶝㖶 (365?–427). Tao served briefly in office, but in the year 405 retired for good to a farm located close to one of China’s most beautiful mountains, Mount Lu ⺔Ⱉ, in modern Jiangxi province. These lines are from the fifth of Tao’s “Twenty Poems Written after Drinking Wine” (Yin jiu ershi shou 梚惺Ḵ⋩椾):

I build my hut in a place where other people 䳸⺔⛐Ṣ⠫ġ live, Yet do not hear the noise of carts and horses. 侴䃉干楔╏ġ You ask—how can I do this? ⓷⏃ỽ傥䇦ġ When the mind is detached, the place becomes ⽫怈⛘冒ῷġ remote of itself. I pick chrysanthemums by the eastern hedge, ㍉卲㜙䰔ᶳġ Carefree and content, I see the southern hills.49 え䃞夳⋿Ⱉġ

In the concluding lines of this excerpt from his poem, Tao Yuanming juxtaposes the picking of chrysanthemums with looking out on the distant southern hills. Tao infused the petals in wine and drank it as a potion that reputedly would prolong one’s life. The southern hills undoubtedly are Mount Lu. Mount Lu was a major Buddhist center during the time of Xie Lingyun. The most famous Buddhist teacher of Mount Lu was Huiyuan ㄏ怈 (334– 416) who established a Buddhist retreat there around the year 380. On the eastern side of Mount Lu, Huiyuan had constructed a large monastery called Donglin 㜙㜿 or Eastern Grove. Xie Lingyun wrote a dirge upon Huiyuan’s death. He mentions that he had admired Huiyuan from the early age of fifteen. However, Xie probably did not meet Huiyuan until some ten years 14 David Knechtges

later when Xie was serving as an aide to the future founding emperor of the Song dynasty. The biography of Huiyuan contained in the Gaoseng zhuan 檀₏⁛ (Biographies of Eminent Buddhist Monks) compiled by Huijiao ㄏ䘶 (497–554) around the year 530 says the following about their first encounter: “Xie Lingyun of Chen commandery, confident in his talents, was arrogant towards ordinary people, and there were few people that he held in high regard. As soon as he met Huiyuan, he reverently submitted to him in his heart.”50 We do not know how long Xie Lingyun stayed on Mount Lu, but we know that he was involved in an important event that occurred on Mount Lu in the spring of 412. Huiyuan had become interested in the story of Buddha’s shadow, which was reported throughout Buddhist circles in China by the monk Faxian 㱽栗 (d. ca. 422) who had seen it in the year 399 in a cave of Nagarahāra (modern Jelālābād, Afghanistan). This shadow reputedly had been left there by Buddha after his death. After hearing the account given by Faxian, Huiyuan decided to have a copy of the Buddha shadow painted on silk and put in a shrine that backed onto a mountain and overlooked a river. This image was hung in the shrine on 27 May 412.51 Xie Lingyun was commissioned to write an inscription on it. Xie also was one of the first Chinese laymen to learn Sanskrit. I can cite no better authority on this matter than Professor Jao Tsung-i 棺⬿柌. Professor Jao has done some of the most insightful studies of the history of Sanskrit in China. He has shown that Xie Lingyun is the first Chinese poet who knew Sanskrit. Professor Jao also notes that Xie was also the first Chinese to write an account of the Kharoṣṭi script.52 Xie Lingyun was also an expert in the Buddhological realm. Xie together with two Buddhist monks polished up a Chinese translation of the Mahāparinirvāṇa-sūtra. He also wrote a commentary to the Diamond Sutra and composed a set of eight encomia for analogies that the Vimalakīrti Sutra uses to illustrate the impermanence of the human body (bubble, foam, flame, plantain, phantom, etc.).53 Now let us turn our attention to the “Shan ju fu.” Xie Lingyun begins the fu with a prose introduction in which he sets forth the principles on which he based both the writing of his fu and the design of his estate. He first declares that his residence, which he calls a “mountain dwelling” (shan ju Ⱉ⯭), differs from other types of reclusive abodes, which he specifies as “roosting on cliffs” (yanqi ⵾㢚), living in “hills and gardens” (qiuyuan ᷀ ⚺), and “residing beside the city wall” (chengbang ❶‵). Although Xie does not explain the difference among these four types, he tells us that his mountain dwelling is distinguished from the others because he “resides on a mountain under ridgepole and eaves” (dongyu jushan 㢇⬯⯭Ⱉ), that is, his garden retreat has some modicum of construction on it. How to View a Mountain in Medieval China 15

Xie also self-consciously sets his fu apart from the earlier fu tradition, especially the court fu of the Han period. He declares that his fu is an attempt to present an alternative to the grand descriptions of cities, palaces, and parks that were celebrated by the court poets of the Han. As he puts it: “Now what I write about is not the splendors of capitals, palaces, lodges, excursion hunts, grand sights and sounds, but rather plants and trees, waters and rocks, grains and farming.”54 Xie says he obtains inspiration from the “profound thoughts of Tai st Tong and the Four Hoaryheads.” Tai Tong 冢ἇ (1 century C.E.) was a recluse who lived in a cave in the mountains near Wu’an 㬎⬱ (southwest of modern Wu’an, Hebei), and he refused offers to serve in the local Wei commandery administration. When the regional inspector asked why he lived such a miserable existence, he replied that by living apart from the world, he was able “to preserve his life intact,” whereas if he accepted the invitation to take office, he would worry at night about “all sorts of things,” and that would make his life even more miserable.55 During the Qin dynasty, the Four Hoaryheads (Si hao ⚃䘻) went into reclusion in the mountains southeast of the capital of Chang’an, and they refused to come to court even when Liu Bang founded the Han dynasty in 206 B.C.E. By Xie Lingyun’s time, they were considered paragons of worthy men who hid away in the mountains.56 In various places in his fu Xie portrays his abode as a refuge for a worthy and cultivated person who has withdrawn from the mundane world. In the last few lines of his introduction, Xie says that he repudiates the “gorgeous words” of two fu poets who were renowned for their displays of verbal virtuosity, Zhang Heng ⻝堉 (78–139) and Zuo Si ⶎ⿅ (ca. 250–ca. 305). Zhang Heng wrote a fu on the Western Han capital of Chang’an, and Zuo Si is the author of a fu on the Three States’ cities of Chengdu ㆸ悥, Jiankangġ⺢⹟, and Yeġ惜. The fu of Zhang Heng and Zuo Si are renowned for their ornate style, which Xie declares that he rejects. As Xie puts it, “I discard the ornate and adopt the plain.” Xie seems to intend these words as an aesthetic principle that not only applies to the style of his poem, but the design of his estate, for as we shall see, Xie claims throughout the body of the fu that his abode is superior to dwellings in the “city and marketplace” because it is more “natural” and devoid of elaborate structures. Xie begins the fu telling us he is ill in bed on his mountain top. It must be remembered that when Xie was living in Yongjia, he was chronically ill, and evidently he continued to be ill upon his return to Shi’ning. What does Xie do with his idle time? He has time for viewing, but the first thing he views (lan 奥) is what he calls the “writings left from the ancients” (guren zhi yishu ⎌Ṣᷳ怢㚠). Whenever something strikes a chord with his own thoughts, he joyfully laughs. He then makes a philosophical point: 16 David Knechtges

It is the Way that must be valued; ⣓忻⎗慵ġ Thus, material things are unimportant. 㓭䈑䁢庽ġ It is the cosmic principle that should be 䎮⭄⬀ġ preserved; Thus, affairs of the world can be forgotten. 㓭ḳ㕗⾀ġ

Xie elaborates on these lines in his commentary: “If one is able to value the Way then he can consider material things unimportant, and if he can preserve the cosmic principle, he can forget mundane affairs.” The term that I have translated “cosmic principle” (li 䎮) is extremely important in Xie Lingyun’s thought. It is a very difficult term to render into intelligible English. The late Leon Hurvitz has written perhaps the most succinct and accurate account of its evolution into a philosophical term in the Six Dynasties period: “The semantic Odyssey of li would be about as follows: arrangement of fields—arrangement of things in general—arrangement of affairs—the natural order, in which affairs are arranged—the adaptation of oneself to this natural order, in which every individual controls his passions—a rational socio-political order. Li thus has both microcosmic and macrocosmic connotations. From there it acquires the further meaning of the adaptation of the microcosm to the macrocosm. This is known as the ‘ultimate li’ [zhi li 军䎮].” Hurvitz further explains that li became a term used by the Buddhist thinker Zhidun 㓗忩 (314–366) to designate chih wu 军䃉 (‘rien suprême’) and eventually prajñāpārmitā (absolute truth).57 Paul Demiéville notes that Zhidun defined “li comme ineffable, inalterable, supramondain, ‘oubli’ de l’empirique changeant, ‘obscurité apophatique.’”58 In the immediate context of this section of his fu Xie is saying that there is some ineffable ordering principle that transcends mundane existence. He goes on to say that not even the Yellow Emperor and the sage ruler Yao were content to remain in their court forever. The Yellow Emperor ended his days at Ding Lake 溶㷾 where he eventually became an immortal, and Yao became a recluse on the banks of the Fen 㰦 River.59 In the next section of the fu Xie Lingyun offers a justification for the building projects that he describes elsewhere in the fu. Firstĭ his abode is not a primitive nest or cave, for such places “bring misery because of wind and rain.” He then refers to Hexagram 34, “Da zhuang” ⣏⢗ (Great Strength), of the Yi jing ᱃㏃, which according to the “Commentary on the Appended Statements,” gave the ancient sages the idea for building houses with “ridgepole and eaves”: “In high antiquity men lived in caves and dwelled in the wilds. The sages of later ages changed to living in houses. They had a ridgepole on top and eaves below in order to keep off the wind and rain. The idea for this was probably taken from Great Strength.”60 How to View a Mountain in Medieval China 17

Having provided a justification for constructing buildings in his retreat on the grounds that they offer protection from the elements, Xie next faces the question of how elaborate this construction can be. Xie does not completely ban elaborate, ornate structures from his garden. Resorting to a bit of sophistry inspired by another hexagram in the Yi jing, Xie declares: “If buildings acquire beauty by means of jasper and jade, / ‘Plain ornament’ differs from the mundane by virtue of the ‘hillside garden’” ⭖⭌ẍ䐌䎩农伶ġİġ⇯䘥屩ẍ᷀⚺㬲ᶾįġ Xie combines here statements from the judgments to the last two lines of hexagram #22, Bi 屩 (Ornament). Line five of the hexagram reads: “Ornament in a hillside garden. Bundles of silk are heaped in great piles. Be sparing. In the end good fortune.” The judgment to the final line reads: “Plain ornament. No blame.” 61 The phrase “hillside garden,” or more literally “hills and gardens” (qiu yuan ᷀⚺), in early medieval Chinese texts usually designates the abode of the retired worthy who must be lured to the court with generous gifts (bundles of silk).62 Although Xie Lingyun uses “hillside garden” in the sense of a recluse’s retreat, he adds another level of meaning by connecting it with the concept of “plain ornament” (bai bi 䘥屩). Although the notion of “plain ornament” seems to be an oxymoron, Xie clearly develops it into a principal that governs the role that ornament and embellishment play in the construction of his garden estate. The commentary of Wang Bi 䌳⻤ (226–249), whose influential study of the Yi jing Xie would have known, helps explain Xie’s idea: “[The fifth line] obtains the most honored position and is the ruler of ornament [i.e., Hexagram 22] and the culmination of ornament. If one applies ornament to something, the proper Way will be harmed. Yet there is nothing greater than applying ornament to a hillside garden. Thus, if ornament resides only in bundled silks, the hillside garden loses simplicity, but if ornament is derived from the hillside garden, the silks may be heaped in great piles. In using ornament, it is best to curb extravagance and be able to maintain restraint. Thus, one must be sparing, and then he will obtain good fortune in the end.” 63 In this passage, the hillside garden represents a place of plain simplicity, while the piled up silks represent excessive ornament. The problem for Wang Bi is how to prevent excessive ornament from harming the natural “Way” of simplicity. Wang does not consider ornament as intrinsically bad, but believes that it cannot be applied from without, and must be controlled, moderated and “derived from the hillside garden” itself. In other words, ornament must be naturally “plain and simple.” This is how Wang Bi explains “plain ornament” in his commentary to the top line of Hexagram 22. He says, “[The top line of the hexagram] occupies the final stage of ornament, when ornament reaches its culmination and reverts to simplicity. Thus, [at this stage] natural simplicity is allowed to take its own 18 David Knechtges

course, and because no effort is expended on elaborate ornament, there is no blame.”64 Although Xie Lingyun does not provide the elaborate argument of Wang Bi, his idea of “plain ornament” is similar to Wang’s. In his commentary Xie says that the use of jade to beautify a building may be justified because a “jade hall is intrinsically plain,” and because of its mountain location, it is different from the ornate buildings of the mundane world. Moreover, Xie’s mountain dwelling is not the mere “hillside garden” of an ordinary recluse, but “rests above on cliffs and ravines” where the Way is “more profound.” Such a location allows him to combine the advantages of the plain and ornamental. He avoids the extremes of the primitive “nest and cave,” which would expose him to the elements, and the lavish extravagance of a building in the court and marketplace (city). Xie says: “Although this is not the court or marketplace, heat and cold are well- balanced; / Although it involves construction, the lavishly ornate and primitively simple are both avoided.” Xie then mentions a series of gardens and parks of various types, about which he comments in turn. First, he mentions Zhongchang Tong ẚ攟䴙 (179–219), one of the earliest Chinese writers to celebrate the delights of country living.65 In his partially extant Chang yan 㖴妨 (Forthright Words), Zhongchang Tong does not describe an actual garden, but a hypothetical one in which he aspired to live. Xie cites the following lines from Zhongchang’s essay: “Let the place where I live have fertile fields and a spacious house, by a tall mountain on the bank of a flowing stream. Ditches and ponds would encircle it; bamboos and trees would be spread all around. A threshing ground and a vegetable plot will be in the front, and an orchard will be in the rear.” 66 Xie then follows with a reference to a garden mentioned in a letter written by the Wei dynasty writer Ying Qu ㅱ䑑 (190– 252). Xie also cites lines from this letter in his commentary: “Thus, I sought roads and fields east of the Pass, south overlooking the Luo River, north nestling against the Mang Hills. I relied on a tall peak to make my dwelling, and availed myself of a thick grove to provide shade.” In the fu Xie criticizes both of these places: “The topography sloped to one side, /And the terrain lacked fullness.” I am not entirely sure what Xie finds lacking in their “design.” The term that I have translated as “fullness” (zhouyuan ␐⚻) could also mean “roundness.” Mark Elvin translates it as “all-around perfection, well-matched in every azimuth.”67 Next, Xie introduces another pair of gardens, both owned by wealthy men. The first is the Copper Slope (Tong ling 戭昝) owned by the Former Han plutocrat Zhuo Wangsun ⋻䌳⬓ (fl. 150–140 B.C.E.), who was one of the wealthiest men in Sichuan. This is actually a strange choice, for Copper Slope was not a garden, but the site of a large copper mine owned by Zhuo How to View a Mountain in Medieval China 19

Wangsun. Thus, Xie says in his commentary that according to the “Accounts of Men Who Made Fortunes” (Huozhi zhuan 屐㬾⁛) in the Han shu 㻊㚠, “The Zhuo went to Linqiong where they openly monopolized mountains and rivers.” 68 Presumably Xie was offended by Zhuo’s commercial use of the landscape (“mountains and rivers”). The second garden owned by a wealthy man is the Jin gu 慹察 or Golden Valley garden of Shi Chong 䞛ⲯ (249–300). Located outside of Luoyang on Golden Valley Creek, it was one of the most lavish estates of the time. In his commentary, Xie Lingyun notes some of its features: “it had mountains and streams, forests and trees, ponds and pools, and millstones.” He also mentions the famous gathering hosted there in 296 at which participants feasted, played stringed instruments, and composed poems. Shi Chong’s preface commemorating the gathering is still extant.69 Although Xie did not mention it, Shi Chong’s villa was notorious for its extravagance. Xie follows with a brief section in which he recounts how his grandfather, Xie Xuan, came to retire on this estate. Xie’s great-great uncle Xie An 嫅⬱ (320–385) and his grandfather Xie Xuan are famous in Chinese history for mounting a successful defense of the south against an invasion by northern armies led by Fu Jian 劣➭ (338–385) at the battle of the Fei River 㶅㯜 in November 383. In 387–88, Xie Xuan took up residence on the Shi’ning estate. 70 Here and in a long poem titled “Recounting the Virtues of My Ancestors” (Shu zu de shi 徘䣾⽟娑), Xie portrays Xie Xuan as a man whose basic inclinations are to leave the turmoil of officialdom and military service and retire to a mountain retreat.71 This is how he puts it in his prose commentary:

My grandfather the Chariot and Horse General achieved great merit on the Huai and Fei Rivers, and the territory south of the Yangzi was able to escape the calamity of “wayward flow.” 72 Later, when the Grand Tutor died, his far-reaching plans came to an end.73 He then sought to be released from military service and returned east in order to avoid the turmoil of the imperial court. The cycle of decline and splendor, reclusion and prominence, these [are understood by] the mind of a wise and perceptive man. Thus, he chose a place of divine beauty in order to realize his aim of living in a lofty retreat. The building of an estate on the mountains and streams actually had its beginning here.

In the opening lines of the next section, Xie says that living in this mountain retreat is a legacy he has received from his grandfather:

20 David Knechtges

I look up at the lessons handed down by the late ẘ⇵⒚ᷳ怢妻ġ wise man, Look down at what suits my basic nature. ᾗ⿏ねᷳ㇨ὧġ

In the prose commentary, he says even more directly that he deems his “mountain estate” a family heritage: “This means that laying out an estate in these mountains is a lesson handed down to posterity. There is always something that suits one’s basic nature, and dwelling in the mountains is what best suits mine.” Despite his illness and advancing old age, Xie says that he is quite content to leave the world behind. He has curbed his ambition to pursue what he calls “ineptness” (zhuo ㊁). Xie Lingyun may have been inspired by the Western Jin writer Pan Yue 㼀ⱛ (247–300) who uses zhuo as a key term in his “Fu on Living in Idleness” (Xian ju fu 改⯭ 岎). In this piece Pan equates “ineptness” with his failure to succeed in his official career. Nevertheless, his ineptness turns out to be a boon, for it has given him the leisure to retire to his country estate where he can engage in idle pastimes. Thus, in the concluding lines of his fu Pan Yue says “I look up to the many wonders and cut off profane thoughts, / Living carefree, I nurture my ineptness to the end of my days” ẘ䛦⥁侴䳽⿅ / 䳪⃒忲ẍ梲㊁.74 Like Pan Yue, Xie Lingyun declares that he “bids farewell to his lifelong companions” 嫅⸛䓇㕤䞍忲, and he now “roosts in the clarity and boundlessness of mountains and streams” 㢚㶭㚈㕤Ⱉⶅ. The phrase I have translated “clarity and boundlessness” (qing kuang 㶭㚈) seems to have been an important one for Xie Lingyun. In addition to describing the spacious landscape, qing kuang also has the sense of “tranquility and detachment.” Thus, in “Passing through My Estate at Shi’ning” (Guo Shi’ning shu 忶⥳⮏⠭), a poem that Xie wrote when he was on his way to exile in Yongjia, Xie equates qing kuang not only with the vast landscape of his mountain retreat, but the pure detached state of mind that he had lost while pursuing his official career in the capital:75

From the time my hair was bound, I embraced 㜇檖㆟俧ṳġ uncompromising integrity; But I was then diverted by the pursuit of 徸䈑忪㍐怟ġ worldly things. It seems as if yesterday when I violated my 忽⽿Ụ⤪㗐ġ resolve; It has now been two Jupiter cycles to this Ḵ䲨⍲勚⸜ġ current year. Ground and blackened, I bid farewell to purity 䵯䢟嫅㶭㚈ġ and boundlessness; How to View a Mountain in Medieval China 21

Exhausted, I am put to shame by the staunch 䕚啦㄂屆➭ġ and upright.76 ġ As in the “Shan ju fu,” Xie follows these lines with a statement about the tranquility he has attained through “ineptness” and illness: “Ineptness and illness have encroached upon me; / But I still have attained the benefit of tranquility” ㊁䕦䚠ῂ唬ġİġ怬⼿朄侭ὧ. After this long prolegomena, Xie Lingyun launches into a description of his estate. The opening section begins with the following line: “To the left there is a lake, on the right is a river” ⶎ㷾⎛㰇. As Xie indicates in his prose commentary, the line is a variation on a line in the “Seven Stimuli” (Qi fa ᶫ䘤) of Mei Sheng 㝂Ḁ (d. 140 B.C.E.): “Mei Sheng has said, ‘To the left is the River, on the right is a lake. Comparable pleasure does not exist.’ These are the words used by the guest from Wu to persuade the young lord of Chu. Here Mei Sheng was referring to the countryside around Jiangdu. Although that area has rivers and lakes, it does not have mountains and cliffs. This reminded me of its similarity with regard to having river on the right and lake on the left, but the mountainous topography [of my estate] is not found in a city surrounded by moat and walls.”77 Xie Lingyun alludes here to a passage in Mei Sheng’s “Seven Stimuli” in which a guest from Wu describes the scene that can be viewed from a tall terrace:

Having climbed the terrace at Jingyi, 㖊䘣㘗⣟ᷳ冢ġ You gaze southward toward Jing Mountain,ġ ⋿㛃勲Ⱉġ And gaze northward toward Ruhai. ⊿㛃㰅㴟ġ On the left is the River, and the right is the lake, ⶎ㰇⎛㷾ġ There is no other pleasure like this.78 ℞㦪䃉㚱ġ

The River in Mei Sheng’s line refers to the Yangzi; the lake is Dongting. Jiangdu 㰇悥 is the ancient name for Yangzhou, but the scene Mei Sheng described was actually in a part of Hubei, which as Xie rightly notes was not particularly mountainous. However, Mei Sheng’s fu does include an account of the tidal bore of Guanglingġ⺋昝. Guangling is also another ancient name for Yangzhou. Perhaps Xie Lingyun was confused about the location specified in Mei Sheng’s description of the lovely vista that could be seen from the terrace. The lake and river that Xie mentions are undoubtedly the two Wu Lakes ⶓ㷾 and the Puyang 㴎春 River. The Wu Lakes, which consisted of Greater and Lesser Wu, were better known as Taikang Lake ⣒⹟㷾. For example, the Shuijing zhu names Taikang Lake as the site of Xie Xuan’s residence.79 Gu Shaobo estimates that the lake once covered a large area of modern Shangyu ᶲ嘆 and Sheng Ⳳ counties, but disappeared during or 22 David Knechtges

before the Song dynasty. 80 The Puyang River flowed from south to the north through Sheng and Shangyu counties. It entered the sea at Sanjiangkou ᶱ㰇⎋.81 Although waters occupy a significant place in Xie’s account of his estate, it is the mountains that truly dominate the landscape. Thus, in the following lines of the section mentioned above, he refers to the mountains: “It faces mountains and backs onto small hills; / On the east it is obstructed, and on the west it slopes downward” 朊Ⱉ側旄 / 㜙旣大⁦. The commentary tells us that these mountains were “within the surrounding waters.” Xie’s estate included two prominent peaks, both located in the southern section. The first is what Xie calls Mount Cu Ⳓġ (also read Zu), which is better known as Mount Tu ⴨Ⱉ. The modern name is Tuda Mountain ⴨⣏ Ⱉ. It is located in the area of Tupu ⴨㴎 in the northern part of modern Sheng county, Zhejiang. In Xie Lingyun’s period it was located in Shi’ning county.82 This mountain joined with another mountain to the east called Mount Sheng ⳲⰙ, which was located in Sheng county.83 Both of these mountains are described in the Shuijing zhu: “To the north [of Chenggong Peak ㆸ≇ⵈ] is Mount Tu, which joins with Mount Sheng. Although the two mountains are in different counties, their peaks connect with each other.”84 Xie Lingyun’s estate actually consisted of two sections, which Xie refers to in his fu as North Mountain and South Mountain. North Mountain is the original estate of Xie Xuan, which to confuse matters was also called Dongshan 㜙Ⱉ (Eastern Mountain). It was located in the area of modern Shangpu ᶲ呚.85 South Mountain is the portion of the estate developed by Xie Lingyun. It was located near Mount Tu. In describing the estate, Xie follows the model of the Han fu writers and proceeds in the ritually correct order of the four directions: east, south, west, and north. Thus, he begins with four sections respectively “Nearby to the east” (jin dong 役㜙), “Nearby to the south” (jin nan 役⋿), “Nearby to the west” (jin xi 役大), and “Nearby to the north” (jin bei 役⊿). Francis Westbrook has astutely commented on this organizational feature of Xie’s fu: “Shieh uses it [i.e., the directional formula] as part of the word-magic of his description, and rhetorically to place his dwelling at the center of the cosmos—the same way the Hann fuh-writers did the emperor’s court. Shieh creates of his estate a microcosm of the universe….” 86 However, Xie Lingyun does the Han fu writers one better by repeating the directional formula twice, first to describe the nearby vistas, and then those in the distance. Thus, he follows with an account of the places in the “distant east” (yuan dong 怈㜙), “distant south” (yuan nan 怈⋿), “distant west” (yuan xi 怈大),87 and “distant north” (yuan bei 怈⊿). What is striking about Xie’s How to View a Mountain in Medieval China 23

presentation of this information is how he goes from the tiniest local sites to the remote but famous Guiji landmarks. For example, the “nearby eastern” section is little more than an enumeration of the names of a field, a lake, gorge, valley, hill:

Near to the east are: 役㜙⇯ġ Upper Fields, Lower Lake, ᶲ䓘ᶳ㷾ġġ Western Gorge, Southern Valley, 大寧⋿察ġ Stony Knoll, Stony Confluence, 䞛⟇䞛㹪ġ Min Millstone, and Yellow Bamboo. 攼䟶湫䪡ġ

Although this is a local, miniature landscape, in the following lines Xie portrays it on an almost universal scale:

Bursting forth are waterfalls cascading for 㰢梃㱱㕤䘦Ẇġ hundreds of yards; Standing in rows are tall copses ranged over a 㢖檀唬㕤⋫渻ġ thousand foothills. The waters pour forth their long flow into a ⮓攟㸸㕤怈㰇ġ distant river; A tributary from a deep spring feeds a nearby 㳦㶙㭾㕤役㾮ġ irrigation ditch.

Thus, the waterfalls (literally “flying founts”) cascade down from a crevice of an extreme height (literally “eight hundred feet”), and thick bushes grow over a countless number of foot slopes. In the final couplet, Xie creates a totality by juxtaposing the “distant river” into which the waters flow with the “nearby irrigation ditch.” However, even with the aid of Xie’s prose commentary, these accounts are not easy to follow. Francis Westbrook’s observations on this point are again insightful: “No doubt the main function of the commentary is to make the fuh more comprehensible and enjoyable to contemporary readers, and this is accomplished by more subtle means than merely glossing difficult words and identifying allusions. If nothing else the almost loving detail with which Shieh dwells upon the features of his estate helps convince us of the sincerity of his attachment to the mountains. The commentary here makes clear that the fuh, as fanciful as it may sometimes become, is inspired by the real landscape. Should the reader lose sight of this, Shieh’s argument for residing in the mountains and rivers would evaporate.”88 The commentary is admittedly tedious at times (there are some wonderful exceptions that I will mention below), but Westbrook is on the mark when he says that Xie Lingyun was intent on documenting for the 24 David Knechtges

reader, whether a contemporary or future one, the realia of the landscape. Here is Xie’s commentary to the passage cited above:

Upper Fields is located at the mouth of the Lower Lake. It is called Field Mouth. Lower Lake is located in the lower area below the fields. It also has well known scenery.

Western Gorge and Southern Valley fork off, and a drainage ditch from the Guzhang River enters Field Mouth. The Western Gorge River issues from Guzhang west of Shi’ning county. This is the highest peak of the nearby mountains. West Brook is behind… [lacuna].

Upon entering Western Gorge one finds Stony Barrier. Stones form an obstruction here, and thus it is called Stony Knoll. Stony Knoll is located east of Western Gorge. Within the gorge, nine li south of the county, on two sides there are steep precipices several hundred feet high. Water cascades down from above. Near the outer gorge there is a huge tiered sluiceway extending ten-plus li. The entire way the cascading current swiftly rushes, and all around it are sheer cliff walls and green bamboo.

Min Millstone is located in the gorge east of Stony Confluence. Winding and weaving its way it flows down into fertile fields. Yellow Bamboo joins with it, and to the south connects with Puzhong.

The description of the sites that Xie gives in the commentary cited above clearly is not an imaginary account or some “textual mountain” or “bookish landscape” that one often does find in Xie’s so-called “landscape” poems.89 As naive as this statement may sound, it looks as if Xie roamed his “domain” brush in hand to record all of the details that he observed. Certainly no fu writer before (or even after him) recounted a place with such loving care. It should be noted that Xie Lingyun wrote a memoir on the mountains that he visited. Although only accessible to us today through reconstructed fragments, his You ming shan zhi 忲⎵Ⱉ⽿ (Chronicle of My Wanderings through Famous Mountains), was perhaps the earliest guide to mountain viewing in world literature.90 A common pattern in this piece is for Xie to write in more general terms in the fu proper and then provide clarifying details in the prose commentary. For example, in the section on the “nearby south” sites he says the following in the rhymed fu portion about the rivers: How to View a Mountain in Medieval China 25

Nearby to the south 役⋿⇯ Is a confluence of two streams,ġ 㚫ẍ暁㳩ġ Which wind through three islands. 䶰ẍᶱ㳚 Outward and inward they turn and roam, 堐塷⚆㷠 Parting and joining the mountains and rivers. 暊⎰Ⱉⶅ

The commentary explains:

The two streams are the Shan River and the Xiao River. These two rivers conjoin south of the mountain, and then flow down together. The three islands are located at the mouth of the two rivers. Sand that is pushed [by the waters] accumulates into banks to form these sediment islands. “Outward and inward” and “parting and joining” describe their appearance.

What Xie Lingyun tells us here is more than just local information, for the two rivers he mentions, the Shan ∉ and Xiao ⮷, are important streams in this part of Zhejiang.91 In this section Xie does not forget to describe the mountains as well as the waters. He writes the following couplet that describes the large boulders that hang perilously from the cliffs:

Crags collapse and fly from the eastern scarps, ⳧ⳑ梃㕤㜙ⲕ Boulders rise mighty and grand on western 㥫‵唬㕤大旉 paths.

In the commentary, he comments on the terror that these boulders arouse, but also their practical function as markers for the former county seat: “At the southern boundary of my mountain dwelling there are stones leaping forth as if about to collapse into the river. No one walking here would fail to take fright. The boulders mark the site of the former administrative center of this county.”ġġ Although Xie Lingyun identifies the dangers of the beetling cliffs, his fears do not rise to the level of the “mountain gloom” of the medieval European mountain travelers. In the section on the sites on the “nearby west,” Xie lists various otherwise unknown mountains, some with evocative names such as Tanghuang Ⓒ䘯 (Grandly August), Chamber (Shi ⭌), Bi ⡩ (Wall), Zeng 㚦 (Tier), and Gu ⬌ (Solitary). He concludes the section with two intriguing lines:

The moon hides in the mountains and all turns 㚰晙Ⱉ侴ㆸ昘 dark; 26 David Knechtges

On the trees branches begin to sing and the 㛐沜㞗ẍ崟桐 wind rises.

Francis Westbrook cites this couplet as an example of a technique found occasionally in Xie Lingyun’s writing, “perceiving something indirectly or with a sense other than the one normally required for its perception.”92 One famous example is the following couplet in “Entering the Mouth of Lake Pengli” (Ru Pengli hu kou ℍ⼕埉㷾⎋):

By the light of the moon, I listen to the Ḁ㚰倥⑨䉾 mournful gibbons; Soaked with dew, more fragrant becomes the 㴍曚楍剛周 sweet calamus.93

Here we see Xie blending the senses. He uses the visual sense of sight, the moonlight, to hear the shrieks of the gibbons deep in the hills, and he uses the tactile sense of touch to smell the fragrance of the calamus in the night air. As Westbrook points out, if read grammatically the second line from the “Shan ju fu” should say: “The trees make their branches sing and thereby give rise to wind.” This is a very counter-intuitive formulation, for normally it is wind that blows through the trees causing the branches to sound. However, we learn from Xie’s commentary that what actually sings are the birds perched on the branches: “Birds gather on the branches and sing. Thus, I say that there is ‘wind.’” Here we may have another instance of Xie’s turning branches into singing birds as he does in “Climbing a Tower on the Pond” (Deng chi shang lou 䘣㰈ᶲ㦻).94 But as Westbrook notes, this explanation adds further ambiguity: “More than a confusion of senses, we now have a confusion about what is perceived by one sense.”95 Indeed, one wonders whether it is the wind that is even involved here, for the word feng 桐 can mean both “wind” and “musical air.” Could Xie be punning on its double meaning?96 Xie devotes the last section to the “nearby north” sites. He first mentions what he calls the Two Wu Ḵⶓ Lakes. In his commentary Xie says that these are the Lesser and Greater Wu Lakes. Gu Shaobo identifies them with the better known Taikang Lake ⣒⹟㷾ġ that apparently disappeared during or before the Song dynasty. Gu estimates that it once covered a large area of modern Shangyu and Sheng counties. 97 The Xie family seems to have owned this lake, which apparently was a large reservoir.98 In the next four sections, Xie Lingyun expands his view to the more distant places. In the distant east and south Xie focuses his gaze on How to View a Mountain in Medieval China 27

mountains, some famous, and some no longer known to us. Xie identifies the mountains to the east as abodes of recluses. The mountains we can still identify are the Tiantai, Tongbo 㟸㝷, and Siming ⚃㖶. We have already seen Tiantai in the discussion of Sun Chuo’s “You Tiantai shan fu.” In the rhymed fu portion Xie tells of his harrowing attempt to cross the moss- covered Stone Bridge and to negotiate the twisting path of You Gorge:

I have trod the moss of Stone Bridge,99 㶑䞛㧳ᷳ医剼 Crossed the winding twists of You Gorge. 崲㤊寧ᷳ䲮䶰

In the commentary he comments further on the dangers of trekking the Tiantai: “In my travels I must cross Stone Bridge and pass over You Gorge. For hazards of human passage, nothing surpasses these places.” The Tongbo Mountain, also known as Jinting 慹⹕, was actually part of the Tiantai Mountains.100 It was a major Taoist center in Xie Lingyun’s time.101 Siming ⚃㖶 is a mountain range of 282 peaks located southwest of modern Ningbo, Zhejiang. It connects with the Tiantai range and passes through Sheng and Shangyu counties. 102 The unknown peaks have evocative names such as Fangshi 㕡䞛 (Square Rock), Taiping ⣒⸛ (Grand Peace), Erjiu Ḵ枕 (Two Leeks), Wu’ao Ḽ⤏ (Five Nooks), Sanjing ᶱ卩 (Three Leek Flowers or Three Turnips?). One cannot help notice that the last three names all have numbers in their names as does Siming. In his commentary Xie reports some astounding information about some of these peaks. Three of them—Er Jiu, Siming, and Wu’ao “are higher than the Five Marchmounts and are in a class with the three island mountains in the sea.” The Five Nooks, which may have been in the Siming range, seem to have been named for the retreats of five recluses: the Buddhist Tanji 㙯㾇ĭġ and “Messieurs Cai, Chi, Xie, and Chen” (哉㮷ĭġ 恿㮷ĭġ 嫅㮷ĭġ 昛㮷Ī, not all of whom can be identified with any certainty. Chi is very likely Chi Chao 恿崭 (336–377) who associated with the Buddhist monk Zhidun and Xie Lingyun’s great-great uncle Xie An. Chi Chao had interests both in Buddhism and Taoism.103 Xie is probably Xie Fu 嫅㔟 (4th century), who was a Guiji native. His retreat located at Mount Taiping ⣒⸛ was well known.104 Xie Fu was on good terms with Chi Chao and possibly Zhidun.105 As was mentioned above, the section in which Xie described the “distant west” has been lost. In the final “distant north” portion, Xie describes a river that he calls the “long river” (chang jiang 攟㰇). Francis Westbrook translates this as the Yangzi.106 However, this river cannot be the Yangzi, which is too far north. It must be the Qiantang 拊Ⓒ River that enters the sea east of Shangyu, which is just north of Xie’s estate. The Qiantang River is famous even to this day for its tidal bore, and indeed Xie 28 David Knechtges

Lingyun does not fail to mention it as in the following lines of the rhymed text:

A long river flows ever homeward, 攟㰇㯠㬠 The giant sea greets and receives it. ⶐ㴟⺞䲵 Solitary hills and sandbars stretch on and on, Ⲹ㻚䶔㚈 Islands and holms are jumbled together. Ⲟⵤ䵊㰻 Mountains hither and thither spread and sprawl; Ⱉ䷙㨓ẍⶫ嬟 Waters eddy and sink, wind and fall. 㯜徜㰰侴䶰㴍

Xie again feels obliged to explain some of his language in the prose commentary:

People of the seacoast call solitary hills “kun” Ⲹ. The islands have hills. They are called “daoyu” Ⲟⵤ. These are islands. The word “zhang” 㻚 means that sand begins to accumulate and is about to form islands. They are scattered about irregularly. In one place [the waters] whirl and sink, winding and converging.

However, he waits for the next section to describe the tidal bore:

One peers at the banks and plumbs the depths; 䩢Ⱡ㷔㶙 One examines the isles and knows the shallows. 䚠㷂䞍㶢 When the giant bore flows full, piled rocks 㳒㾌㺧⇯㚦䞛㰺 disappear; When clear ripples subside, sunken sands 㶭㿦㷃⇯㰰㱁栗 appear. When the wind rises and waves heave, ⍲桐冰㾌ἄ The water’s force races swift and strong. 㯜⊊⣼⢗ In spring and autumn of the year, Ḷ㬚㗍䥳 During the new and full moon of the month, ⛐㚰㚼㛃 Startling waves in flooding flow, 㸗㸗樂㲊 Terrifying swells in swirling surges, 㹼㹼榕㴒 Strike like lightning, crash like thunder, 暣㽨暟ⳑ Their rapid flow sprays and soaks. 梃㳩㿹㻦 They overtop sheer cliffs forming protruding 㶑䳽⡩侴崟ⰹ crests; They cut across the mainstream and flow 㨓ᷕ㳩侴忋唬 continuously onward. At first they swiftly swirl and leap into the sky; ⥳彭廱侴様⣑ Then upturn the river bottom revealing deep 䳪Ὰ⸽侴夳⡹ chasms. How to View a Mountain in Medieval China 29

With this the Chu heir had his heart entranced 㬌㤂屛⽫愱㕤⏛⭊ by the guest from Wu, And the River Spirit was put to shame by the 㱛曰㆟㄂㕤㴟劍 Sea God.

This passage is a very good example of observation and viewing in the “Shan ju fu.” In the first line Xie says that by “peering at” (kui 䩢) the shoreline he can fathom the depth of the water,107 and by looking at (xiang 䚠) the islands, he can determine the shallowness of the water. Mark Elvin translates this passage somewhat differently: “Where the coast is high, one can guess that, below, the water drops many fathoms, / And, by reading the patterns of islets, know the location of the shallows.”108 I assume by “coast” Elvin is referring to the seacoast. However, in his commentary, Xie makes clear that an Ⱡ means riverbank. Here is Xie’s prose commentary on these lines: “Where the bank is high one can fathom how deep it is, and where the island is low one can know how shallow it is.” Although this may be a commonsense observation, this motif of viewing the landscape to determine its salient features is very old in Chinese writing and has antecedents already in the Shi jing 娑䴻. 109 In the remainder of this section Xie describes the tidal bore. Xie of course was fully aware of Mei Sheng’s description of another tidal bore somewhat to the north of here, and although he does not match the verbal virtuosity of his Han dynasty predecessor, he does succeed in conveying the power and force of the Qiantang tide. 110 ġIt perhaps is important to note here that Mei Sheng’s account of the tidal bore is a splendid example of viewing (guan 奨) and the effects viewing the bore have on the viewer. After the section describing the tidal bore, Xie begins to describe the estate itself. He proceeds in a fairly orderly manner beginning with the northern section that was originally developed by his grandfather, Xie Xuan. Xie Lingyun turned the Dongshan area into several large gardens. Surrounding the gardens was a hedge formed by elm trees (fen 㜴) and shrubby althea (jin 㦧). In the poem “South of the Fields I Plant a Garden, Block a Stream, and Erect a Hedge” (Tian nan shu yuan ji liu zhi yuan 䓘⋿ 㧡⚺㽨㳩㢵㎜Ī, Xie says that he “planted shrubby althea to form a surrounding wall.”111 As he does throughout his description of the estate, Xie stops to reflect and examine what he has done. After recounting the building of the hedge, the various paths that wind around the garden, and the view of a river, pond, hills, and mountain, he comments as follows:

30 David Knechtges

Upon examining the divine wonders of my 侫⮩➇ᷳ曰䔘 domain, I find that this place is unrivaled. ⮎勚⠫ᷳ㚨䃞

The word I translate “domain” is fengyu ⮩➇, a term that originally designated the domain of a vassal lord.112 Xie in effect is surveying his realm in the manner of an ancient sovereign. From the outset, Xie makes it clear that his construction of buildings is intended to enhance viewing. After telling how he refurbishes the old dwellings to create two new lodges, he mentions the placing of doors and windows to facilitate viewing not only the scenery, but the fields that were undoubtedly a prime source of income:

I opened a southern door facing the distant 㔆⋿㇞ẍ⮵怈ⵢ peak, Opened an eastern window looking out on 斊㜙䨿ẍ䞂役䓘 nearby fields.

Although this kind of viewing is a recumbent, sedentary one, we shall see that Xie does not content with looking at his estate only from a window. Xie seems to have distinguished between the garden (yuan ⚺), which was primarily used for viewing scenery, and the fields (tian 䓘), in which he planted rice, various kinds of millet, and soybeans. This is what he says about the fields:

Raised pathways crisscross. ⟵❺Ṍ䴻 We channel waterways to direct the flow; ⮶㷈⺽㳩 Arteries spread out and conduits converge. 傱㔋㹅⸞ Thickly growing—lush millet, 哂哂寸䦓 Sweet-smelling—fragrant rice, 劦劦楁 As summer ends, the early crop ears, 復⢷噌䥨 As autumn begins, the late crop ripens. 彶䥳㘂ㆸ There are also mounded and level plots ℤ㚱昝映 To grow hemp and wheat, spiked millet and 湣湍䱇厥 soybeans.

There is a certain amount of unintended irony in Xie’s portrayal of his farming activities. He tells us that he disdains the occupations of artisan and merchant, whose only goal is to acquire riches, and instead he is content to pursue the life of a humble farmer:

Awaiting the time, watching the seasons, ῁㗪奀䭨 How to View a Mountain in Medieval China 31

First we sow, then reap. 怆喅怆䅇 Being provided with grain to eat and beverages ὃ䰺梇冯㻧梚 to drink, I can refuse to be artisan or merchant, forester 嫅ⶍ⓮冯堉䈏 or pastor. Why should livelihood depend on great riches, 䓇ỽ⼭㕤⣂屯 For the order of things finds sufficiency in a full 䎮⍾嵛㕤㺧儡 stomach.

Here Xie’s viewing has a more utilitarian purpose, to determine the time for planting and harvesting. But of course Xie Lingyun was no humble farmer. He was a wealthy landowner who had a large body of retainers that did most of the work on the estate. Xie portrays his relationship with these serf-like laborers as much more harmonious and egalitarian than probably was the case:

For work in the mountains, labor on the waters, Ⱉἄ㯜⼡ I do not use a single animal tender.113 ᶵẍᶨ䈏 I rely on my retainers, 屯⼭⎬⼺ Who through the seasons vie to outdo one 晐䭨䪞徸 another.

Xie then enumerates all of the work that the retainers perform. They fell trees, cut down brush, cull shoots and strip skin from bamboo, pick fruit, pull grass, forage for wild grapes, brew ale, cut mulberry fruits, peel bark to make paper, dig up plants to make dye, knot ropes, make mats, throw pots, thresh grain, and gather honey. Xie does not spend all of his time farming. He devotes many passages to recount his treks to various sites on his estate. In the section just following the passage cited above in which he rejects the activities of craftsman, merchant, forester, or herdsman, he tells of the “watery precincts” (shuiqu 㯜⋨):

From the garden one goes to the fields, 冒⚺ᷳ䓘 And from the fields one goes to the lake. 冒䓘ᷳ㷾 The waters have flooded the riverbank, 㲃㾓ⶅᶲ Far and wide they flow over the watery 䶔怰㯜⋨ precincts.

Xie does do a bit of work here such as dredging streambeds and removing tangled plants that choke the wild rice fields.

32 David Knechtges

I dredged deep streams that wend long and far; 㾔㼕㼿侴䨰䨽 I removed twisted tangles from the wild rice 昌厘㳚ᷳ䲮检 islets.

But it is the scenery that occupies his attention:

Warm springs gush forth in early spring 㭾㹓㱱㕤㗍㳩 torrents; Cold waves dash as autumn rushes onward. 楛⭺㲊侴䥳⼪ Wind stirs waves on isles where thoroughwort 桐䓇㴒㕤嗕㷂 grows; The sun refracts its light on the fagara-planted 㖍Ὰ㘗㕤㢺⟿ path. A water-soaked terrace soars from an island in 梃㻠㥕㕤ᷕ㱂 the river; There we take pleasure in the moon reflected in ⍾㯜㚰ᷳ㬉⧃ the water. At dawn shadows stretch and everything is cool; 㖎⺞昘侴䈑㶭 At dusk fragrance gathers and the sweet aroma ⢽㢚剔侴㯋㔟 spreads.

The phrase jiao tu 㢺⟿ (road or path planted with fagara trees) is more commonly associated with erotic or palace scenes. In Cao Zhi’s 㚡㢵 (192- 232) “Fu on the Luo River Goddess” (Luo shen fu 㳃䤆岎), the goddess “treads the strong pungency of the fagara-planted path, / Walks through clumps of asarum, scattering their fragrance” 嶸㢺⟿ᷳ恩䁰 / 㬍喭唬侴㳩剛.114 Zhang Xie ⻝⋼ (d. 307) in his “Seven Commands” (Qi ming ᶫ␥) describes an alluring palace garden where: “One greets a scented breeze in clumps of asarum, / Sees a fagara-planted path by a marble stairway” 㹗唁桐㕤堉唬 / 䛟㢺⟿㕤䐌⡯.115 Jian xie 㻠㥕 or “water-soaked terrace” is probably a variant name for jian tai 㻠冢. The Jianzhang ⺢䪈 Palace of Western Han Chang’an had a Water-soaked Terrace that rose from the middle of a large pond.116 Perhaps Xie Lingyun tried to replicate on his estate this Han dynasty imperial structure that was ordered made by Emperor Wu himself. These lines cited above have some significance in terms of visualization. The phrase dao jing Ὰ㘗 (upside-down sunlight / refracted sunlight), also read in the sense of dao ying Ὰ⼙ (casting inverted shadows), again shows Xie Lingyun’s use of ambiguous language. Although I had to commit myself to one translation above, I am not sure whether it is the sunlight or the shadow of the mountain that is cast onto the road. Xie continues in the next line literally “to seize” (qu ⍾) the pleasure and joy of How to View a Mountain in Medieval China 33

moonlight reflected in the water. He follows this with another light image: the sun literally “stretches out shadows” (yan yin ⺞昘) or to recast David Hinton’s rendering “lingers out shadows.”117 Like the epideictic fu writers of the Han, Xie Lingyun follows with a series of catalogues of water plants, medicinal herbs, bamboos, and trees. However, the items that Xie lists in these catalogues are different from those that appear in the Han fu plant catalogues. The plants in Xie’s garden are largely useful plants, intended for eating or medicinal purposes. His first plant catalogue is a list of water plants such as duckweed, water milfoil, cattails, calamus, caltrop, and lotus. Xie even pays special tribute to the lotus:

Although all the things provided here are 晾⁁䈑ᷳ´伶 beautiful, Only the blossoms of the lotus are brightly 䌐㈞㷈ᷳ厗歖 hued. It displays a thick luxuriance of green leaves, 㑕䵈叱ᷳ櫙努 And embodies a profusion of red blooms. ⏓䲭㔟ᷳ严侣 I regret that its pure fragrance is hard to retain, ⿐㶭楁ᷳ暋䔁 And I lament that its resplendent form easily 䞄䚃⭡ᷳ㖻整 fades. It must be full before it can be picked; ⽭⃭䴎侴⼴㏜ How unlike the basil that perishes in vain! 寰唁勱ᷳ䨢㭀

It would be tempting to attribute Xie’s predilection for the lotus to his Buddhist inclinations, for already in Xie’s time this aquatic blossom had become the Buddhist flower par excellence. Unlike the plant lists in the imperial court fu, most of the plants that Xie mentions are local plants that were suitable for the Shi’ning climate. Xie even takes pride in the fact that his gardens supply all of the food that the residents on the estate require. Thus, he says in his commentary, “We do not depend on outside sources” (bu dai wai qiu zhe ᶵ⼭⢾㯪侭). Xie also expresses local pride in the bamboo of the Guiji area:

They brush away the clouds with their sweeping ㋶䌬暚ẍ㉪㜒 crowns; Overlooking turquoise pools, they thrust forth 冐䡏㼕侴㋢侈 their greenish hues. This makes Shanglin and the Cove of Qi seem 咹ᶲ㜿冯㵯㽛 miniscule; And gives proof to what the Southeast has 槿㜙⋿ᷳ㇨怢 inherited. 34 David Knechtges

According to the Erya 䇦晭 among the “best products of the Southeast, there are arrow bamboo of Guiji.”118 In the prose commentary Xie explains (as if it needed explanation!) that “Shanglin is a forbidden park in the Guanzhong area. He notes the cove of Qi refers to a bamboo garden in the area of Wei. 119 In Xie’s view, “neither of these can compare with this place.” Xie next introduces the various animal species beginning with a short introductory section:

Not only do plants grow here, 㢵䈑㖊庱 Animals also here abound. ≽栆Ṏ䷩ They fly and swim, run and leap; 梃㲛榩德 How can one trace their root and origin? 傉⎗㟡㸸 I view their appearance and examine their 奨尴䚠枛 sound, And I find them fully arrayed over mountains ⁁↿Ⱉⶅ and streams.

This passage is an intriguing statement about viewing. The term I have translated “animals” is literally “the moving species” (dong lei ≽栆). Unlike the zhi wu 㢵䈑, which are “planted” or “stationary,” these creatures move: they fly (fei 梃), swim (yong 㲛), run (cheng 榩), and jump (tou 德). Because they are constantly moving, it is hard to “trace their root and origin.” But Xie does manage to view them. He “views their appearance and examines their sound,” and he sees them in full display (beilie ⁁↿) on the landscape. It seems that Xie considers that living creatures are part of the landscape. Thus, in the prose commentary he says, “There are several kinds of animals. There are those that soar and those that run. Those that run, gallop, and those that jump, leap. I say that their species are so numerous I cannot keep track of them. If I only observe their appearance and examine their sounds, I can know the beauty of mountain and stream.” Xie’s catalogues of animals include sections on fish, birds, and mammals. Again, the names are mostly those of creatures from the Southeast. Except for indicating their pronunciation, Xie does not bother to identify most of them. Some cannot be identified at all. Xie concludes the sections on animals with a section in which he explains his refusal to allow fishing or hunting on his estate:

Fishing leaders and lines are not cast, 䶉䵠ᶵ㈽ Nets and mesh are not spread out, 伖伭ᶵ㉓ Stones and arrow cords are not used,120 䢣⺳有䓐 Traps and snares no one sets. 巬䫴婘㕥 How to View a Mountain in Medieval China 35

Drawing a lesson from the kindness of tigers 揹嗶䊤ᷳ㚱ṩ and wolves, I am distressed that there is no end to fulfilling 忪㫚ᷳ䃉Ⲿ desire. I recall in my youth when I embarked on the 栏⻙漉侴㴱忻 Way, And I realized that loving life should apply to ぇ⤥䓇ᷳ①⭄ all. Following this course, I extend this principle to 䌯㇨䓙ẍ⍲䈑 all things; Truly I am not far from it here. 婺ᶵ怈ᷳ⛐㕗 Cherishing gulls and hemiculter, I feel happy 㑓浿毟侴〭尓 and at ease; I shall keep the “heart of contrivance” out of 㜄㨇⽫㕤㜿㰈ġ grove and pond.

Very likely Xie’s rejection of fishing or hunting was motivated by his Buddhist inclinations. However, he also finds support in this rejection of killing other creatures in a passage from the Zhuangzi 匲⫸ that speaks about the benevolent nature of tigers and wolves: “Tigers and wolves are kind, for aren’t sire and cub affectionate with each other?”121 The last two lines cited above also contain allusions. Xie Lingyun combines two allusions here. The first is to Zhuangzi, which tells of Zigong’s encounter with a gardener, who expended great effort carrying jars of water to irrigate his garden. Zigong advised that it would be easier to use a “contrivance,” but the gardener responded that he had learned from his teacher that “whoever has contrivances, must have activities that involve contrivances, and anyone who has activities involving contrivances, must have a heart of contrivance.”122 The second story alludes to the Liezi ↿⫸, which tells of a man by the sea who was fond of seagulls. Every day he went down to the sea to play with them. However, when his father asked him to bring some home for him to play with, the gulls “danced in the air and would not come down.”123 Xie Lingyun devotes much of the last portion of the fu to describing the South Mountain section of the estate. Before giving a description, Xie first tells how he goes out alone to survey the grounds to formulate a design:

When I first laid out a plan and design [for my 䇘⇅䴻䔍 estate], Leaning on a walking stick, I traveled alone. 㛾䫾⬌⼩ I entered streams, forded rivers, ℍ㼿㯜㴱 Climbed peaks and walked over mountains. 䘣ⵢⰙ埴 36 David Knechtges

Upon traversing a summit, I did not rest; 昝枪ᶵ〗 Upon tracing a spring to its source, I did not 䩖㱱ᶵ stop.

Knowing that Xie Lingyun had a huge staff of retainers and companions that constantly accompanied him, one might be skeptical about his statement that he “traveled alone” (guzheng ⬌⼩). This phrase as applied to human travel does not seem to be much earlier than Xie. Tao Qian uses it once.124 What is more striking about this passage is how Xie describes his perambulations. These are not simply kinetic, but almost frenetic. In the space of four lines he crosses streams and rivers, scales mountain peaks, and does not even rest once before he gets to the summit or reaches the end of a waterway. Xie portrays himself here as blazer of trails who ventures into unexplored territory:

Cutting through thick growth, I opened a trail; 侎㥃攳徽 I explored rocks, scoured cliffs. ⮳䞛夻Ⲿ On all sides mountains wound around me; ⚃Ⱉ␐⚆ A pair of streams sinuously flowed. 暁㳩忞後

The two streams that he mentions here are probably the Shan and Xiao rivers.125 Xie may not have intended this account of his climbing and fording as a literal account of his physical feats, for he may have mentioned it to represent the arduous efforts he made toward a more spiritual purpose. Xie tells us in the following lines that the result of his exploration was the construction of buildings for Buddhist monks who lived on his estate, at least for part of the year (I will comment on this below).

Facing the southern peaks 朊⋿ⵢ I built a scripture terrace. ⺢䴻冢 Against the northern hill ῂ⊿旄 I constructed a lecture hall. 䭱嫃➪ Beside a precipitous peak ‵⌙Ⲙ I set a meditation chamber. 䩳䥒⭌ Overlooking a deep stream 冐㴂㳩 I placed houses for monks. ↿₏㇧

In the concluding lines to this section, Xie explains why this mountain’s setting is most suitable for his Buddhist guests (and presumably also for Xie):

How to View a Mountain in Medieval China 37

I bid farewell to the pretty pagodas of the 嫅渿⟼㕤恲悕 suburbs; I withdraw from the world by city walls. 㬲ᶾ攻㕤❶‵ I am delighted to see simplicity and embrace the 㫋夳䳈ẍ㉙㧠 uncarved block; And I truly have found sweet dew in the “Place 㝄䓀曚㕤忻⟜ of the Way.”

The “Place of the Way” (dao chang 忻⟜) is a Chinese translation of Bodhimaṇḍala, literally “truth plot.” Here it designates the place for attaining the Buddha truth.126 In his commentary Xie adds a few words of explanation to the lines cited above: “He who is poor does not consider the merely pretty as beautiful. This is why I found contentment in a thatched hut. Thus, I bid farewell to the suburbs and withdrew from city walls. Truly pure emptiness and quiet solitude are the place where one can obtain the Way.” Francis Westbrook notes here that we should not take Xie’s statement about poverty literally, for he is likely “striking a Buddhist pose, emphasizing his devotion to simplicity and the Uncarved Block.”127 After a section in which he relates the religious activities and spiritual purity of the Buddhist monks, Xie follows with a similar section to tell of the Taoist practitioners who also were welcome on his estate. Although Xie portrays both groups favorably, in his commentary he rates the Taoists a bit lower for they had “not reached the heights of the Buddhist Way.” From the tranquility and quietude that the Buddhists and Taoists enjoyed, Xie then continues with the long passage mentioned above in which he relates all of the labors performed by his retainers. If there is no viewing in this passage, it is certainly kinetic, perhaps to excess. The South Mountain area was a grand mountainscape that contains three parks (yuan ⚺ ), nine springs, and five valleys. Various streams blocked by dikes flowed through the grounds. From Xie’s commentary, we learn that there were various paths and trails. One route crossed the top of the mountain and then skirted fields for a distance of three li (about a mile). Lining the path were lush trees and bamboo, and running beside it were “cascading streams.” Another path, running east and west, provided a direct view of Mount Tu. Looking down from this area one could see a river, “clear as a mirror,” flowing through a deep ravine. However, his view of the grounds is not that of a stationary viewer, for he continues his exploration of the mountains and waters:

Traversing the hills, drifting on the waves, 㶑旄㲃㲊 I go forth by water, return on foot. 㯜⼨㬍怬 Turning and winding, taking a circuitous course, 怬⚆⼨⋅ 38 David Knechtges

There are twisting islets, rounded peaks. 㜱㷂⒉⵺

On the western side of the grounds Xie erected a lodge, the construction of which he portrays as virtually “growing” out of the natural surroundings:

Against the northern crest I have built a lodge; ㈿⊿枪ẍ吢棐 Looking down from the southern peak I placed 䝘⋿Ⲙẍ┇幺 the veranda. Layered cliffs are displayed in the doorway; 伭㚦Ⲿ㕤㇞塷 Mirror-like ripples are arrayed before the ↿掉㿦㕤䨿⇵ window. I use cinnabar-colored mists to serve as scarlet ⚈ᷡ曆ẍ柛㤋 lintels; Attach prase-colored clouds to make green 旬䡏暚ẍ侈㣥 rafters.

Presumably this type of description is another example of Xie’s attempt to de-emphasize “artifice” and represent the man-made structures on his estate as “natural” and “simple.” In addition to the three parks, which Xie does not describe separately, the South Mountain estate also had a bamboo garden, which was located near the lodge. In his commentary, Xie specifies its size as 100 zhang (231 m) east and west, and 155 zhang (358 m) north and south. In this section of the fu the commentary provides remarkably specific details, even including information about exact distances. Here is a small sample:

South Mountain is the place where I built and divined a dwelling. If one walks along the road from the mountain tower, crosses the mountain crest, and follows along the fields, either ascending or descending, the distance is about three li. This is what one sees along the road: towering trees and lush bamboo skirting the fields and stretching over the hills; heaving waves and scattered rocks, side paths with cascading streams. These are the beautiful sights that catch one’s eyes. When one reaches the place where I dwell, there is a road leading from the western hill that extends for over two li all the way to the eastern hill.128 To the south is nothing but interconnected ranges and mountain barriers, their greenish hues conjoined, and an empyreal road through clouds and mist that seems utterly without end.

How to View a Mountain in Medieval China 39

The cliffs to the west are girded by a forest, and about twenty zhang [46.2 m] from a lake I laid a foundation and constructed a roof. In the midst of the cliff and forest, water surrounds stone stairs, and windows open out toward the mountains, and one can gaze upward to the layered peaks, and look down and see the deep chasm shining like a mirror.

Halfway to the top of the peak from the cliff is another tower. Gazing afar and looking all around one finds something of interest in the distance, and looking back one sees the western lodge. One directly gazes upon its windows and doors.

Other features of the South Mountain section include numerous springs that Xie describes using terms derived from lines in the Shi jing. Xie identifies these references in his commentary. This is one of the few places in the fu that might be an example of true bookish landscape:

Following from here is a small lake; ⚈ẍ⮷㷾 It borders upon the mountain nooks. 惘㕤℞昰 This is where the many streams converge, 䛦㳩㇨㷲 And the myriad springs return. 叔㱱㇨⚆ “Sidewards spouting” and “upward welling” in 㯧㾓䔘⼊ variant forms, First “burbling” and last “gushing.” 129 椾㭾䳪偍

In three long sections that follow, Xie provides further information about the plants that grow in both sections of the estate, including an account of his orchards, some of which are named for famous orchards mentioned in ancient texts:

There are Apricot Altar, Mango Orchard, 㛷⡯⣰⚺ Orange Grove, Chestnut Garden. 㨀㜿㞿⚫

Xie explains all of these textual references in his commentary: “Zhuang Zhou said, ‘The fisherman saw Confucius on Apricot Rise.’ 130 The Vimalakīrti Sutra mentions the Mango Orchard.131 Yang Xiong’s ‘Fu on the Shu Capital’ tells of the Orange Grove.132 Zuo Si said, ‘Each household has an orange and pomelo orchard.’”133 These gardens and orchards not only provide food but also medicinal herbs that he ingests to restore what Xie calls his “weak constitution.” Here Xie displays an impressive knowledge of mountain herbs:

40 David Knechtges

Fading years are easily lost. 柡漉㖻╒ I stroke my temple hairs and sadness grows; 㑓櫊䓇ず I look at my face and commiserate with myself. 夾柷冒 Having obtained the arts of the pure temple, ㈧㶭⹄ᷳ㚱埻 I hope my declining state can be made strong. ℨ⛐堘ᷳ⎗⢗ I search for rare herbs on famous mountains, ⮳⎵Ⱉᷳ⣯喍 Cross divine waves and rest my cart. 崲曰㲊侴ㅑ廭 I pick rehmannia from the tops of stones, ㍉䞛ᶲᷳ⛘湫 Gather shiny asparagus from beneath bamboo. 㐀䪡ᶳᷳ⣑攨 I take asarum from layered peaks, 㐕㚦ⵢᷳ䳘彃 Pluck calamus from secluded brooks. ㉼⸥㼿ᷳ㹒周 I seek out stalactites in deep caverns, 姒挦ḛ㕤㳆䨜 Search for cinnabar in red springs.134 妲ᷡ㱁㕤䲭㱱

It must be remembered that Xie had been sickly from childhood, and the several references he makes in the fu to failing health are certainly not exaggerations.135 Xie’s planting of medicinal herbs was also related to his strong interest in Taoism and the “arts of prolonging life.” During his youth, he was sent to live and be educated with a Taoist family in the Hangzhou area. 136 Thus, he was well read in the bencao 㛔勱 texts that were undoubtedly part of the curriculum of that tradition. In addition to the kinetic viewing, Xie tells us he was involved in sedentary activities especially with monks who came here from both far and near during the rainy season for the anju ⬱⯭ (tranquil dwelling) or varṣa to meditate and study:

The monks “tranquilly dwell” for two seasons, ⬱⯭Ḵ㗪 In winter and summer, each three months. ⅔⢷ᶱ㚰 There are monks who come from afar, 怈₏㚱Ἦ The nearby sangha also are not absent. 役䛦䃉敽 The dharma drum loudly sounds, 㱽溻㚿枧 Gāthā of praise are clearly intoned, 枴῰㶭䘤 Scattered blossoms profusely fall, 㔋厗暷唌ġ Streaming fragrance spreads in flying flow. 㳩楁梃崲 They analyze the subtle words of distant kalpas, 㜸㚈≓ᷳ⽖妨 Explain the residual meaning of the “counterfeit 婒⁷㱽ᷳ怢㖐 Doctrine.”137 They avail themselves of a hair-breadth of this Ḁ㬌⽫ᷳᶨ尒 heart To aid the myriad innate tendencies of other 㾇⼤䓇ᷳ叔䎮 beings. How to View a Mountain in Medieval China 41

The teaching on “good destinations” begins ┇┬嵋㕤⋿Έ with the leader in the south, And the clear and smooth response returns from 㬠㶭㙊㕤⊿㛢 the northern teacher.

Xie refers here to the maigre feast that grew out of the ancient Chinese communal festival. As a Buddhist rite, it took the form of a gathering hosted by the emperor, nobles, or wealthy lay persons. It involved eating of a vegetarian meal and exposition of Buddhist teachings. 138 Xie must have been one of the first lay sponsors of such activities in the early medieval period. His description of the “sermon,” which is a forerunner of the su jiang ὿嫃 or “popular explication” of Buddhist texts, mentions the presence of a dujiang 悥嫃 or cantor who recited the text, which was then explained by a learned monk called the fashi 㱽ⷓ or “dharma master.”139 In contrast to the frenetic activity of his trekking and climbing and the arduous toil of his retainer-farmers, all of the participants in the maigre feast are still and motionless. The landscape too is tranquil:

In the mountains it is quiet and still; Ⱉᷕ№㶭⭪ġ Here from all entanglements one is cut off. 佋䳃№冒䳽

Even when the silence is broken by the moans of a cold wind, or the hot sun bears down on them, the landscape provides relief:

The cold wind soughs and sighs, ⭺桐№㎼⯹ But facing the southern slopes, one is always 朊春№ⷠ䅙 warm. The sun’s fiery light blazes strong, 䀶⃱№昮䅦 But toward the northern faces there is frost and ⮵昘№曄暒 snow.

Xie’s viewing is no longer done by physically climbing and roaming but by resting in a tall terrace and sitting on the bank of a stream.

Resting in storied terraces, we climb the clouds’ ズ㚦冢№昇暚㟡 roots; Sitting by a brook, we pass by the cave of ⛸㼿ᶳ№崲桐䨜 winds. At this “city” we find harmonious appreciation, ⛐勚❶侴媏岆 And transmit what has never been extinguished ⁛⎌Ṳᷳᶵ㹭 from past to present.

42 David Knechtges

Clouds’ roots (yun gen 暚㟡) has a famous antecedent in Zhang Xie, “Miscellaneous Poem” (Za shi 暄娑): “The roots of the clouds look down on the eight limits.”140 In Zhang Xie’s line, this designates the source of mountain rain. Cave of the winds (feng xue 桐䨜) often refers to the mythical grotto from which the cold winds of the north issued. 141 In a fragment of one of Xie Lingyun’s poems, Xie writes about leaving a wind cave at dawn and spending the night on a snowy peak.142

Since eyes and ears provide no direction, 㖊俛䚖ᷳ有䪗 How can one tread in footprints? 寰嵛嶉ᷳ㇨嶸 All time is collected in the Three Seasons;143 唨䳪⎌㕤ᶱ⬋ I await the comprehensive vision of the five ᾇ忂㖶㕤Ḽ䛤 eyes.

Here we can see that Xie is intent on seeking a spiritual vision that transcends time distinctions. Thus, all time is concentrated in three seasons. In his commentary Xie says: “I say that since this is not something that one can seek through human footprints, I shall await the triple sight and five eyes. Only then I can tread forth. Thus, I halt my brush, stop writing, and say no more. I hope that some understanding and sympathetic person will comprehend my meaning.” Xie seems to be saying here that one cannot trust one’s normal visual or auditory senses, and thus physical roaming and viewing are not effective means for obtaining true spiritual illumination, which he designates by the Buddhist concepts of sanming ᶱ㖶 (triple sight) and wuyan Ḽ䛤 (five eyes). Both triple sight (trividyā) and the five eyes include what is called the divine eye or deva eye (tian yan ⣑䛤, Sanskrit divyachakchus) that enables one to obtain an instantaneous unlimited vision of any object in the universe. Although there are higher forms of vision in this Buddhist scheme of visualization, divine eye is often mentioned in Buddhist writings of Xie Lingyun’s time as the ideal method of vision for most Buddhist devotees.144 Xie Lingyun does not tell us how he hopes to obtain the triple sight and the ability to see with the five eyes, but he does imply that he cannot attain this spiritual vision by kinetic activity. Indeed, he seems to imply that sitting still and contemplating the mountain is more effective than physically roaming the peaks of his estate. Thus, for all of what Xie says about the delights of mountain exploration, like Petrarch, it would seem that his interests in mountain viewing were also of a spiritual order. Although Xie Lingyun did not, as did Petrarch, obtain his inspiration from a single miniature book that he carried with him up the mountain, like Petrarch, Xie also turns his “inner eye” to himself quietly to contemplate and even savor the spiritual comfort that his mountain retreat gives him. I suspect the idea How to View a Mountain in Medieval China 43

that simply by sitting and engaging in intense concentration or samādhi one could obtain true wisdom and insight into the ultimate reality was something Xie Lingyun obtained from Huiyuan. Huiyuan had introduced the Buddhist idea of nianfo ⾝ἃ (Buddha recollection), which he deemed the most effective means of concentration.145 Huiyuan’s main source for this idea was the Banzhou sanmei jing 凔凇ᶱ㗏䴻 (Pratyutpanna-samādhi sūtra) which had been translated into Chinese as early as the second century of the common era. 146 My colleague Richard Salomon informs me that pratyutpanna etymologically means “rising up in front of one,” but also has the sense of “present” in time or in space. 147 According to this sutra, Buddha recollection enabled a person to visualize all Buddhas “of the present as if they were standing before one’s eyes.” And the vision did not need to be realized by means of the “divine eye” or “divine ear.” The sutra specifically says Buddha recollection is a method that can be performed by a monk, nun, or even male or female layperson. All one has to do is go to a secluded place and concentrate the mind for seven days, after which time the Buddha will reveal himself before the person’s eyes.148 Perhaps it was because Xie had been exposed to Huiyuan’s teaching of Buddha recollection that he ends his account of mountain viewing by reverting to sedentary contemplation. I mentioned earlier that Xie Lingyun was acquainted with the Buddha- shadow that Huiyuan had painted in a shrine on Mount Lu. The shadow along with dreams and reflected light are common images in medieval Chinese Buddhism to represent the illusory nature of things. I have cited previously a line from the “Shan ju fu” in which it is not certain whether it is light of the sun or the shadow of the mountain that is cast on the road. We have seen other lines in which Xie’s encounter with the landscape involves a blurring of the senses that verges on the illusory. I think it is clear that to Xie the mountain is there, but is also not there. What I mean by this is that in Xie’s Buddhist universe the ultimate reality lies beyond the physical appearance of the mountain. Thus, the ultimate appeal of the mountainscape lies in the mystic vision that he attains through Buddha contemplation. However, Xie does not go as far as Tao Yuanming or the fourth century Chinese writers who argued that one could obtain spiritual inspiration anywhere. I am sure that Xie was convinced that only in his mountain abode could he attain the spiritual vision he sought. I should mention in closing that Xie Lingyun not only found the mountain a potential source of spiritual inspiration, for Xie’s mountain estate was also an important economic unit. For example, while Xie was describing his estate as a “plain” mountain retreat, he was engaged in a large expansion of his estate that involved the draining of lakes and swamps, reclamation of waste land, and planting large plots of land with grains, 44 David Knechtges

vegetables, and fruit trees. And we know that Xie Lingyun could be a demanding taskmaster. In order to accomplish all of this toil, he had a large corps of slaves and retainers who did the work of what one source characterizes as “boring through mountains and draining lakes.”149 We also know that another member of the Xie family had an estate in which he owned over a thousand slaves. According to Shen Yue 㰰䲬 (441–513), the author of the earliest extant biography of Xie Lingyun, Xie was a demanding taskmaster: “[His retainers] dug ponds, erected hedges, planted bamboo and shrubby althea. He drove and dispatched laborers with no time limit for their release.” Elsewhere Shen Yue says: “[The retainers] toiled without surcease.”150 Xie’s activities took him long distances from his estate. On one occasion he and his army of several hundred retainers hacked a trail through the mountains from South Mountain to Linhai 冐㴟 located some 100 kilometers to the southeast. When they reached Linhai, the local governor took alarm, for he thought that Xie and his party were “mountain bandits.” Although the governor was relieved when he discovered Xie’s identity, he would not permit Xie to continue his “trail-blazing.”151 In attempting to expand his estate, Xie Lingyun turns out to be no different from the Han dynasty emperors who were continuously appropriating valuable land to increase the size of their imperial parks. Although Xie Lingyun may have been inspired by Buddhist and Taoist ideals, like the Han emperors he used his parks and gardens to maintain and enhance his wealth. And despite his renunciation of the pursuit of sensual pleasures, Xie seems to have spent a good deal of time on his estate engaged in drinking bouts with relatives and cronies, several of whom were famous libertines. According to Shen Yue, in 428, when Xie had returned to Shi’ning on sick leave, he “played and reveled, held feasts and gatherings that went on day and night.” As a result of this behavior, he was impeached and dismissed from office.152 The Tang poet Bo Juyi 䘥⯭㖻 (772–846) wrote a poem about Xie Lingyun titled “Reading the Poems of Xie Lingyun” (Du Xie Lingyun shi 嬨嫅曰忳娑). One of the couplets reads (#19):

For the large he invariably encompasses the sky ⣏⽭䰈⣑㴟 and the sea; For the small he does not leave out a single 䳘ᶵ怢勱㧡 plant or tree. 153

These lines, which point to the expansiveness of Xie Lingyun’s aesthetic vision, could apply as well to his “Fu on Dwelling in the Mountains.” In terms of comprehensiveness and fullness, and the tendency toward an How to View a Mountain in Medieval China 45

encyclopedic portrayal of the subject, Xie’s account of his estate is not significantly different from the Han expositions on imperial parks. Xie could not resist the urge to celebrate the vastness of his mountain “garden.” In particular, if we remind ourselves of the concrete reality of his estate, which occupied almost two modern counties in Zhejiang province, and was a thriving manorial economic unit, we perhaps can understand that behind the poetic account of the estate that he gives us there lies a reality that may not be consistent with what the poet espouses in the exposition itself. Of course, it is easy from the perspective of 1,600 years later to fault this fourth century Chinese aristocrat for his failure to be more self-critical and introspective. The only encounter I have had with Xie Lingyun is through his writings. If I had lived in his time, given my humble background (I was born in a rural area of Montana), the only chance I would have had to meet him would be as a retainer on his estate. I have no doubt that he was not a benevolent master. Nevertheless, I am grateful to him for providing us with such a detailed account of his mountain home. No other writer of his time deigned to do so.

ġ ġ 46 David Knechtges

Endnotes

1. Walther Kirchner, “Mind, Mountain, and History,” Journal of the History of Ideas 11.4 (1950): 415. 2. James Howell, Familiar Letters on Important Subjects Wrote from the Year 1618 to 1650 (1650; repr., Aberdeen: F. Douglass and W. Murray, 1753), 67. 3. Mountain Gloom and Mountain Glory: The Development of the Aesthetics of the Infinite (1959; repr., Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1997), 62. 4. Saint Augustine, Confessions, trans. R. S. Pine-Coffin (London: Penguin Books, 1961), 216. 5. See the annotated translation by Hans Nachod in Ernst Cassirer, Paul Oskar Kristeller, and John Herman Randall, Jr., eds., The Renaissance Philosophy of Man (1948; repr. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1956), 35-46. See also the detailed study and annotated translation by Rodney Lokaj, Petrarch’s Ascent of Mount Ventoux: The Familiaris IV, I, Scriptores Latini, vol. 23 (Roma: Edizioni dell’ateneo, 2006). 6. See Marjorie O’Rourke Boyle, “A Likely Story: The Autobiographical as Epideictic,” Journal of the American Academy of Religion 57:1 (1989): 29. 7. See Mountain Gloom and Mountain Glory, 50. 8. “La Montagne dans l’art littéraire chinois,” France-Asie 183 (1965): 7–32. 9. Analects, 6.23. 10. See Ren Jifang ả两㖱, ed. and comm., Shi ming huijiao 慳⎵⋗㟉 (Jinan: Qi Lu shushe, 2006), 46. 11. See Qu Shouyuan ⯰⬰⃫, ed. and comm., Han shi waizhuan jianshu 杻娑⢾⁛䬳䔷 (Chengdu: Ba Shu shushe, 1996), 3.303. Translation with one minor change by James Robert Hightower, Han Shih Wai Chuan: Han Ying’s Illustrations of the Didactic Application of the Classic of Songs (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1952), 107–8. 12. Baopuzi ㉙㛜⫸, Sibu beiyao ⚃悐⁁天, 4 vols. (Shanghai: Zhonghua shuju, 1927), 17.1a. Translation with one minor change by Paul W. Kroll, “Verses from on High: The Ascent of T’ai Shan,” T’oung Pao 69 (1983): 224. 13. See Xiao Tong 唕䴙, ed., Wen xuan 㔯怠 (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1986), 11.493–501. For translations see Richard Mather, “The Mystical Ascent of the T’ien-t’ai Mountains: Sun Ch’o’s Yu T’ien-t’ai-shan fu,” Monumenta Serica 20 (1961): 226–45; Erwin von Zach, Die Chinesische Anthologie: Übersetzungen aus dem Wen Hsüan, ed. Ilse Martin Fang, 2 vols. (Cambridge, MA: Harvard How to View a Mountain in Medieval China 47

University Press, 1958), 1:159–62; Burton Watson, Chinese Rhyme- Prose: Poems in the Fu Form from the Han and Six Dynasties Periods (New York: Columbia University Press, 1971), 162–71; David R. Knechtges, trans., Wen xuan or Selections of Refined Literature, vol. 2, Rhapsodies on Sacrifices, Hunting, Travel, Sightseeing, Palaces and Halls, Rivers and Seas (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1987), 243–53; Stephen Owen, An Anthology of Chinese Literature: Beginnings to 1911 (New York: Norton, 1996), 185–88. 14. Cinnabar Hill is an imaginary land inhabited by the immortals. It is mentioned in the Chu ci 㤂录 poem “Far Roaming” (Yuan you 怈忲). See David Hawkes, The Songs of the South: An Ancient Chinese Anthology of Poems by Qu Yuan and Other Poets (Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England: Penguin Books, 1985), 196. 15. The Storied City is the highest peak of the Kunlun Mountains. The term “realm-within” comes from Laozi, 25. I assume Sun Chuo uses it here to mean the profane world. The metal staff is the staff or khakkara carried by Buddhist monks. The tip has a metal ring. 16. See Qimeng ji zhu ┇呁姀㲐 cited by Li Shan 㛶┬ (d. 689) in Xiao, Wen xuan, 11.497. 17. Cited by Li Shan in Xiao, Wen xuan, 11.497. 18. Cf. Zhuangzi 匲⫸, Sibu beiyao (Taibei: Taiwan Zhonghua shuju, 1973), 8.14a, where the Yellow Lord asks a young horse herder how to govern the empire. The boy answered, “Governing the empire, how is it different from herding horses? All you need is to get rid of what harms the horses.” “That which harms the horses” is excessive activity. 19. Sun Chuo alludes to the famous Zhuangzi (1.1b–2b) parable of Butcher Ding who used a mystical approach to butchering an ox. “When I began cutting up an ox, what I saw was nothing but an ox, but after three years, I no longer saw a whole ox. Now I encounter things with my spirit, and I do not look with my eyes.” Thus, in carving he never meets with any obstacles. 20. Xihe is charioteer of the sun. 21. Dharma drums summon the monks to assembly. 22. The Celestially-venerated is either Lao jun 侩⏃, the deified Laozi, or the name of the heavenly bodies (sun, moon, and stars) worshipped by the Son of Heaven in the tenth month. 23. Jade oil is a liquid form of jade, which when drunk, confers immortality. The Floriate Pond is a legendary lake in the Kunlun Mountains. 24. The doctrine of “beyond images” is the Tao, which cannot be verbalized or even represented in images. The term was current in Sun 48 David Knechtges

Chuo’s time. The texts of “non-origination” are Buddhist texts. Existence here means the profane realm of illusion and desire. In the Taoist thought of this period, Non-existence was considered the source of Existence. The goal of both Buddhist and Taoist adepts was to obtain communion with the ultimate reality, which was beyond form. 25. The Mahayana Buddhists taught the doctrine that se 刚 (form, matter, rūpa) is empty, hence void and illusory. Sun Chuo’s line is an elaboration on this theory. If one understands that form is emptiness, then he can obliterate even the distinction between form and emptiness. The second line in this couplet is ambiguous. It could also be understood as “Oblivious of Existence-itself, I attain the Mystery.” 26. The two names are “that having name” and the “nameless,” epithets for Existence and Non-existence respectively in Laozi, 1: “The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth, and the name is the mother of the myriad things…. These two come from a common source, but differ in name.” The Three Banners probably are form, emptiness, and contemplation. 27. Sun Chuo stresses the complementary relationship that exists between speech and silence as both manifestations of the Tao. Li Shan (Xiao, Wen xuan, 11.10a) explains: “Words are generated from the Tao, and the Tao is expounded by words. The Tao relies on words, but their basic ordering principle reverts to the empty unity.” The language of the line is similar to Zhuangzi, 9.7a: “If one utters non-words, he may speak his entire life and never say anything. Yet, if one does not speak his entire life, he will never cease speaking.” 28. Trans. Knechtges, Wen xuan, 2:247–53, with minor changes. 29. Song Yu reputedly was a younger contemporary of Qu Yuan. The authenticity of the fu attributed to him has been long disputed. There is now a rather large body of scholarly literature on this subject. For recent summaries of the arguments pro and con, see Gao Qiufeng 檀䥳沛, Song Yu zuopin zhenwei kao ⬳䌱ἄ⑩䛇‥侫 (Taipei: Wenjin chubanshe, 1999); Wu Guangping ⏛⺋⸛, Song Yu yanjiu ⬳䌱䞼䨞 (Changsha: Yuelu shushe, 2004), 86–103. 30. See Guanzhui bian 䭉抸䶐, 4 vols. (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1979), 3:870. 31. See Yang Shoujing 㣲⬰㔔 (1839–1915) and Xiong Huizhen 䄲㚫屆, eds. and comm., Shuijing zhushu 㯜䴻㲐䔷 (Beijing: Kexue chubanshe, 1955), 34.2832–33. 32. The phrase xiong jing 䄲䴻, which is usually explained as stretching or hanging from a tree like a bear, also refers to a type of Taoist calisthenics. See Zhuangzi, 6.1b. How to View a Mountain in Medieval China 49

33. See Shi ji ⎚姀 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1959), 101.2739, n. 2. 34. See Shi ji, 79.2408. 35. For a survey of these pieces see David R. Knechtges, “Poetic Travelogue in the Han Fu,” Proceedings of the 2nd International Conference on Sinology, Section on Literature (Taipei: Academia Sinica, 1989), 127–52; repr. in David R. Knechtges, Court Culture and Literature in Early China (Aldershot: Ashgate Publishing, 2002). 36. For an account of the major works see Yu Yuxian Ḷ㴜岊, Liuchao fu shulun ℕ㛅岎徘婾 (Baoding: Hebei daxue chubanshe, 1999), 75–116. For insightful close readings of the more important pieces see Cheng Yu-yu 惕㭻䐄, Xingbie yu jiaguo: Han Jin cifu de Chusao lunshu ⿏ ⇍冯⭞⚳:㻊㗱录岎䘬㤂槟婾徘 (Taipei: Liren shuju, 2002), 104–30. 37. The text can be found in Yan Kejun 柷⎗⛯, Quan shanggu Sandai Qin Han Sanguo Liuchao wen ℐᶲ⎌ᶱẋ㻊ᶱ⚳ℕ㛅㔯 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1959), “Quan Hou Han wen” ℐ⼴㻊㔯, 29.2b–5a. This was originally contained in the Han guan yi 㻊⭀₨ of Ying Shao ㅱ≕ (fl. 168–197). The longest quotation of it is preserved in the commentary of Liu Zhao ∱㗕 (fl. 502–520) to the Xu Han shu 临㻊㚠. See Hou Han shu ⼴㻊㚠 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1963), “Zhi,” 7.3166–70. For translations see Richard Strassberg, Inscribed Landscapes: Travel Writing from Imperial China (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), 57–62; and Stephen Bokenkamp, “Answering a Summons,” in Donald Lopez, Jr., ed., Religions of China in Practice (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996), 251- 60. For a detailed account of this ceremony and its background see Edouard Chavannes, Le T’ai chan: Essai de monographie d’un culture chinois (1910; repr. Taipei: Ch’eng Wen Publishing Company, 1970), 158–69; Hans Bielenstein, “The Restoration of the Han Dynasty. Vol. IV. The Government,” Bulletin of the Museum of Far Eastern Antiquities 51 (1979): 172–79. 38. See “La Montagne,” 17. 39. See “La Montagne,” 18. 40. The standard work on Xie Lingyun in English is J. D. Frodsham, The Murmuring Stream: The Life and Works of Hsieh Ling-yün, 2 vols. (Kuala Lumpur: University of Malaya Press, 1967). See also Lin Wen- yueh 㜿㔯㚰, Xie Lingyun 嫅曰忳 (1977; repr., Taipei: Guojia chubanshe, 2005). On the Xie family in the Six Dynasties see Ding Fulin ᶩ䤷㜿, Dong Jin Nanbeichao de Xieshi wenxue jituan 㜙㗱⋿ ⊿㛅䘬嫅㮷㔯⬠普⛀ (Ha’erbin: Heilongjiang jiaoyu chubanshe, 1998); Cynthia L. Chennault, “Lofty Gates or Solitary Impoverishment? 50 David Knechtges

Xie Family Members of the Southern Dynasties,” T’oung Pao 85 (1999): 249–327. 41. See Song shu ⬳㚠 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1974), 67.1753; Frodsham, The Murmuring Stream, 1:26–31. 42. Gu Shaobo 栏䳡㝷 locates the administrative center of Shi’ning at modern Sanjie zhen ᶱ䓴捖 in Sheng county, Zhejiang. See Gu Shaobo, ed. and comm., Xie Lingyun ji jiaozhu 嫅曰忳普㟉㲐 (Zhengzhou: Zhongzhou guji chubanshe, 1987), 337, n. 40; Sheng xian zhi ∑䷋⽿ (1934; repr., Taipei: Chengwen, 1975), 136. 43. See Frodsham, The Murmuring Stream, 1:33. 44. For texts see Song shu, 67.1754–72; Gu, Xie Lingyun ji jiaozhu, 318– 45; Li Yunfu 㛶忳⭴, ed. and comm., Xie Lingyun ji 嫅曰忳普 (Changsha: Yuelu shushe, 1999), 226–81. For translations see Francis Westbrook, “Landscape Description in the Lyric Poetry and ‘Fuh on Dwelling in the Mountains’ of Shieh Ling-yunn” (Ph.D. diss., Yale University, 1972), 186–337 (complete with extensive annotation); David Hinton, The Mountain Poems of Hsieh Ling-yün (New York: New Directions, 2001), 14–55 (partial); Mark Elvin, The Retreat of the Elephants: An Environmental History of China (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2004), 338–68 (partial); Morino Shigeo 㢖慶䷩⣓, Sha Kōraku bunshū 嫅⹟㦪㔯普 (Tokyo: Hakuteisha, 2003), 120–223 (complete). For an insightful discussion of the “Shan ju fu” see Wendy Swartz, “Naturalness in Xie Lingyun’s Poetic Works,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 70:2 (2010): 355–86. 45. Gu Shaobo thinks that Xie completed the fu in 425. See Gu, Xie Lingyun ji jiaozhu, 335-36, 434. Yang Yong 㣲㯠 dates it to 424. See “Xie Lingyun nianpu” 嫅曰忳⸜嬄 in Liu Yuejin ∱帵忚, ed., Liuchao zuojia nianpu jiyao ℕ㛅ἄ⭞⸜嬄廗天 (Harbin: Heilongjina jiaoyu chubanshe, 1999), 299. 46. “Seeing with the Mind’s Eye: The Eastern Jin Discourse of Visualization and Imagination,” Asia Major 18.2 (2005), 72. 47. “Seeing with the Mind’s Eye,” 77. 48. See Jin Tao 慹㾌, coll. and punc., Lu Ji ji 映㨇普 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1982), 21. 49. See Yuan Xingpei 堩埴暰, ed. and comm., Tao Yuanming ji jianzhu 昞㶝㖶普䬳㲐 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2003), 3.247. 50. See Tang Yongtong 㸗䓐⼌, ed. and comm., Gaoseng zhuan 檀₏⁛ (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1992), 221. 51. See Zenryū Tsukamoto, A History of Early Chinese Buddhism: From Its Introduction to the Death of Hui-yūan, trans. Leon Hurvitz (Tokyo: Kodansha International Ltd., 1979), 885–889. How to View a Mountain in Medieval China 51

52. See Jao Tsung-i 棺⬿柌, Chengxin luncui 婈⽫婾䱡 (Shanghai: Shanghai wenyi chubanshe, 1996), 363–66. 53. See Burton Watson, trans., The Vimalakirti Sutra (New York: Columbia University Press, 1997), 34–35. 54. Song shu, 67.1754. 55. There is an account of him in Hou Han shu, 83.2770. 56. On these figures, see Alan Berkowitz, Patterns of Disengagement: The Practice and Portrayal of Reclusion in Early Medieval China (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000), 64-80. 57. See “Chih Tun’s Notions of Prajñā,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 88.2 (1968): 247–48. 58. “Langue and littérature chinoises,” in “Résumé des Cours,” Extrait de l’annuaire du Collège de France (1947): 153. 59. Ding hu or Tripod Lake was located below Mt. Jing 勲, just south of modern Wenxiang, Henan. It was here that Huangdi (Yellow Lord or Yellow Emperor) had cast a bronze tripod. A dragon then appeared and carried him into the sky. Emperor Wu was so impressed by this tale, he remarked, “Alas! If truly I could succeed in being like Huangdi, I would view leaving my wives and children the same as removing a sandal.” See Shi ji, 28.1394. The north bank of the Fen River 㰦㯜 was where Yao visited the Four Masters of Miaoguye 啸⥹⮬ Mountain. Upon arriving there, he became so oblivious of everything, he forgot his realm. See Zhuangzi, 1.8a. 60. See Zhou yi zhushu ␐㖻㲐䔷, in Shisan jing zhushu ⋩ᶱ䴻㲐䔷 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2009), 8.181. 61. I borrow this translation from Richard John Lynn, trans., The Classic of Changes: A New Translation of the I Ching as Interpreted by Wang Bi (New York: Columbia University Press, 1994), 276. 62. For a lucid explanation of the use of the term in the medieval period, see Berkowitz, Patterns of Disengagement, 26–27. 63. Zhou yi zhushu, 3.76. 64. Zhou yi zhushu, 3.76. 65. See Etienne Balazs, Chinese Civilization and Bureaucracy, edited with an introduction by Arthur F. Wright, trans. H. M. Wright (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1964), 215–16. 66. See Hou Han shu, 49.1644. Zhongchang Tong ẚ攟䴙 (179-219) for the early part of his career refused to take office. Xie cites from his treatise Chang yan 㖴妨 (Forthright Words). 67. The Retreat of the Elephants, 340. 68. See Han shu 㻊㚠 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1962), 91.3694. 52 David Knechtges

69. See Yu Jiaxi ἁ▱拓, ed. and comm., Shishuo xinyu jianshu ᶾ婒㕘婆䬳䔷 (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1993), 9.529 (#57). For translations, see Hellmut Wilhelm, “Shi Ch’ung and His Chin-ku- yüan,” Monumenta Serica 18 (1959): 326-27; Richard Mather, Shih- shuo hsin-yü: A New Account of Tales of the World (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1976), 264-65. 70. See Frodsham, The Murmuring Stream, 1:33. 71. For the “Shu zu de shi” see Xiao, Wen xuan, 19.912–15. For translations see von Zach, Die Chinesische Anthologie, 1:272–73, and Frodsham, The Murmuring Stream, 1:112–13. 72. The term heng liu 㨓㳩 (wayward flow), which originally was used in the Mengzi ⬇⫸, 3A/4.7 to refer to a flood that inundated the world, here refers to the disaster of the south being overrun by the armies from the north. 73. The Grand Tutor is Xie Lingyun’s great-great uncle Xie An. He was given the posthumous position of Grand Tutor. See Jin shu 㗳㚠 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1974), 79.2076. In 385, he and Xie Xuan planned an expedition to recover the north from the Qin. After his army suffered a devastating defeat, Xie An retired. He died soon thereafter. See the account in Frodsham, The Murmuring Stream, 1:4-5. 74. See Xiao, Wen xuan, 16.707. 75. Gu Shaobo dates this piece in autumn of 422 just before Xie departed Shi’ning for Yongjia. See Xie Lingyun ji jiaozhu, 41–42. 76. See Xiao, Wen xuan, 26.1238. 77. Song shu, 67.1757. 78. See Xiao, Wen xuan, 34.1565. 79. See Yang and Xiong, Shuijing zhu, 40.14b. 80. See Gu, Xie Lingyun ji jiaozhu, 119, n. 1. 81. See Shi Weile ⎚䁢㦪, ed., Zhongguo lishi diming dacidian ᷕ⚳㬟⎚ ⛘⎵⣏录℠, 2 vols. (Beijing: Zhongguo shehui kexue chubanshe, 2005), 2:2205. 82. See Kong Ye ⫼㙬, Guiji ji 㚫䧥姀, cited in Xiao, Wen xuan, 31.1476, Li Shan’s commentary. 83. See the map for Youxiao district 忲⬅⋨ in Sheng xian zhi. 84. See Yang and Xiong, Shuijing zhushu, 40.2329. 85. A recent gazetteer for Shangyu county locates Dong shan thirteen kilometers south of the Shangyu county seat of Baiguanzhen 䘦⭀捖. See Shangyu xian zhi bianzuan weiyuanhui ᶲ嘆䷋⽿䶐个⥼⒉㚫, ed., Shangyu xian zhi ᶲ嘆䷋⽿ (Hangzhou: Zhejiang renmin chubanshe, 1990), 684. 86. “Landscape Description,” 218. How to View a Mountain in Medieval China 53

87. Only the introductory phrase for the “distant west” section survives. The remainder of this section is lost. 88. “Landscape Description,” 222. 89. For the concept of “textual mountains” see Paul Kroll’s illuminating study, “Lexical Landscapes and Textual Mountains in the High T’ang,” T’oung Pao 84 (1998): 62–101. On “bookish landscape,” see Stephen Owen’s insightful reading of several of Xie’s poems in “The Librarian in Exile: Xie Lingyun’s Bookish Landscapes,” Early Medieval China 1 (2004): 203–26. 90. For a reconstructed text see Gu, Xie Lingyun ji jiaozhu, 272–84. Gu thinks that Xie wrote this memoir between 422 and 433. 91. The Shan River, also known as Shan xi ∉㹒 (Shan Rivulet) and Shangyu River ᶲ嘆㰇, is the upper reaches of the Cao’e River. It is now called Chengtan jiang 㼬㼕㰇. From Huangze jiang 湫㽌㰇 of Sheng county and below it is called the Cao’e River. Its source is in Jiangong ling ⮾℔ⵢ west of Dahanjian ⣏⭺⮾ in Pan’an 䡸⬱ county. See Shangyu xian zhi, 123. The Xiao River is now called the Xiaoshun River ⮷凄㰇. This 73-km long river is the main tributary of the Cao’e River. It has its source in Chiteng gang 崌喌ⱉ of Zhuxi xiang 䪡㹒悱 in Sheng county, flows through the two xiang of Wanghua 䌳⊾ and Gulai 察Ἦ in Shaoxing county, and enters Shangyu county at Daxikou ⣏㹒⎋ in Shengjiang xiang ⊅㰇悱. After flowing through Shengjiang xiang and Tangpu xiang 㸗㴎悱, it enters the Cao’e River at Xiaojiangkou ⮷㰇⎋ in Shangpu ᶲ㴎. See Shangyu xian zhi, 124–25. 92. See “Landscape Description,” 128. 93. See Xiao, Wen xuan, 26.1249. 94. This is the famous line that literally reads “garden willows change into singing birds” ⚺㞛嬲沜䥥. See Xiao, Wen xuan, 22.1040. 95. See “Landscape Description,” 130. 96. I had already included a note on this possibility of punning, and then discovered that Mark Elvin also sees the same double meaning in this line. See Retreat of the Elephants, 345. 97. See Gu, Xie Lingyun ji jiaozhu, 119, n. 1. 98. See Yang and Xiong, Shuijing zhushu, 40.3330–31. 99. Stone Bridge was located in the Tiantai Mountains. For another reference to the mosses that covered it, see Sun Chuo’s “Fu on Roaming the Celestial Terrace Mountains,” in Knechtges, Wen xuan, 2: 247, L. 39. 100. See Sheng xian zhi, 50. 54 David Knechtges

101. See Richard Mather, The Poet Shen Yüeh (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988), 124–25. 102. See Sheng xian zhi, 54. 103. On Chi Chao, see Erich Zürcher, The Buddhist Conquest of China: The Spread and Adaptation of Buddhism in Early Medieval China, Third edition with a foreword by Stephen F. Teiser (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 2007), 134–35 (with the name Romanized as Xi Chao). 104. See Shi Su 㕥⭧, Guiji zhi 㚫䧥⽿, Siku quanshu ⚃⹓ℐ㚠, vol. 486 (Taipei: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1983), 8.37b. 105. See Zürcher, Buddhist Conquest, 136–37. 106. See “Landscape Description,” 235. 107. The text here is uncertain. There is a variant reading yuan 䶋 (to follow along) for 䩢. 108. Retreat of the Elephants, 348. 109. Perhaps the best example is “The Building Star is in the Meridian” (Ding zhi fang zhong” ⭂ᷳ㕡ᷕ), Mao shi, #50. 110. Mei Sheng describes the tidal bore at Guangling ⺋昝, which was on the Yangzi River near modern Yangzhou. However, the Guangling and Qiantang bores were often conflated. Because Xie Lingyun refers to Mei Sheng’s description of the bore a few lines later, he may have thought that the bore Mei Sheng described was the Qiantang tide. 111. See Xiao, Wen xuan, 30.1397 and Gu, Xie Lingyun ji jiaozhu, 114-16. 112. A good example is the following passage in a discussion by court officials concerning inscribing on stone a eulogy to the Qin First Emperor. “Each of the vassal lords guards his own domain.” See Shi ji, 6.246. 113. I am not certain about the exact meaning of muren 䈏Ṣ. Westbrook (“Landscape Description,” 287) translates it “overseer,” and Elvin (Retreat of the Elephants, 366) renders it “herdsmen for guarding stock.” As a Buddhist, Xie perhaps did not wish to use animals to work the land. 114. See Xiao, Wen xuan, 19.899. 115. See Xiao, Wen xuan, 35.1601. 116. See Shi ji, 28.1402; Han shu, 25B.1245. 117. See Mountain Poems, #18. 118. See Erya, Sibu beiyao, 3 vols. (Shanghai: Zhonghua shuju, 1927), B5.7a. 119. The “Cove of Qi” was the site of a park in the ancient state of Wei. It is referred to in Mao shi, 55. Each stanza of the song mentions a plant called lü zhu 䵈䪡. Although this zhu is not bamboo (it is Polygonum How to View a Mountain in Medieval China 55

aviculare or gooseweed), clearly Xie alludes to it primarily for the occurrence of the word zhu. 120. The stones are stone tips that were attached to the end of the arrow cords. 121. See Zhuangzi, 5.19b. 122. Zhuangzi, 5.6b-7a. 123. See Liezi ↿⫸, Sibu beiyao, 3 vols. (Shanghai: Zhonghua shuju, 1936), 1:2.13a. 124. See “Poem Written at Tukou at Night During the Seventh Month of the Year Xinchou [401], While Returning to Jiangling After Leave” (Xinchou sui qiyue fujia huan Jiangling yexing Tuzhong 彃ᶹ㬚ᶫ㚰崜`怬㰇昝⣄埴⟿ᷕ): “At midnight I still travel alone” ᷕ⭝⯂⬌⼩. See Yuan, Tao Yuanming ji jianzhu, 3.194. 125. See Li Yunfu, Xie Lingyun ji, 258, n. 239. 126. See William Edward Soothill and Lewis Hodus, A Dictionary of Chinese Buddhist Terms (1937; repr. Kaohsiung: Buddhist Culture Service, n.d.), 416. 127. “Landscape Description,” 279. 128. Given the short distance between these two places, this “eastern hill” cannot be the Eastern Mountain (Dongshan) part of the estate. I suspect these are smaller hills in the South Mountain section. 129. All of these terms are used to describe springs in the Shi jing. For “sidewards spouting” see Mao shi #203/3; for “upward welling” see Mao shi, #222/2; for “burbling” see Mao shi #39/1; and for “gushing” see Mao shi, #39/3 (where it seems to be the name of a spring). 130. Apricot Rise is mentioned in the “Fisherman” chapter of Zhuangzi. See Zhuangzi, 10.3a. 131. Mango Orchard translates Sanskrit Āmrapālī, a grove given to the Buddha by a female devotee named Āmradārika. Buddha’s sojourn here is mentioned in the first line of the Vimalakīrti nirdeśa sūtra. 132. See Yang Xiong’s “Fu on the Shu Capital” (Shu du fu 嚨悥岎), in Zhang Zhenze ⻝暯㽌, ed. and. comm., Yang Xiong ji jiaozhu ㎂晬普㟉㲐 (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1993), 1. 133. See Zuo Si, “Fu on the Shu Capital,” in Knechtges, Wen xuan, 1:353. 134. The Song shu text reads danyang ᷡ春, which does not make any sense here. I have followed the reading of dansha ᷡ㱁 ‘cinnabar’ that is given in Li Shan’s citation of this line. See Xiao, Wen xuan, 26.1250, 31.1473. 135. On Xie’s illness, see Frodsham, The Murmuring Stream, 1:32. 136. See Frodsham, The Murmuring Stream, 1:5-6. 56 David Knechtges

137. This is the Chinese equivalent of pratirūpaka-dharma. “Actually the ‘counterfeit Doctrine’ means the second stage in the gradual deterioration of the religion, intermediate between the thousand years of the ‘correct’ Doctrine and the last phase of the ‘final’ Doctrine, at the end of which the dharma has practically disappeared from the world.” The word can also simply mean “Buddhism in general.” See Zürcher, Buddhist Conquest, 404, n. 11. 138. See Paul Demiéville, “Récents Travaux sur Touen-houang,” T’oung Pao 56 (1970): 69–74; and Richard Mather, “The Bonze’s Begging Bowl: Eating Practices in Buddhist Monasteries of Medieval India and China,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 101.4 (1981): 419– 23. 139. See Sun Kaidi ⬓㤟䫔, “Tangdai sujiang guifan yu qi ben zhi ticai” Ⓒ ẋ὿嫃夷䭬冯℞㛔ᷳ橼塩, Guoxue jikan 6.2 (1937): 1–52; repr. in Sun Kaidi, Sujiang shuohua yu baihua xiaoshuo ὿嫃婒娙冯䘥娙⮷婒 (Beijing: Zuojia chubanshe, 1957), 42–98. 140. See Xiao, Wen xuan, 29.1384. 141. For this explanation, see Jin Kaicheng 慹攳ㆸ et al., ed. and comm., Qu Yuan ji jiaozhu ⯰⍇普㟉㲐 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1996), 9.651. 142. See Gu, Xie Lingyun ji jiaozhu, 203. 143. I tentatively borrow this rendering from Westbrook, who explains: “This seems to be a reference to past, present, and future. Shieh seeks illumination which transcends time distinctions.” “Landscape Description,” 335–36. 144. Tian, “Seeing with the Mind’s Eye,” 72. 145. See Tsukamoto, A History of Early Chinese Buddhism, 849–51. 146. For an English translation of this sutra see Paul Harrison, The Pratyupanna Samādhi Sutra (Berkeley: Numata Center for Buddhist Translation and Research, 1998). 147. E-mail communication, 27 April 2009. 148. See Harrison, The Pratyupanna Samādhi Sutra. 149. See Song shu, 67.1775. 150. See Song shu, 67.1775. 151. See Song shu, 67.1775. 152. See Song shu, 67.1774. 153. Quan Tang shi ℐⒸ娑, 25 vols. (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1960), 430.8. Poet-Nun of Nanyue: The Mountain Poems of Jizong Xingche (b. 1606)

Beata Grant 䭉ἑ忼 Washington University in St. Louis

Located in central Hunan province, Nanyue ⋿ⱛ, also known as Hengshan 堉Ⱉ, is a range of mountains (traditionally said to be comprised of 72 peaks) running north to south parallel with the Xiang 㸀 River. In the words of the fifth-century literatus Xu Lingqi ⼸曰㛇 (?-474), Nanyue “encompasses 800 li, [is] 4,010 zhang high, has seventy-two peaks, ten caverns, fifteen cliffs, thirty-eight springs, twenty-five streams, nine ponds, nine swamps and nine wells. To the southeast it descends to the Xiang River. Looked at from afar, it resembles an army of clouds.”1 Not only has it long been known for its natural scenic beauty, Nanyue has also long been regarded by Buddhists and Daoists alike as a “particularly efficacious site for engaging in religious practices.”2 To give just a few examples, Nanyue was associated with such important religious figures as Lady Wei 櫷⣓Ṣ, the deified incarnation of Wei Huacun 櫷厗⬀ (252-334); Huisi ㄏ⿅ (515- 577), the leading authority on the Lotus Sutra who later taught Zhiyi 㘢柿 (538-597), the founder of the Tiantai school of Buddhism; and early Chan Buddhist masters such as Nanyue Huairang ⋿ⵥ㆟嬻 (677-744) and Shitou Xiqian 䞛柕ⶴ怟 (700-790). Nanyue also appears to have a close connection with the development of Chan poetry and the emergence of Chan poet-monks. James Robson notes the late Tang shift within Chan Buddhist circles from using poems instead of robe and bowl as symbols of dharma-transmission, and suggests that many of the new poet-monks of this period “were either associated with Nanyue or were disciples of Shitou’s.”3 Perhaps the most well-known of these was Qiji 滲⶙ (fl. 881), who was native of Hunan and felt such a special affinity for Nanyue that he styled himself the “Sramana of Hengyue” (Hengyue shami 堉ⱛ㱁⻴). Nearly eight centuries later, among the large selection of poems composed by eminent monks and distinguished literati collected in official sources such as the Nanyue zhi ⋿ⱛ娴 (Nanyue Gazeteer) of 1774 and the Hengshan xianzhi 堉Ⱉ䷋⽿ (Hengshan County 58 Beata Grant

Gazetteer) of 1823, we find the only examples written by a woman. She is Jizong Xingche ⬋䷥埴廵 (b. 1606), a Hunan native who later came to be designated as an official Chan master and dharma successor of Linji Chan master Wanru Tongwei 叔⤪忂⽖ (1594-1657). Although her life as a Chan master and abbess was spent largely in the Suzhou area, her personal and spiritual connection with Nanyue was such that her biographical notice in the Wudeng quanshu Ḽ䅰ℐ㚠 (The Complete Book of the Five Lamps) of 1697 refers to her as the “Nun of Nanyue” (Nanyue ni ⋿ⵥ⯤). Of particular interest is the fact that her mountain poems, and more specifically, her poems on the Nanyue mountains, comprise up to nearly a third of the approximately one hundred poems included in her four juan discourse record collection or yulu 婆抬, compiled sometime between 1654 and 1656. Both the number of poems and their quality invite us to situate Jizong Xingche firmly within the literary tradition of more well-known Buddhist monk-poets and, in particular, monk-poets associated with Nanyue. Jizong Xingche (née Liu ∱) was born to a well-off Hunan family with a long tradition of Confucian scholarship and official service, as well as Buddhist sympathies. 4 Her maternal grandfather, for example, held an official post in southern Jiangxi province, during which time he visited the mummified relics of the eminent late Ming-dynasty monk Hanshan Deqing ㅐⰙ⽟㶭 (1546-1623) at Nanhua ⋿厗 temple in Caoxi 㺽㹒, Guangdong province. It may have been partly due to this early family religious connection that many years later one of Hanshan Deqing’s senior disciples, the scholar-official and loyalist Tan Zhenmo 嬂屆満 (1590-1665, jinshi 1628), would not only compose a preface for Jizong’s discourse records but actively participate in getting them printed and circulated.5 As a young girl, Jizong received a solid classical education and would appear to have had access to a family library that contained both Buddhist and Confucian texts. She writes:

Even at a young age, I disliked eating non-vegetarian food; just one taste of meat and I would spit it out. When I was a little older, I took pleasure in reading Confucian texts and Buddhist sutras. Revolted by the dust and confusion of the world and having thought deeply about the matters of life and death, I begged my father to allow me to dedicate myself to a life outside of the household. But he refused.6

We are told very little about the man Jizong married, apart from the fact that his surname was Chen 昛 and he met an untimely death while on official business in western Guangdong province. It is quite likely however, that he was one of the many members of the Fushe ⽑䣦 or Restoration Society, Poet-Nun of Nanyue 59

who in the last years of the Ming were persecuted by factions who had earlier been associated with the powerful, and powerfully corrupt, eunuch, Wei Zhongxian 櫷⾈岊 (1568-1627).7 This would explain why his young widow took it upon herself to submit an official memorial to the throne in an effort to clear his name. We do not know if this effort was successful; we do know that it was not long after submitting her memorial that Jizong decided to devote herself solely to her religious practice. As she would relate to her disciples many years later:

I then built a hermitage in which I installed a [Buddha] image and began to engage in the cultivation of a merit field. From dawn to dusk, I sat in quiet meditation. I took such delight in adhering to the precepts and [religious] discipline that I became determined to leave the householder’s life and in the days that followed, began to seek out teachers of knowledge and wisdom.8

It was around this time that, in a local temple, she came across a copy of a recently printed text that would determine the course of her future life. The compiler of this text, Linji Chan master Shanci Tongji Ⱉ勐忂晃 (1608- 1645), in 1638 had left Hangzhou and, drawn by its beauty and religious significance, taken up residence on Nanyue. As soon as he had settled into his hermitage, he devoted himself to searching through a wide range of materials, including “Nanyue gazetteers old and new” (㕘冲ⱛ⽿) for information on Chan monks associated with Nanyue and the Nanyue lineage of Chan Buddhism. The results of Shanci’s efforts were printed with the help of the Ming loyalist-turned monk, Xiong Kaiyuan 䄲攳⃫ (1599- 1676) and circulated under the title of Nanyue Chan denglu ⋿ⵥ䥒䅰抬 (Accounts of Chan Lamps of Nanyue). After reading this text, Jizong made the decision to seek out Shanci personally and at the age of thirty-three took the tonsure and left home to live near her teacher in a small hermitage on Nanyue’s Yanxia Peak 䄁曆Ⲙ. Many of Jizong’s mountain poems, although unfortunately not dated, may well have been composed during this time. In any case, these poems show that she had not only visited many of Nanyue’s most well-known Buddhist temples and Daoist abbeys but was also highly knowledgeable about their religious and historical significance. They also suggest that Jizong anticipated spending the rest of her life on Nanyue, where she not only could pursue her religious aspirations but also find a measure of safety and solace during a period of increasing turmoil. This, however, was not to be. In 1645, after leaving Nanyue to take up residence in a monastery in nearby Changsha 攟㱁, Shanci, who was not much older than Jizong, fell ill and died after eating a meal of wild greens, there being little else to provide nourishment on lands ravaged by rebellion 60 Beata Grant

and warfare. Although she was one of Shanci’s senior students, he died before she formally received Dharma transmission. That this was her ultimate goal is indicated by the fact that in 1650, at the age of forty-four, Jizong decided to leave Nanyue and head east. Later, in a preface to Jizong’s discourse records, Yan Dacan ♜⣏⍫ (1590–1671), a well-known Ming loyalist turned Buddhist layman, would write with admiration that:

After the passing of Master Shanci, with nothing but her gourd- dipper and walking-staff, the Master sailed down the River Xiang, crossed over Lake Dongting, and fearlessly roamed among the Tiantai Mountains in the south and the Wutai Mountains in the north.9

Even in the best of times, for a woman to travel such distances was neither easy nor safe, nor looked upon with approval. In the 1650s during the Manchu conquest of the South, it would have been even more perilous. The following poem by Jizong, entitled “A Chant in Midjourney” (Tuzhong yin 徼ᷕ⏇), while it can be read metaphorically as a description of the spiritual journey, also provides a glimpse of the actual physical trials and dangers of travel.

Gazing towards the rivers and plains, the ᶨ㛃ⶅ⍇ᶾ嶗䲮 world’s roads twist and turn: Flailing between difficulties, all turns into ␐㕳䵕察廱䘉ヂ foolish ignorance. Wind stinking of fresh meat on the wide roads 桐儍⺋旴䉸ㆸ昲 where foxes congregate: Sun weak on the cold cliffs where the tigers are 㖍唬⭺⵾嗶屈⳶ pushed against the wall. Lonely and desolate: it is hard to find anyone 句句冒暋⏦忻⎰ who can share my way: Stretching on and on: few are those who can 㹼㹼⬘嬀㚱ね㬲 understand my feelings. Although the hoary heavens weep, I do not 呤⣑⒕⛐ㄹ婘␴ rely on anyone for my joy, Accompanied only by my carrying pole, I 䪧㛐晐幓Ⲷ冯⴯ traverse the rugged terrain.10

Jizong Xingche’s travels, largely made in the spirit of a pilgrimage to sites associated with Linji Chan, took her to Mount Longchi 漵㰈 in Jiangsu province, where she became the student, and eventually one of the three official Dharma successors of the elderly monk Wanru Tongwei, a Dharma- Poet-Nun of Nanyue 61

brother of Shanci Tongji. As Jizong herself tells us, as soon as she had received this transmission, she began to make preparations to return home to her beloved Nanyue. However, Wanru Tongwei had other plans for her.

The next day I went to take leave of Master Wanru and return to Nanyue. But Master Wanru said: “It is very difficult for those who have [mistakenly] left the road to study the way. So put an end to your thoughts of returning to the mountains. When this old monk is gone, your work will be to liberate those who have missed the path.” He then presented me with the lineage records and the flywhisk. I vigorously declined since I wanted to return home. But Master Wanru said, “It is best if you remain in the Jiangnan area so that you may contribute to the revival [of Linji Buddhism].”11

Jizong reluctantly agreed to her teacher’s request, and over the next decade or so, served as abbess of at least three different convents, including the Huideng ㄏ䅰 Convent in Suzhou.12 She also traveled and preached widely in the Zhejiang-Jiangsu area. As Yan Dacan writes:

The gentry-officials all looked up to [Jizong Xingche] with admiration; the four-fold sangha (monks, nuns, laymen, and laywomen) flocked to her in droves: and there were none who did not wish to extend her an invitation to preach the Dharma. Her blows and shouts were delivered with the power and swiftness of lightning; her preaching of the Dharma was of benefit to sentient beings, and among those who filled her quarters, there were many who achieved deep insight.13

Nevertheless, Jizong appears never to have entirely abandoned her desire to return to Nanyue, and in many of her mountain poems speaks longingly of going back to live among its peaks and valleys. Although we do not know the date of her death, it would appear that she finally did indeed manage to return to spend her last years on Nanyue’s Jingping Cliff Ⅸ䒞ⱑ, not far from where she had first studied and practiced with Shanci.

The Mountain Poems Shanju Ⱉ⯭ (dwelling in the mountains) poems are by no means uncommon in Buddhist poetry by male monastics. Just a few examples of many such sequences are the twenty-four shanju poems by the famous Tang dynasty artist and monk-poet Guanxiu 屓ẹ (832-912), the several hundred such poems by the Yuan dynasty Chan master Shiwu 䞛⯳ (“Stonehouse”; 1272-1352), and, closer to Jizong’s own time, the many sequences of such 62 Beata Grant

poems by Hanshan Deqing, the eminent late Ming teacher mentioned earlier.14 Indeed, it was in the late Ming and early Qing that shanju poetry appears to have enjoyed particular popularity, such that the Chan master Shiyu Mingfang 䞛暐㖶㕡 (1593-1648) would declare that “Nowadays, collections of Chan sermons must also include poetry, and the poetry must include shanju [poems].”15 This great popularity can be attributable at least in part to the fact that shanju poetry lent itself particularly well to the translation of abstract notions of transcendence of the mundane into concrete poetic evidence of its accomplishment. The suitability of this genre lay partly in its association with previous monk-poets, including Han Shan ⭺Ⱉ (fl. 9th c.), many of whose originally untitled verses were given the title of Shanju by the late Ming editors of a popular anthology of Buddhist poetry called Gujin Chanzao ji ⎌Ṳ䥒喣普 (Collected Chan Writings of Past and Present). 16 As a poetic form, the shanju combined the poetic discipline of regulated verse (jinti shi 役橼娑) and the flexibility afforded by the use of relatively straightforward concrete language and imagery, for the most part unburdened by the use of literary or highly doctrinal allusion. Also adding to this flexibility was the fact that shanju poems were most often composed in sequences or sets, ranging from three to over a hundred poems, all of which allowed for a more extensive and often more nuanced, exploration of different dimensions of the experience, whether metaphorical or actual, of “dwelling in the mountains.” In other words, monastic poets could, by means of these poems, demonstrate their aspiration for, and ultimately, their personal realization of a joyous inner life despite external worldly (and specifically political) turmoil and turbulence. Thus, in composing her many shanju poems, Jizong was not only situating herself within a longer tradition of largely male monastic poets but also within the historical, religious and literary context of her own particular time and place. Jizong’s extant collection contains no less than four different sets or sequences of mountain poems composed in five and seven-syllable regulated verse. One set of eight poems is entitled simply “Dwelling in the Mountains” (Shanju Ⱉ⯭); the other three, which include two sequences of ten poems each and one of twenty-five, all refer explicitly to Nanyue. Let us begin with a ten-poem sequence that offers what one might call the “tourist’s perspective”—a poetic catalogue of ten sites regarded even today as being among Nanyue’s most scenic as well as most historically important.17 They are not necessarily “the” ten sites, however; rather, they appear to be places that Jizong found particularly meaningful. The sequence begins with a poem about “Yanxia Peak” (Yanxia feng 䄁曆Ⲙ), the place where Jizong Xingche lived during the time she was studying with Shanci Tongji, and thus a natural place to begin her “poetic tour.”

Poet-Nun of Nanyue 63

Staff in hand, I wander up to the very highest of 䫾㛾态䘣㚨ᶲⰙ the mountains; Authentic teachings can surely be drawn from 䛇桐枰⎹侈⵾㒨 these green cliffs. It is hard to give oneself to ordinary mundane ᶾ攻㽩岒暋䚠姙 concerns of the world; Beyond the clouds I can surely roam free and 暚⢾㶭㷠ᾉ冒攺 find my own ease. Strange-looking boulders as if about to fly, ⿒䞛㫚梃⼊帵帵 looking almost alive: Rushing waters pouring straight down with a 樂㳩䚜ᶳ枧㼢㼢 roar and a rumble. In my wandering, I happened to stumble upon 埴Ἦᶵ奢⸥䌬嗽 this secluded spot: Now, after having scattered the misty clouds, I 巳䠶䄁曆ᾉ㬍怬 leisurely return.18

The name Yanxia, which can be translated as misty clouds, is also used to refer to the obfuscations of the mundane world: this might explain the last line in this poem, where the speaker appears to delight in having scattered, or literally, “stomped to smithereens” the misty clouds. The last poem of this series, entitled “The Stupa of Ancestor Huairang” (Huairang zu ta ㆟嬻䣾⟼), reflects Jizong Xingche’s institutional identification with Nanyue Huairang ⋿ⵥ㆟嬻 (677-744), the Tang dynasty master considered to be the founder of the branch of the Linji Chan lineage represented by Shanci Tongji. His stupa, which can still be seen today, is located on Zhurong Peak, not far from the Mirror Grinding Terrace (Mojing Tai 䢐掉冢) where Nanyue Huairang is said to have taught Mazu an important lesson about the futility of trying to polish a brick into a mirror. Of the remaining sites poetically described by Jizong, two are associated with the long Daoist presence on Nanyue: Nine Perfected Ones Abbey (Jiuxian guan ḅẁ奨) and Divine Transcendent Grotto (Shenxian dong 䤆ẁ㳆). The last two couplets of the poem composed in commemoration of the latter read as follows:

The evening rain moistens the path beneath the 㙖暐㽽Ὕ喌ᶳ嶗 wisteria; The slanting sunlight illumines the moss inside 㕄春⃱夗㳆ᷕ剼 the cave. Although I have never studied any of the arts of ⽆Ἦᶵ⬠攟䓇埻 immortality, Here at this place my thoughts turn again to ⇘㬌怬⿅ᶨ㹗㲬 64 Beata Grant

tracing my way back to the source!19

These ten poems reflect not only Jizong Xingche’s mastery of the conventions of such poetry, they also hint at her personal experience of Nanyue—these were places she had lived among for years and knew well— as well as her historical knowledge of the religious landscape of Nanyue, a landscape shaped over the centuries by Buddhists and Daoists alike. The eight poems in the series entitled simply “Shanju” are rather more reflective in both content and tone. In these poems, the mountain, which is not specified as being Nanyue, is used more generically as a code word for the alternative space to which the speaker has turned for both refuge and inspiration. These poems also make relatively greater use of explicitly Chan language. An example is the fourth poem of the series, which reads as follows:

I realize that the family jewels are not to be 嬀⼿⭞䍵ᶵ⢾㯪 sought outside; As always, the winding waters encircle the ὅ䃞㚚㯜怞Ⱉ㦻 mountain towers. I have split wide open the triple-mystery words ∰攳冐㾇ᶱ䌬婆 of Linji; I have seen through the one-finger teaching of 䚳䟜⣑漵ᶨ㊯柕 Tianlong.20 Several gusts of clear wind: the neighing of the ⸦⹎㶭桐◞㛐楔 wooden horse; A half-window of bright moon: the bellowing of ⋲䨿㖶㚰⏤㲍䈃 the mud ox. Ever since I laughingly put a halt to it all and 冒⽆䪹伟㬠Ἦ⼴ returned home, I’ve rested in the shade of the pine, listening to 檀㜽㜦昘倥㾹㳩 the waterfall.21

While the speaker in this poem does not necessarily refer to Jizong herself, it does reflect the confidence of someone who is no longer a seeker of enlightenment, but rather someone quite advanced in terms of religious practice. The suggestion of spiritual goals attained and its fruits there to be enjoyed recurs in many of the poems in this sequence. The fifth poem, for example, reads:

I have come to sit among these boulders retired ⛸Ἦ䞛ᶲ⌣㶭⸥ in pure seclusion: The moon glows, the clouds have already left 㚰䘶攟䨢暚⶚㓞 Poet-Nun of Nanyue 65

the endless skies: When one is dreaming, how does one know it is Ṣ⛐⣊ᷕ婘嬀⣊ a dream? The cicada chirps when fall arrives, not 垔晐䥳╂ᶵ䞍䥳 knowing it is fall. When the mind turns to ashes, why hanker after ⽫䀘寰佐咖厗⚳ the lotus world; When the thoughts are purified, kingfisher ⾝㶐ỽ⥐侉侈㦻 towers are no obstacle. If one trusts in the Way, that one’s self is none ᾉ忻冒幓⃫㗗ἃ other than Buddha, Then why would one want to aspire to high rank Ṣ攻ỽḳ夻⮩ὗ in the human world?22

In this poem, the insistence that turning one’s mind to ashes and purifying one’s thoughts will obviate any desire for the pleasures found in the ordinary world of love and work does, however, suggest that these are desires with which the speaker still struggles, if only occasionally. Elsewhere in these poems, there are also hints of the social and political turmoil that not only took the life of Jizong’s husband, but which continued to send its refugees, whether political or religious, to the mountains, where they can, hopefully, regroup their strength. In general, however, Jizong follows the pattern of many of her contemporary shanju-writers in placing emphasis on the inner joy that can be achieved within, regardless of external circumstances:

The parrots hide in the willows: the evening 㞛啷淂洉⢽春㕄 lights descend: Secluded valley, cloudless spring: something to ⸥察㘜㗍⮎⎗娯 boast about! Beneath the trees the breeze rises: tigers and 㜿ᶳ桐䓇攺嗶尡 leopards relax, In pools and mountain streams, dragons and 㼿怲㯜㹊㴜漵噯 serpents bathe. A ramshackle hut, a grass bench, and clouds for 㔅⺔勱⹏暚䁢䙵 a roof above. The ancient trees make a grassy shrine, 㝗㛐嗧漽却ἄ厗 mushrooms for decor. That which I delight in are just these kinds of 䁢╄侭ṃ䩖⾓㳣 boundless joys. Wrapped in a tattered robe, I keep company ℑ偑䟜堚Ờ䄁曆 with the clouds.23 66 Beata Grant

Jizong’s longest sequence of Nanyue poems is the set of twenty-five poems entitled “Living in the Nanyue Mountains: Random Verses” (Nanyue shanju zayong ⋿ⵥⰙ⯭暄娈). These poems reflect a fuller acceptance of both the life and the role of the mountain dweller or recluse. The emphasis is less on historical figures or religious sites, and more on natural phenomena, sometimes specific to Nanyue, but just as often to more universal clouds, waterfalls, creeks, woodland breezes, etc. This simplification can even be seen in the fact that the poems in this sequence, while still composed in regulated verse, make use of the five-syllable line rather than the seven. By the same token, many of the anxieties and aspirations made explicit in the Shanju poems, while not entirely absent, are less evident. The last two couplets of the third poem in this series, for example, allude to a visit by someone who wears “old-style” clothes and hat, not the attire (including the shaved head) of the Manchu invaders, and the fact that there are still heroes, that is to say Ming loyalists (yimin 怢㮹), to be found in the southern mountains.

The wanderer’s clothes and hat are old- 忲⭊堋ⅈ⎌ fashioned: The foolish monk’s manner and bearing are ㅐ₏桐⹎㶭 pure. We lift our heads and gaze towards the empty 冱柕䨢晃㛃 horizon: There are plenty of heroes still in the marshes of 㤂㽌㚱检劙 Chu.24

Nevertheless, again the overall tone of these twenty-five poems is one of contentment. “Three lifetimes seem no more than half a day” ᶱ䓇⤪⋲㖍, she writes in poem fourteen, “From where then, can there rise any sorrow?” ỽ嗽⼿ォἮ. And in poem eighteen, she writes, “Feeling free and uninhibited, disturbing passions forgotten / The breezes are gentle, the trees again in bloom” ◗⁚⾀ね嗽 / 桐␴㧡⍰㗍. In other words, while it may be the autumn of her life, she has found the source of what the Daoists would call “eternal spring” (changchun 攟㗍) that is, a constant inner joy unaffected by changing external circumstances. It is probably not incidental that the allusions in these poems are as much, if not more, to well-loved poets such as Tao Yuanming 昞㶝㖶 (372?-427) as they are to Chan texts. Thus, in poem twenty, Jizong Xingche writes:

A windowful of green reflects the purest 䨿䡏㗈㶭廅 brilliance; An open door lets in the view of kingfisher- 攳攨䲵侈⽖ Poet-Nun of Nanyue 67

green hills. From out of the rosy mists, the solitary crane 暊曆⬌浜徜 returns; Encircling the boulders, the scattered clouds 丆䞛Ḫ暚梃 float by. A low bed of moss can be used as a [meditation] 䞖㥣剼䁢ⷕ mat; The leaves on the bamboo screen can serve as a 䔷䯦叱ἄ堋 robe. The sinking sun has disappeared far into the 㕄春大⍣怈 west; The weary birds instinctively know to return ῎沍冒䞍㬠 home.25

If Tao Yuanming (regarded by many monk-poets as an honorary Buddhist) is a recurrent presence in these poems, so is Hanshan, even though Jizong only mentions him once by name in the twelfth poem of this set, where she refers to the legend that the elusive poet inscribed his poems on leaves and flower petals, leaving others to find and transcribe them. In other words, it is not so much the textual memory she refers to, as the spirit of Hanshan inscribed in the natural world around her that she is personally reliving and recreating.

Forested ravines swathed in bright clouds; 㜿⡹㘜暚挾 Scattered plum trees in solitary splendor, ṕṕ⸦㧡㠭 Off singing to draw water from the spring; 㰚㱱⏇娈⍣ Returning perfumed from gathering herbs. ㍉喍ⷞ楁⚆ On the leaves: the gathas of Hanshan; 叱ᶲ⭺Ⱉ῰ Up in the clouds: the terrace of Prajña. 暚ᷕ凔劍冢 A walking stick to go with me everywhere; 㛾善晐㇨军 And a stone table with a covering of moss.26 䞛ↈⶫ呤剼

While there does not appear to be any particular order or narrative to the twenty-five poems in this series—indeed Jizong herself refers to them as “random verses”—the final poem felicitously encapsulates the intimate connection between monastic and mountain celebrated withinthe series as a whole, not to mention the attraction, albeit idealized, of this particular life.

To live in lofty seclusion has been the dream of 檀晙⸛䓇⽿ a lifetime; From this day onwards, I will live here on this ṲἮỷ㬌Ⱉ mountain. 68 Beata Grant

All dusty illusions have been exposed for what ⸣⠝悥奟䟜 they are, And I have nothing more to do with the floating 㴖ᶾ㻓䚠斄 world. Tea from the stony cliffs for sipping when I feel 䞛ḛ晐㗪㰚 so inclined, And wisteria blossoms for picking when I get 喌剙ảシ㒨 the whim. The emptiness of Heaven and earth is so great Ḧ✌䨢㴑⣏ and vast: Who understands the tranquility to be found in 婘嬀㬌ᷕ攺 all this?27

The contentment and even joy expressed in these poems might lead one to assume that they were composed towards the end of Jizong’s life. However, given that they were included in the collection of discourse records printed before her return to Nanyue, it is more likely that they were composed much earlier, perhaps at a time when she anticipated spending the rest of her days living in seclusion and had no idea of the direction her life would actually take following the unexpected demise of her teacher. As we have seen, after Jizong left Nanyue, she spent a decade or more actively traveling and teaching in the Jiangnan area. However, she never relinquished the hope that she might one day return to Nanyue, expressions of which appear in a number of occasional poems written to send off fellow monastics returning to Hunan. These longings assume an even fuller expression in yet another ten-poem sequence, entitled “In the Manner of ‘Returning Home to Nanyue’” (Ni gui Nanyue 㒔㬠⋿ⵥ). The poems from the longer ten-poem sequence are written, often quite explicitly, in the spirit of the well-known and well-loved “Returning Home” (Gui yuantian ju 㬠⚺ 䓘⯭) poems of the fourth-century poet-recluse Tao Yuanming. In general, the emphasis is on the completion of duties, the approach of old age, and the desire to return to life of quiet reclusion. Given that Jizong had lived through some of the most difficult years of the Ming-Qing transition, and, as we can tell from some of her other writings, shared many of the loyalist sentiments of other educated men and women, taking refuge in the crags and crannies of Nanyue had a political as well as a religious significance for her. “Having thoroughly looked into hot and cold, I return to the mountains / Without leaving even the slightest footprint in the world of men below” ㍊䚉䀶㵤⍰ỷⰙ / ᶵ䔁㚽嶉句Ṣ攻, she writes in the second poem of this series, “No knight-errants left in the world so it is useless to brandish a sword / But in the woods there is a brushwood gate that can be closed in retreat” ᶾ䃉ᾈ⢓䨢⏰∵ / 㜿㚱㞜ㇱᶼ攱斄.28 And in the seventh poem Poet-Nun of Nanyue 69

Jizong appears to echo the famous poem by the great Tang dynasty poet Du Fu 㜄䓓 (712-770), written in the wake of the disastrous An Lushan rebellion that left the capital in ruins but the mountains still standing.

Heart-breaking autumn grasses extend to the 㕟儠䥳勱㺧⣑㵗 edge of the sky: Faraway floating orphan clouds: where is it they 桬㷢⬌暚ỽ嗽⭞ call home? In the south, the chrysanthemums of Qin have ⋿⚳攳㭀䦎⛘卲 bloomed and withered; The west wind has completely brought down 大桐句䚉㻊⭖剙 the Han palace flowers. Living in seclusion I am fortunate that the blue 㳣❳⸠㚱曺Ⱉ⛐ mountains still stand. Age and sickness come in quick succession, my 侩䕭柣㶣䘥檖屺 white hair grows long. The peaks along the Xiang are surely filled with 㸀ⵢ寰䃉漵嗶䨜 dragon and tiger lairs, If we band together, we need not mingle with ㆸ佌ỽ⽭㶟䉸圎 the crabs and foxes.29

The last two lines of this poem point to Nanyue’s long history of not only being a place of refuge for hermits but also a traditional place of exile, whether imposed or self-chosen, for those out of synch with the times. The anticipation of return, then, is characterized by a combination of factors: a weariness with the busy life of an abbess, a despair at the turbulent state of the world, and an acute awareness of the coming of illness and old age. The Zhurong peak that she refers to in the fourth poem of the series is the tallest of the seventy-peaks of the Nanyue mountain range and the one that towered over Yanxia, where she and her teacher Shanci had once lived.

Pull in the line and put a halt to your angling, 㓞䵠伟憋侩柕旨 you old ascetic: Would it not be much better to return to live on 㬠巆圵Ⲙᶵ庫⣂ Zhurong Peak? Rather than planting among stones, think of 䧖䞛ᶼ⚾㉥䳓䫵 digging up purple bamboo, Rather than raising pine trees, consider tugging ➡㜦⮏佐⺽曺嗧 at green creeper-vines. The mountain colors beyond the railing will 㩣⇵Ⱉ刚ㅱ⤪冲 surely not have changed; Even if the valley entrance and human feelings 察⎋Ṣねả㖻Ṿ 70 Beata Grant

have become different. If only I can manage to take this body and Ữ⼿㬌幓怬㓭晙 return to my old hide-away, There in my grass hut, I’ll dance and whirl with 勱➪桐㚰冒⧮⦹ the wind and the moon.30

Concluding Remarks The Buddhist layman Wang Xianshuo 䌳䚠婒 (jinshi 1622) wrote a preface to Jizong Xingche’s discourse record collection, which, together with Tan Zhenmo, he helped to have printed and circulated. In this preface, Wang exclaims with admiration that Jizong’s writings not only point to that “which lies beyond language and words,” but that they also serve as testimony to the fact that “the Great Way is not divided into male and female” (⣏忻ᶵ↮䓟⤛䚠).31 Jizong does indeed appear to have almost completely assumed the masculine performative mode, not only in her life as a Chan master, traveling and delivering Dharma talks to men and women alike, but also in her poetic writing. One striking indication of this is the fact that of her poems with a named addressee, nearly two thirds are addressed to either male literati-officials or known male monastics. In other cases, it is difficult to ascertain the gender of the monastics to whom Jizong’s poems are addressed. There is one poem, however, that contains a clue not only to the gender of the person referred to, but also to Jizong Xingche’s aspirations towards the transcendence of gender distinctions.

In the world how many of the same kind ᶾ攻⎴昲⸦⎴僑 practice in the same way? I admire the way you have managed to achieve 䌐佐⏃傥⼿冒䷯ your own freedom, How you have smashed the gates of emotion, ㇒㕟ね斄⤪㯜⅟ and as cool as water, Completely understand how life’s bitter sea is Ḯ䞍劎㴟劍暚㴖 but a floating cloud. Your breast has been cleansed completely of the 备㆟㿹句⠝䶋䳗 dust of the world; In bearing and in extraordinary talent, a 橐㟤劙⣯ἃ䣾Ờ companion to the Buddha. Having thus seen through the outer forms of ⊀䟜䬯ᷕ䓟⤛䚠 both male and female; Where in all of heaven and earth will you not Ḧ✌ỽ嗽ᶵ桐㳩 feel totally at ease?32

Poet-Nun of Nanyue 71

This poem is addressed to a certain “Yizhen daoren” ẍ䛇忻Ṣ who may possibly have been Wang Jingshu 䌳朄㵹, the older sister of the famous woman writer-editor and loyalist Wang Duanshu 䌳䪗㵹 (1621炼1685?), and who, after the fall of the Ming and the death of her husband, became not only a Buddhist nun, but a Chan master much like Jizong herself.33 As it happens, Wang Duanshu included three of Jizong’s poems in her 1667 anthology Mingyuan shiwei ⎵⩃娑䶗 (Classic Poetry by Notable Women). In her editorial comments, Wang Duanshu compares Jizong’s poems to the poetry of the male Tang poets Meng Jiao ⬇恲 (751-814) and Jia Dao 屰Ⲟ (779-843).34 Meng Jiao spent much of his early life as a mountain recluse before attempting, without success, to seek official appointment. Jia Dao, on the other hand, was a Buddhist monk who renounced his vows in the hope of finding a place in the political arena. It was Su Shi 喯度 (1036- 1101), not a particular fan of either poet, who linked Jia Dao and Meng Jiao together with his oft-quoted comment that “Jia Dao is lean, Meng Jiao is cold” (Ⲟ䗎恲⭺).35 Although Jia Dao at first wrote in the rather mannered style of the Yuanhe ⃫␴ period (806-820), he later turned to writing the five-syllable line regulated verse for which he is best known. According to Stephen Owen, in so doing Jia Dao was “situating himself in a lineage of poet-monks who had been practicing this craft since the period after the An Lushan Rebellion.”36 The aesthetics of this type of monastic regulated verse was characterized by a meticulous observance of the rules of poetic craftsmanship, a discipline mirroring that of the monastic vinaya or disciplinary code. The result was that, to again quote Owen, “[i]n striking contrast to the Yuanhe poets, for whom establishing poetic identity was central, the craftsmen of regulated verse are remarkably impersonal, even in their expressed sentiments.” 37 I would suggest that in comparing Jizong Xingche’s work to these two late Tang poets, Wang Duanshu may have used Meng Jiao to indicate the experiences of Jizong’s life, including her time spent as a mountain recluse, and Jia Dao to refer to the meticulous craftsmanship of her five- and seven-syllable regulated verse and perhaps even its relative impersonality and non-gender specific language. However, whereas Jizong’s shanju poetry may appear quite impersonal in comparison to secular verse, during the Ming-Qing transition at least, such poems were regarded by many not only as personal demonstrations of poetic skills but, perhaps even more importantly, as personal testimonies of hard-earned skills at living a joyous life amidst the uncertainty of the times. Be that as it may, not only was the loyalist Wang Duanshu happy to include Jizong’s poems in her anthology of women poets, she also tells her readers that when reading the nun of Nanyue’s poems, she “could not help but feel spiritually transported” (bujin shenwang ᶵ䤩䤆⼨).38

72 Beata Grant

Endnotes

1. James Robson, Power of Place: The Religious Landscape of the Southern Sacred Peak (Nanyue ⋿ⵥ) in Medieval China (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 2009), 99. 2. Robson, Power of Place, 97. 3. Robson, Power of Place, 297. 4. Although I refer to her as Jizong Xingche (or simply Jizong) throughout this paper, this was of course the religious name she received only after having been ordained. For a detailed study of Jizong Xingche and the larger religious and cultural context in which she lived, see Beata Grant, Eminent Nuns: Woman Chan Masters of Seventeenth-Century China (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2009), esp. 107-129. 5. Tan Zhenmo, whose lay religious name was Fuzhengġ墼⼩, edited several of Hanshan Deqing’s works; he is particularly known for having produced an annotated edition (published in 1651) of Hanshan Deqing’s autobiography, Hanshan dashi nianpu shu ㅐⰙ⣏ⷓ⸜嬄䔷 Jizong Xingche’s poems include several addressed to Tan Zhenmo, whom she knew personally. Jizong Xingche’s discourse records, Jizong Che chanshi yulu ⬋䷥⽡䥒ⷓ婆抬, can be found in volume 28 of the Mingban Jiaxing Dazangjing 㖶㜧▱冰⣏啷䴻ġĩMing edition of the Jiaxing Buddhist Canon) (Taibei: Xinwenfeng, 1987), 441-488. 6. Jizong, Jizong Che chanshi yulu, 453. 7. Many years later when Jizong had become a full-fledged Chan teacher, she was invited by a group of male literati patrons to assume the leadership of the Huideng ㄏ䅰ġ Convent in Suzhou. Of the thirty names that are appended to the official invitation text, more than half can be identified as literati-officials associated with the Restoration Society including, for example, all three sons of Zhou Shunchang ␐枮㖴 (1524-1626), a well-known Ming official who lost his life because of the machinations of Wei Zhongxian. 8. Jizong, Jizong Che chanshi yulu, 453. 9. Jizong, Jizong Che chanshi yulu, 442. 10. Jizong, Jizong Che chanshi yulu, 465. 11. Jizong, Jizong Che chanshi yulu, 453. 12. Interestingly, the layman who took the initiative to invite Jizong to assume the abbacy of the Huideng Convent was Ye Shaoyong 叱䳡柺 (1594-1670, jinshi 1625), who as a young man had studied for the examinations together with his cousin Ye Shaoluan 叱䳡堩 (1589- 1649), known primarily for preserving the writings of his wife Shen Poet-Nun of Nanyue 73

Yixiu 㰰⭄ᾖġ(1590-1635) and their three talented daughters. After the fall of the Ming, Ye Shaoyong became a devoted lay Buddhist. 13. Jizong, Jizong Che chanshi yulu, 442. 14. For a recent English translation of Shiwu’s shanju poems, see Red Pine, trans., The Zen Works of Stonehouse: Poems and Talks of a Fourteenth-Century Chinese Hermit (San Francisco: Mercury House, 1999). For a brief but insightful discussion of some of the reasons for the popularity of shanju poems during the early seventeenth-century, see Liao Zhaoheng ⮍倯Ṑ, “Wan Ming sengren ‘Shanju shi’ lunxi: yi Hanyue Fazang wei zhongxin” 㘂㖶₏ṢⰙ⯭娑婾㜸: 㻊㚰㱽啷䁢ᷕ ⽫, in Zhongbian, shichan, mengxi: Mingmo Qingchu fojiao wenhua lunshu de chengxian yu kaizhan ᷕ怲, 娑䥒, ⣊㇚: 㖶㛓㶭⇅ἃ㔁㔯⊾ 婾徘䘬⏰䎦冯攳⯽ (Taibei: Yunchen wenhua shiye gufen youxian gongci, 2008), 273-300. 15. See Liao, “Wan Ming sengren ‘Shanju shi’,” 282-83. 16. “He Youtang shi xu” ␴Ἱ➪娑⸷, in Shiyu chanshi fatan 䞛暐䥒ⷓ㱽 ⡯, in Mingban Jiaxing Dazangjing, 27:137a. 17. These ten poems appear in sequence in the collection but, unlike the others, are not grouped under a single title. However, given their placement and their shared theme, I am treating them as a set of poems. 18. Jizong, Jizong Che chanshi yulu, 463. 19. Jizong, Jizong Che chanshi yulu, 463. Given the context of this verse, the image of swimming against the stream (back to the source) can refer to the Daoist notion of returning to the undifferentiated Dao or source of all being, although Buddhism also speaks of going against the flow of hatred, greed and attachment as the heart of spiritual renunciation. 20. Here I am taking the sanxuan yu ᶱ䌬婆 as a variant of Linji’s famously enigmatic “three statements” (sanju ᶱ⎍) or “three essentials” (sanyao ᶱ天), for which there have been numerous interpretations. Tianlong was the 9th-century Chan master in the line of Nanyue Huairang who enlightened his disciple Juzhi Yizhi ῞傅ᶨ ㊯ by holding up one finger. Interestingly, the story also goes that Juzhi had been living alone in the mountains meditating when he was visited by a nun who challenged him to say a word of Chan, at which he found himself speechless. It was this that led him to seek instruction from Tianlong. 21. Jizong, Jizong Che chanshi yulu, 463. 22. Jizong, Jizong Che chanshi yulu, 463. 23. Jizong, Jizong Che chanshi yulu, 463. 24. Jizong, Jizong Che chanshi yulu, 462. 74 Beata Grant

25. Jizong, Jizong Che chanshi yulu, 462. Tao Yuanming, of course, in many poems compares his leaving the world of official ambition and living the simpler life of a gentleman farmer in the countryside to that of weary birds who return to roost in their nests. 26. Jizong, Jizong Che chanshi yulu, 462. 27. Jizong, Jizong Che chanshi yulu, 462. 28. Jizong, Jizong Che chanshi yulu, 466. 29. Jizong, Jizong Che chanshi yulu, 466. 30. Jizong, Jizong Che chanshi yulu, 466. 31. Jizong, Jizong Che chanshi yulu, 443. 32. Jizong, Jizong Che chanshi yulu, 464. 33. One of Wang Jingshu’s religious names was Yizhen daoren ᶨ䛇忻Ṣ: Jizong Xingche’s poem is addressed to Yizhen daoren ẍ䛇忻Ṣ. This may, however, just be a copyist error. For more on Wang Jingshu see Beata Grant, “Chan Friends: Poetic Exchanges Between Gentry Women and Buddhist Nuns in Seventeenth-Century China,” in Grace Fong and Ellen Widmer, eds., The Inner Quarters and Beyond: Women Writers from Ming Through Qing (Leiden: Brill, 2010), esp. 226-233. 34. Wang Duanshu, Mingyuan shiwei, 26.5. 35. See Su Shi, “A Memorial to Liu Ziyu” (Ji Liu Ziyu wen 䤕㞛⫸䌱㔯), in Su Shi wen ji 喯度㔯普, 6 vols., ed. Kong Fanli (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1986), 5:1939. 36. Stephen Owen, “Eagle-shooting Heroes and Wild-goose Hunters: the Late Tang Moment,” Hsiang Lectures on Chinese Poetry 3 (2005): 49- 65, see p. 57. 37. Owen, “Eagle-shooting Heroes,” 57. 38. Wang Duanshu, Mingyuan shiwei, 26.5a. When Dōgen Went to China: Chan Poetry He Did and Did Not Write1

Steven Heine Florida International University

Figure 1. 76 Steven Heine

On Dōgen’s Chinese Writings and Poetry Collection When Zen 䥒 (Ch. Chan) master Eihei Dōgen 㯠⸛忻⃫ (1200-1253), the founder of the Sōtō 㚡㳆 (Ch. Caodong) sect during the early Kamakura era of medieval Japan, went to China as a young monk for a four-year stint from 1223 to 1227, he visited several temples in the area of the Southern Song capital of Hangzhou and gained enlightenment. This experience was attained under the tutelage of Caodong master Rujing ⤪㶐 (Jp. Nyojō, 1163-1228) at Mt. Tiantong ⣑䪍Ⱉ (Jp. Mt. Tendō), which was previously the seat of master Hongzhi ⬷㘢 (Jp. Wanshi, 1091-1157), another prominent Caodong abbot (Fig. 1). From this training, which abetted his reading prior to his travels of the entire Buddhist canon (Tripitaka), including voluminous Chan works, while he was studying in Kyoto on Mt. Hiei as well as at Kenninji, the first Zen temple in Japan, Dōgen apparently became intimately familiar with a variety of Chinese Buddhist textual materials. According to an oft-cited passage in one of his sermons, Dōgen returned from China “with empty hands” (kūshu genkyō 䨢ㇳ怬悟).2 That is, he preferred to emphasize interior knowledge and wisdom gained during the journey, without the need to have accumulated many of the relics and regalia that were featured in the homecoming of most other Buddhist monks of this and earlier periods, when collecting paraphernalia and external symbols of spiritual attainment and authority was highly valued. As I have discussed previously, Dōgen’s empty-handed return to Japan does not suggest that he was empty-headed, although his head was “full of emptiness,” makes a wordplay on the Buddhist metaphysics of vacuity 䨢 (Ch. kong, Jp. kū). 3 Dōgen came back to his native country with an immense knowledge of and appreciation for the Chinese literary tradition and its multifarious expressions through various forms of Chan writings, including poetry, which he both emulated and transformed via engagement and integration with rhetorical styles of Japanese Buddhist literature and discourse. Dōgen’s profound understanding of Chinese Chan sources as well as his ability to cite them extensively and with great power of recall of the details of particular passages, while also challenging and changing their implications to suit his own conceptual needs, are the keys to explaining the greatness of his two major writings. The first of these writings is the vernacular (kana) Shōbōgenzō 㬋㱽䛤哝, a collection of informal sermons 䣢埮 (Ch. shizhong, Jp. jishu) composed in Japanese that are largely based on citations and reinterpretations of Chinese Chan texts, which Dōgen revises and modifies—or, some would say, distorts, perhaps deliberately but also in some cases unwittingly—in order to convey his distinctive religious vision regarding the relation between practice and realization amid the When Dōgen Went to China 77 world of impermanence and incessant change. The other major writing is the Eihei Kōroku 㯠⸛⸫拚, a ten-volume collection composed in Sino- Japanese (kanbun 㻊㔯) consisting of formal sermons ᶲ➪ (Ch. shangtang, Jp. jōdō) and lectures in the first eight volumes and of several different styles of Chinese poetry (kanshi 㻊娑) in the final two volumes, to be discussed below.4 Here again, Dōgen often cites or alludes to and at the same time innovatively critiques and refashions a wide variety of Chan sources, including those of Hongzhi and Rujing as well as several dozen other prominent masters, especially from the seminal transmission of the lamp text, the Jingde chuandeng lu 㘗⽛⁛䅰拚 (Jp. Keitoku Dentōroku) compiled in 1004 and published five years later with a new introduction by a prominent poet.

Figure 2. Mountain Setting of Eiheiji Temple

It is important to observe that the vernacular Shōbōgenzō was compiled in the early period of Dōgen’s career (1231-1243) while he was still in Kyoto, where many of his followers probably could understand Chinese fairly well, whereas the Sino-Japanese collection was primarily from the later period (1244-1253), when he was located at Eiheiji 㯠⸛⮢ temple in the remote Echizen mountains, where the vast majority of disciples who had not been with him in the capital would not have had a good comprehension of Chinese or knowledge of kanbun sources (Fig. 2). However, it is clear that a prime motivation for Dōgen’s transition from kana to kanbun writing was that, once he established a formal Dharma Hall 㱽➪ (Ch. fatang, Jp. hattō) at his mountain temple in 1244, constructed in the manner of what he experienced at Mt. Tiantong and other Chinese monasteries, he was eager to

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follow the teaching model of his Chan mentors and predecessors. In any case, in both the Shōbōgenzō and the Eihei Kōroku, Dōgen often presents his own interpretation, which critiques the mainstream view that he had learned in China regarding various Chan sayings and dialogues. Dōgen’s Chinese poetry contained in the Eihei Kōroku, primarily the ninth and tenth volumes, consists of over 300 verses. The following table provides a detailed content analysis of the types and numbers of poems Dōgen composed:

Dōgen’s Chinese Poetry Collection Eihei Kōroku Subtotal Total Vol. 1-8 Jōdō ᶲ➪ (Ch. Shangtang) 57 (?) Vol. 1 (1236-1243, ed. Senne) 9 Vol. 2 (1245.4-1246.7, ed. Ejō) 1 Vol. 3 (1246.7-1248.4, ed. Ejō) 6 Vol. 4 (1248.4-1249.8, ed. Ejō) 3 Vol. 5 (1249.9-1251.1, ed. Gien) 14 Vol. 6 (1251.2-1251.10, ed. Gien) 7 Vol. 7 (1251.12-1252.12, ed. Gien) 15 Vol. 8 (n.d., ed. Ejō) Hōgo 㱽婆 (Ch. Fayu) 2 Vol. 9 (1235) 102 Juko 枴⎌ (Ch. Songgu) on 90 Kōan ℔㟰 (Ch. Gongan) Vol. 10 150 Shinsan 䛇岃 (Ch. Zhenzan) 5 (4 irregular) Jisan 冒岃 (Ch. Zizan) 20 (12 irregular) Geju ῰枴 (Ch. Jisong) 125 1-50 in China (1223-1227) 50 (37 secular) 51-76 in Kyoto/Fukakusa (1227-1243) 26 (1 secular) 77 in Kamakura (1248) 1 78-125 in Echizen/Eiheji (1243-1253) 48 (1 secular) Also: Misc. (Bell, Silent Illumination, Death) 3

TOTAL 312 (plus?)

To sum up the contents briefly, there are four main categories of kanshi compositions:

(a) The largest number of verses is contained in vol. 10 of the Eihei Kōroku, which includes 150 poems written throughout the various stages of Dōgen’s career, including the only known writings (50 poems) from his stay in China, and encompasses 25 verses on the When Dōgen Went to China 79

enlightenment experience of the Chan patriarchs (shinsan) and of Dōgen himself (jisan), as well as 125 poems of various styles under the general heading of geju, primarily on lyrical and naturalistic topics as well as communications with lay followers (this is only true of the poems composed in China), monastic rituals, and some of Dōgen’s personal experiences and evocative reflections on the role of language versus silence, or emotion versus detachment in the quest for spiritual realization. The indication of “irregular” verses means that these do not follow typical poetic patterns, and the indication of “secular” verses means these do not deal explicitly with religious themes. (b) The second largest group in vol. 9 includes 102 four-line verses, or juko, on 90 of the spiritual riddles or kōan cases that are the hallmark of Chan literature and practice (some of the kōans have two or three verse commentaries); all of these were composed in 1235, around the same time Dōgen was also working on the compilation of 300 kōan cases in the Mana Shōbōgenzō 䛇⫿㬋㱽䛤哝 (a.k.a. Sanbyakusoku Shōbōgenzō ᶱ䘦⇯㬋㱽䛤哝), which is a list of case records without any commentary, and both of the mid-1230s kōan collection texts seem like they were a part of a phase of preparation by Dōgen to gather in his mind relevant Chinese textual materials before embarking just a few years later on the groundbreaking interpretative style of case records in his Shōbōgenzō and Eihei Kōroku sermons. (c) There are also verse comments that Dōgen integrated with his formal and informal kanbun sermons in the first eight volumes of the Eihei Kōroku; it is noteworthy that the number of these increases significantly in volumes five through seven, which may mark a shift in Dōgen’s approach in his later years or reflect the predilections of editor Gien, who is thought to have included more poetry than the previous editors did; however, the grand total of such poems is uncertain since modern Japanese editions of the text generally do not mark a distinction between where prose comments end and poetry begins in Dōgen’s sermons. (d) In addition, there are several prominent Chinese verses that appear elsewhere in Dōgen’s collected works, including an example in which he rewrites one of Rujing’s verses on the symbolism of the ringing of a bell, one that is a reworking of a famous verse by Hongzhi on silent-illumination as a form of meditation, and a poem at the time of his passing inspired by Rujing’s death verse.

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Furthermore, Dōgen composed a collection of 66 Japanese-style verses or 31-syllable waka ␴㫴, most of which were first included in the Sōtō sect’s official biography, the Kenzeiki ⺢㐽姀 published in 1472, over two hundred years after his death; of these, 53 verses are considered authentic by modern scholars, and 13 verses are deemed likely to be spurious.5 There are a number of instances in which the kanshi and waka verses cover similar thematic territory or use comparable rhetorical styles. In the Shōbōgenzō and Eihei Kōroku as well as many of his other writings, Dōgen produced a significant body of work that has been prized by traditional and modern commentators for developing a unique way of assimilating Chinese sources into Japanese contexts. However, some aspects of Dōgen’s ability with citing and writing in Chinese forms adapted to Japanese was somewhat limited, and an analysis of his prose and poetic texts in comparison with those of Chinese masters shows that there are certain styles typical of Song Chan poetry that he did not attempt to write, or only sparingly so, in that he either was forced by deficiency or preferred as a form of expression targeting his Japanese followers to forge new discursive pathways. Perhaps the main example of this is that, even though Dōgen commented extensively on dozens of Chan kōan records, he gave up writing four-line verse gatha (Ch. songgu, Jp. juko) comments after an experiment with this style in 1235 included as the ninth volume of Eihei Kōroku. He also generally did not try his hand at crafting poetic capping phrase 䛨婆 (Ch. zhuoyu, Jp. jakugo) remarks on kōans, which was the rage among Chinese commentators at the time, especially in the Blue Cliff Record 䡏⵾ 抬 (Ch. Biyanlu, Jp. Hekiganroku) of 1128, the most prominent kōan collection text that Dōgen apparently knew very well. In some cases, such as Dōgen’s interpretation of a famous verse by Northern Song lay Buddhist poet Su Shi 喯度 (1036-1101) featured in a fascicle of the Shōbōgenzō, Dōgen apparently favors the use of prose commentary rather than trying to compete with the literary giant’s original composition. The article examines the kinds of Chan poetry Dōgen did and did not compose and their significance for interpreting his oeuvre against the background of East Asian Buddhist literature. It focuses on the following topics:

(1) the overall impact of Dōgen’s Chinese and Japanese poetry collections for understanding his career writings, as well as the way his poetry has been received and appropriated over the centuries When Dōgen Went to China 81

(2) the issue, explored in some of Dōgen’s verses, of whether literary imagery serves as a useful vehicle for expressing and enhancing, or as a distraction from, the realization of spiritual awareness (3) how some of the poems convey autobiographical reflections in a way that is not otherwise revealed in Dōgen’s prose writings (4) the use of poetry to highlight and enhance Dōgen’s Buddhist view of naturalism and his affirmation of phenomenal reality as influenced by indigenous religiosity that valorizes nature and everyday experience (5) his prose rather than poetic commentary on Su Shi’s Buddhist verse on gaining enlightenment through contemplation of nature (6) how poetry is sometimes employed by Dōgen to convey a doctrinal message, but also why some Chan poetic forms are not utilized or prose commentary is chosen instead (7) a final comment on whether Dōgen does or does not appear to go beyond didacticism in his poetic compositions

I. Overall Impact of Poetry and Poetic Composition In analyzing Dōgen’s strengths and limitations as a creator of Chinese poems, it is important to make a basic distinction between what Dōgen achieved as a writer of prose commentaries, whose works reflect literary influences through a generic sense of literary embellishment and rhetorical flourish to enhance the elegance and eloquence of his writing, and what he accomplished specifically through verse compositions. While the vernacular narrative writings of the Shōbōgenzō are greatly admired for their lyrical quality and are often included in discussions of classical Japanese literature, this is far less the case with his kanbun writings in Eihei Kōroku. His Chinese poetry in particular has not been much appreciated or studied due to a variety of factors, in large part for sectarian reasons because literature and the arts were generally considered the domain of the rival Rinzai 冐㾇 (Ch. Linji) sect in the highly specialized world of Japanese religions where government supervision traditionally pigeonholed Buddhist schools in terms of the kinds of practices they were allowed to follow. First, let us consider the literary aspects of the prose writings of Dōgen, who is known from the Shōbōgenzō for being the first major Buddhist thinker to use Japanese vernacular writing, which at the time was used exclusively in the realm of literature exemplified by the Heian era Genji Monogatari 㸸㮷䈑婆 and Kokinwakashū ⎌Ṳ␴㫴普. This innovative yet eclectic text has been included in collections of classical Japanese literature such as the Nihon no Koten Bungaku 㖍㛔̯⎌℠㔯⬎. There is also some evidence suggesting that Dōgen was a participant in uta-awase 㫴̜̃͐ poetry contests held among the court literati in Kyoto around 1230, a

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transitional phase of his career, and that he befriended Fujiwara Teika 喌⍇ ⭂⭞ (1162–1241), the most renowned poet and literary critic of the era, who was editor of the Shinkokinwakashū 㕘⎌Ṳ␴㫴普 waka collection of 1205. From a philosophical standpoint, Dōgen’s probing and evocative approach to the issues related to the transiency of reality have been associated with the medieval Japanese “metaphysics of impermanence,”6 which is also expressed in such prominent Buddhist-influenced literary works as Kamo no Chōmei’s (1153?-1216?) Hōjōki 㕡ᶰ姀 on reclusion, the war epic Heike Monogatari ⸛⭞䈑婆, and Yoshida Kenkō’s (1282?- 1350) Tsurezuregusa ⼺䃞勱 on monastic manners. Dōgen’s sense of naturalism evoking the pristine mountain setting of Eiheiji temple reflects the view of Japanese aesthetics that combines original enlightenment thought (hongaku shisō 㛔奂⿅゛) of Tendai Buddhism with native animism. In addition, Dōgen’s prose writings show stylistic and thematic features that draw on both Japanese and Chinese literary traditions. These range from Dōgen’s impressive use of calligraphy as evidenced in the original script still available today of his meditation manual, the Fukanzazengi 㘖⊏ ⛸䤭₨, supposedly the first text he wrote after returning from China, recognized for its formal handwriting technique, to his extensive manipulation in the Shōbōgenzō of linguistic meanings through philosophical punning and wordplay that highlights discrepancies in Japanese pronunciations and syntactical uses of Chinese characters (Fig. 3). Dōgen’s kanshi poems, which are influenced by the Chan and broader Chinese literary traditions, demonstrate knowledge of the use of end-rhyme following the schemes of AABA or ABCB, as well as level/oblique tonal patterns. Moreover, many of his poems, in addition to the prose commentaries consisting of interlinear comments on source texts, seem to follow the typical fourfold Chinese literary approach (qi cheng zhuan he [jie] 崟㈧廱⎰[䳸]) of offering an opening statement (qi), followed by explanatory development (cheng), and then a turnabout or inversion of meaning (zhuan), and finally a synthetic conclusion (he [jie]). This seems to be crucial for understanding Dōgen’s way of providing criticisms that change or reverse through subtle rewriting and wordplay the implications of prior interpretative approaches to Chan sayings and dialogues. However, it is also the case that Dōgen’s Chinese and Japanese poetry collections are not so well known or received. For one thing, Dōgen himself disputes the role of elegant words used in poetic writings in favor of didacticism and pure Dharma instruction in a prominent passage in a collection of evening lectures known as the Shōbōgenzō Zuimonki 㬋㱽䛤啷晐倆姀 of 1236. It has also been pointed out by some scholars that his When Dōgen Went to China 83 waka were included in the Kenzeiki long after his death and may be an unreliable source, and that the kanshi poems are, with only one or two exceptions, not included in the prestigious medieval Japanese Five Mountains Literature (Gozan Bungaku ḼⰙ㔯⬠ collections) dominated by contributors from the Rinzai sect. It is further mentioned that the Eihei Kōroku was compiled early on but that extant editions were probably significantly edited in the Edo period in the context of shogunal oversight of religious sects, and therefore the text’s authenticity may be called into question. However, the traditional skeptical view of Dōgen’s poetry was altered significantly with the 1968 Nobel Prize acceptance speech of Kawabata Yasunari ⶅ䪗⹟ㆸ, “Japan the Beautiful and Myself,” in which the novelist made an opening reference to one of Dōgen’s waka as being a major source of inspiration.7 This caused the Sōtō sect to reevaluate the founder’s view of poetry, and since that time both the Japanese and Chinese collections have been examined more vigorously than at any phase since an eighteenth-century revival of scholastic studies. One major development was that a former abbot of Eiheiji temple provided an analysis of the rhyme scheme of the kanshi collection. However, almost all of these newer studies have been conducted by sectarian scholars and/or priests whose main goal is to explore Buddhist symbolism, and for the most part Dōgen’s poetry is still not being studied by literary scholars in Japan today.

Figure 3. Calligraphy of Fukanzazengi

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II. Literature as Vehicle or Distraction? Part of the reason for the continuing reluctance on the part of researchers to engage and examine Dōgen’s poetry is that he himself expressed a disavowal of writing as an end in itself. Yet it is also clear that he could not help but be greatly influenced by the world of literature and that a highly creative sense of ambivalence regarding words in contrast to the renunciation of language seen in relation to the spiritual quest is compellingly conveyed in a number of his Chinese and Japanese verses. When Dōgen became a monk on Mt. Hiei in 1213 and went to Mt. Tiantong in China a decade later, in both cases he entered into a cultural environment where there was profound interaction of Buddhism and the literati, many of whom were lay practitioners whose support was crucial to sustaining Chan/Zen temples, as well as an interdependency of pro-literary and anti- literary polemics. This controversy is referred to as the debate between conceiving of Zen as a “special transmission beyond words and letters” 㔁⢾⇍⁛ / ᶵ䩳㔯⫿ (Ch. jiaowai biechuan / buli wenzi, Jp. kyōge betsuden / furyū monji) as opposed to “literary Zen” 㔯⫿䥒 (Ch. wenzi chan, Jp. monji zen), or emphasizing speech versus silence in the context of making a commitment to live in and transform the mundane world while seeking solace through the path of detachment. In other words, should one who pursues the Dharma with firm dedication remain in the realm of ordinary affairs and risk secularization or leave behind communication for what may become a stubborn sense of isolation? Can such a seeker write about the religious quest in order to instructively evoke feelings of compassion and longing for the Dharma, or must he give up pen and paper to emphasize the path of renunciation? In the Shōbōgenzō Zuimonki, Dōgen apparently draws a clear line between religion and art by warning his disciples against the pursuit of “style and rhetoric,” which may distract from or impede their spiritual development. Dōgen conveys a “great doubt” about the need for writing while undertaking sustained meditative practice when he cautions, “The composition of literature, Chinese poetry and Japanese verse, is worthless, and must be renounced.” Also, he insists, “Zen monks are fond of literature these days, finding it helpful to compose verses and write tracts. This is a mistake….No matter how elegant their prose or how exquisite their poetry might be, they are merely playing around with words and cannot gain the truth.…Writing is a waste of time, and the reading of this literature should be cast aside.”8 This harsh critique comes from a Zen master known for continually editing his graceful though challenging Shōbōgenzō prose throughout his career and even to his dying days. The distinction indicated by Dōgen When Dōgen Went to China 85 between “art for art’s sake” and the search for truth, or between an idle indulgence in literature and an exclusive determination to fulfill the pursuit of the sacred, was played out in his own life. His biography gives prominence to his departure from the elite, aesthete world of the Kyoto court, where he could have had a successful career based on his aristocratic birth and education. But, despite pursuing the Buddhist path—or perhaps because of Buddhism’s powerful connections with the literati in Japan and China—it is precisely an attraction to the realm of literature and to a shared sense of responsibility with writers to construct compelling rhetoric about the spiritual quest that is captured not only in the prose writings, but also in his poetry. Dōgen’s Chinese and Japanese verse reveals that he is ever reminded that the frail beauty of nature arouses feelings which inspire spiritual striving. These feelings are expressed through literature in spite of, and in continual recognition of, the inevitable limitations of emotional responses to transiency as well as the innate restrictions of language in trying to depict religious experience. In a verse contained in Eihei Kōroku 10.105, he evokes the Buddhist struggle of being in the world, being mindful of the attraction of natural phenomena while straining to retire from feelings and the desire to compose, which is a form of attachment:

For so long living in this world without ᷭ况Ṣ攻䃉ッや attachments, Since giving up using paper and pen 㔯䪈䫮䠗㖊㉳Ἦ I see flowers and hear birds without feeling 夳剙倆沍桐ね⮹ much, While dwelling on this mountain, I am ᷵⛐Ⱉ䋞ハᶵㇵ embarrassed by my lack of talent.9

In the first line, if the verb “living” (she 况) contained the hand radical, which one commentator suggests may have been lost in the editing process, so that it becomes “abandoning” (she ㌐), this part of the verse would emphasize detachment even more strongly. Meanwhile, the last line is filled with a sense of shame and misgiving about the choices Dōgen has made as well as his inability to carry through fully with either side of the delicate balance between feeling and speaking in opposition to serenity and silence. This creative tension is similarly conveyed in a couple of Dōgen’s Japanese poems, with the first of these bearing a title stressing renunciation that is contraindicated by the verse’s content highlighting the potentially productive role of language:

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Furyū monji No Reliance on Words or Letters

Ii suteshi Not limited Sono koto no ha no By language (petals of words), Hoka nareba It is ceaselessly expressed; Fude ni mo ato o So, too, the way of letters Todome zari keri. Can display but not exhaust it.10

The next example expresses Dōgen’s own sense of uncertainty about his qualifications as either writer or renunciant:

Haru kaze ni Will their gaze fall upon Waga koto no ha no The petals of words I utter, Chirinuru o As if only the notes Hana no uta to ya Of a flower’s song Hito no nagamen. Shaken loose and blown free by the spring breeze?11

The following kanshi verse in Eihei Kōroku 10.71 uses an idiom in the third line that literally means “withered like chicken skin and crane’s hair” to highlight Dōgen’s ironic sense of becoming obsolete while feeling an ambivalence regarding the tension between withdrawal and engagement:

Snowy Evening in Spring 㗍暒⣄

Peach and plum blossoms, snow and frost, have 㟫㛶暒曄朆ッ↎ no attachment, Green pines and emerald bamboos are shrouded 曺㜦侈䪡⸦暚䄁 in cloudy mist. I am not yet dried up and over the hill, 暆䙖浜檖䷎䃉㝻 Even though it’s been several decades since I ⎵⇑㉳㜍㔘⋩⸜ renounced fame and fortune.12

Another translator seems to overemphasize human subjectivity a bit by rendering the opening as, “Peach and plum blossoms under snow and frost are not what I love.”13 This reading tends to personalize and thus modify the implications of having emotions in a passage that refers to being guided by transcendence amid impermanence, symbolized by the image of flowers enduring snow in late winter/early spring, as well as the pines and bamboos remaining unaffected by the cloudy mist. The natural phenomena are aged but not withered.

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III. Autobiographical Poems One of the interesting features of both the Chinese and Japanese poetry collections is that they include several prominent examples commenting on Dōgen’s feelings about key turning points in his life, thereby offering a rare glimpse into the thoughts and emotions of a master known primarily for metaphysical musings.14 For example, the following kanshi verse in Eihei Kōroku 10.69, one of six poems written in a hermitage, reveals Dōgen’s thoughts around 1230, several years after returning from China but also three years prior to the opening of his first temple in Kyoto when he no doubt felt a bit frustrated in trying to establish his new Zen sect in Japan.

How pitiful is birth/death with its constant 䓇㬣⎗ㄸẹ⍰崟 ceasing and arising! I lose my way and find my path as if walking in 徟徼奢嶗⣊ᷕ埴 a dream. Although there are still things I cannot forget, 晾䃞⯂㚱暋⾀ḳ Evening rain resonates in my hut in the deep 㶙勱改⯭⣄暐倚 grass of Fukakusa.15

During this period Dōgen was staying in a retreat in the area of Fukakusa 㶙勱 to the southeast of the capital that was favored by many of the literati as a pristine getaway from the turmoil of court life. Because the name of the town literally means “deep grass,” this term was ripe for being the source of many puns in Japanese waka of the era reflecting on life in the city versus the countryside. Here, the vulnerability and instability Dōgen was experiencing is disclosed in a way that makes such attitudes productive for stimulating dedication to the religious quest. Many of the characters in the second line can also bear an explicit Buddhist connotation, including delusion (mi 徟), awakening (jue 奢), transcendence (mengzhong ⣊ᷕ [literally, “within a dream”]), and practice (xing 埴), so that the passage could be rendered, “I practice within a transcendental realm while experiencing both delusion and awakening.” This wording does not alter the meaning but highlights that the verse can be read as directly or indirectly evoking the effects of Buddhist discipline. Another kanshi poem with intriguing autobiographical implications deals with Dōgen’s return to Eiheiji temple in the third month of 1248 after six months of travel (beginning in the eighth month of 1247) to the new capital of Kamakura at the bequest of shogun Hōjō Tokiyori, who offered him the opportunity to lead a new temple being built there (which eventually became Kenchōji ⺢攟⮢, a leading Rinzai temple supervised by an abbot imported from China). Before looking at the verse, let us consider

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a prose passage in Eihei Kōroku 3.251, which comments on Dōgen’s return when he was apparently sensitive to criticism from the monks who had been left leaderless at Eiheiji and may have feared that he had changed his spiritual message to accommodate new lay followers involved in political power struggles and warfare. Dōgen acknowledges that he traveled “to expound the Dharma for patrons and lay students,” and that, “Some of you may have questions about the purpose of these travels.” 16 But he goes on to argue for the ethical component of his teaching that is consistent with monastic training based on the doctrine of karmic rewards and punishments:

It may sound like I value worldly people and take monks lightly. Moreover, some of you may ask whether I presented some Dharma that I never expounded, and that you have not heard before. However, there was no Dharma preached that I have not previously expounded, or that you have not heard. I merely explained that people who practice virtue improve and those who produce unwholesomeness degenerate, so they should clarify the cause and experience the results, and throw away the tile [mundane affairs] and only take up the jewel [Dharma].

Nevertheless, as was the case with the Fukakusa verse and other poems, Dōgen can be found in this sermon brooding about his missteps as he confesses, “How many errors I have made in my effort to cultivate the way! Today, I deeply regret I have become like a water buffalo. This mountain monk has been gone for more than half a year. I was like a solitary wheel placed in vast space.” Yet, he concludes the sermon on a more upbeat note by saying, “Today, I have returned to the mountains, and the monks [literally “clouds”] are feeling joyful. My great love for the mountains has been significantly enhanced.” According to some of what can only be considered legends, when Dōgen refused to accept the shogun’s offer, the Hōjō became enraged and threatened the Zen master’s life, though his sword was dissuaded by the force-field generated by Dōgen’s meditative prowess. In other versions, the shogun paid tribute to Dōgen as he walked off for his return with a sense of dignity and integrity still intact. In any case, as part of the celebration of the 800th anniversary of Dōgen’s death in 2003, a new stele was installed across from Kenchōji commemorating the spot where Dōgen took a stand for his commitment to just-sitting meditation (shikan-taza ⎒䭉ㇻ⛸) (Fig. 4). The poem on the topic of the Kamakura journey is Eihei Kōroku 10.77, which was apparently composed while Dōgen was still in Kamakura but making up his mind about leaving: When Dōgen Went to China 89

For half a year I’ve been taking my rice in the ⋲⸜╓梗䘥堋况 home of a layman. The old tree’s plum blossoms sitting amid frost 侩㧡㠭剙曄暒ᷕ and snow— Awakened from my slumber by the crash of 嬎坬ᶨ暟弇曡曪 thunder and lightning, In the capital, spring is colored red by peach ⷅ悱㗍刚㟫剙䲭 blossoms.17

Comparing himself to a plum tree known for symbolizing rejuvenation, Dōgen’s verse refers to his dismay at realizing suddenly, from the stirring effect of an early spring storm (the last three characters in line three form an onomatopoeia evoking the “bang bam boom” of thunder), that he had been lost in a kind of spiritual hibernation, so to speak, while being entertained by a layman (the shogun), and now he longs for Kyoto, which is close enough to Echizen to remind him of the life of monastic purity. However, as we have seen from the sermon delivered upon his return, he had to face another challenge in coming to terms with the feelings of betrayal and alienation on the part of his followers, who may have felt that he had abandoned them for six months.

Figure 4. “Shikan Taza” Stele in Kamakura

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IV. Naturalism and Affirmation of Phenomenal Reality Dōgen’s primary interest in writing poetry was probably not to express either personal feelings or impersonal thoughts, but to go beyond that distinction by evoking naturalism through images of seasonal changes, which had long been used in both Chinese and Japanese literature as a symbol of interiority and spiritual development ever tinged with ambivalent feelings. A main example of this is that there are over forty references in Eihei Kōroku’s sermons and verses, especially from the late period of his career, which express Dōgen’s appreciation for the imagery of plum blossoms, which bloom while there is still snow, as a symbol of renewal after a period of decline. This is seen in prose writings as well; for instance, Shōbōgenzo “Baika” 㠭剙 (Plum Blossoms), written after three feet of snow fell on the sixth day of the eleventh month of 1243 at a hermitage in Echizen, suggests: “When an old plum tree blooms unexpectedly, just then the world unfolds itself with the flowering.”18 In Shōbōgenzō “Kūge” 䨢厗 (Empty Flower) Dōgen says, “A plum tree that some days ago did not have flowers blooms, signaling the arrival of spring. When the time is right, it immediately blooms.”19 Here and elsewhere Dōgen is no doubt influenced by works such as a famed verse by eighth-century Buddhist literatus, Wang Wei 䌳䵕 (699- 759):

Miscellaneous Poem 暄娑

You, who have come from my hometown, ⏃冒㓭悱Ἦ Let me know what’s been happening there! ㅱ䞍㓭悱ḳ On the day you arrived, would the late winter Ἦ㖍䵢䨿⇵ plum blossoms have opened yet in front of my silken ⭺㠭叿剙㛒 window?20

According to the naturalistic worldview this evokes, the very first whiff of the sweet fragrance of the plums heralds the advent of spring and, indeed, the new season is contained in, or its manifestation is coterminous with, the budding of the blossom. This sense of awakening is a cyclical event that occurs regularly on the same withered branch every year but each time is experienced as a spontaneous rejuvenation in the midst of decline and dejection. From a pantheistic standpoint, one single branch equals all branches and the whole tree in that the here-and-now aspect of blooming generates the power of arising everywhere and at any time. Furthermore, the purity of the white color of the blossoms amidst the fallen snow creates a monochromatic spectacle that gives rise in the imagination to a display of When Dōgen Went to China 91 manifold hues, thus combining the one with the many and the real with the illusory. Dōgen may have also had in mind a specifically Chan symbolism suggesting that the five petals of the plum evokes the five branches of the fledgling Tang dynasty religious movement, of which the Linji and Caodong schools emerged as the main rivals by the time he arrived in Southern Song China. Dōgen was further influenced by the counter- intuitive or inverted Buddhist notion suggested in a two-line verse by Rujing that the image of the plum may be as good as or better than reality in that it endures longer and appears unflawed:

Original face is not bound by birth-and-death. 㛔Ἦ朊䚖䃉䓇㬣 Spring abiding in the plum blossoms enters into 㗍⛐㠭剙ℍ䔓⚾ a painting.21

In Eihei Kōroku 7.481, a poem that comprises the entire sermon from the time of the full moon of the first month of 1252, Dōgen expresses feelings of being captivated by the plum:

How is there dust in the snow-covered reeds? 暒央單剙寰㝻⠝ Who can recognize the Pure Land amidst so 婘䞍㳬⛘⯂⣂Ṣ many people? The fragrance of a single late winter plum ⭺㠭ᶨ溆剛⽫䵣 blossom bursts forth, There in the emptiness is held the awakening of ╂崟≓⢢䨢嗽㗍 spring.22

In Eihei Kōroku 7.530, in the next to last formal sermon Dōgen delivered before falling into illness that led to his death a year and a half later, he writes of the account in which King Prasenajit asks Venerable Pindola if he ever met the Buddha. 23 First, Dōgen cites a Rujing verse interpreting this episode in light of plum blossom symbolism:

By raising his eyebrows, he completed the 䫾崟䚱㮃䫼⓷䪗 dialogue, He met Buddha face-to-face and they did not 奒㚫夳ἃᶵ䚠䝆 hide anything from each other. Today he is worshiped in the four corners of the 侴Ṳ⾄ὃ⚃⣑ᶳ world, Spring occurs on the tip of a plum branch 㗍⛐㠭㡊ⷞ暒⭺ wrapped in a layer of white snow.24

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An alternate translation of Rujing’s verse that tries to preserve the AABA rhyme scheme of the original reads:

Raising his eyebrows to answer the question, Meeting Buddha there was nothing not mentioned. Worshiped today throughout the world, Spring inhabits a plum branch amid a snowy dimension.

In commenting on his master’s composition, Dōgen adopts the strategy he frequently uses of rewriting the words of his predecessors by modifying the role of the flowers to represent eternity rather than renewal, and further reinforcing this innovative approach by substituting for plums in the last line the image of the crane, a similar but somewhat different symbol of happiness (fu 䤷) that also suggests longevity instead of ephemerality:

He met Buddha face-to-face and they 奒㚫夳ἃ婆妨䪗 exchanged words forthrightly. Raising his eyebrows, he tried not to conceal. 䫾崟䚱㮃㫚ᶵ䝆 In the field of merit, spring petals do not fall, ≇⽟䓘㗍剙㛒句 In the jade forest, the wings of an ancient crane 䑲㜿侩浜侤䋞⭺ are still chilled.25

The following is an alternate, rhyming version of Dōgen’s verse:

His face-to-face meeting with Buddha is bold, The raising of eyebrows reveals what is told. The merit-field prevents spring petals from falling, In the jade forest, a crane’s wings grow cold.

V. Commentary on Su Shi’s Buddhist Verse Unlike his rewriting of Rujing’s poem, in his interpretation of a famous verse by Su Shi known as “Sounds of Valleys, Colors of Mountains” 寧倚 Ⱉ刚 (Ch. xisheng shanse, Jp. keisei sanshoku), Dōgen refrains from trying to compete with or surpass the source text, yet he vigorously maintains his style of challenging the literary master in an extended prose commentary passage in Shōbōgenzō “Keisei sanshoku.” According to Su Shi’s expressive evocation of his own personal experience of sudden realization that apparently occurred after he had heard a rousing sermon regarding the enlightenment of sentient and insentient beings by a Chan master, he reflected on this while gazing all night at the natural landscape:

The valley stream’s sounds are the long tongue 寧倚ὧ㗗⺋攟冴 When Dōgen Went to China 93

[of Buddha], The mountain’s colors are none other than the Ⱉ刚䃉朆㶭㶐幓 pure body [of Buddha]. With the coming of night, I heard eighty-four ⣄Ἦℓ叔⚃⋫῰ thousand gathas, But how am I ever to tell others in days to Ṿ㖍⤪ỽ㒏ỤṢ come?26

Dōgen remarks in “Keisei sanshoku,” “While on a visit to Mount Lu, Su Shi was struck by the sound of the valley stream rippling through the night, and was enlightened. He composed the following poem about the experience, which he presented to Changshe 攟冴, who said in approval, ‘Just so!’” However, Dōgen then makes the ironic comment, “What a pity that the mountains and streams conceal sounds and colors, but you may also rejoice that colors and sounds emerge through the mountains and streams…. During past springs and autumns, Su Shi had not seen or heard the mountains and streams.” Dōgen continues to comment in a questioning manner on Su Shi’s experience:

Su Shi had this awakening experience shortly after he heard Changshe talk about a kōan case in which insentient beings are expressing the Dharma….But was it the voice of the stream or was it the sermon by the master that awakened Su Shi?...Perhaps Changshe’s comment that insentient beings express the Dharma had not yet ceased to reverberate in Su Shi, and, unbeknownst to him, had intermingled with the sound of the stream’s rippling through the night. Who can fathom the water—is it a bucketful or does it fill the whole ocean? In short, was it layman Su Shi who awakened or the mountains and streams that were awakened? Who today can clearly see the tongue and body of the Buddha?27

Although he does not try his hand at rewriting the master’s kanshi verse, Dōgen’s Japanese poetry collection includes a waka, which is one of five poems on the Lotus Sutra that celebrates Su Shi’s experience:

Mine no iro Colors of the mountains, Tani no hibiki mo Streams in the valleys, Mine nagara All in one, one in all Waga Shakamuni no The voice and body Koe to sugata to. Of our Sakyamuni Buddha.28

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Furthermore, to briefly indicate how the intertextual dimension of Dōgen’s prose and poetic commentaries reveals an intermingling of his views with those of various Chan records, in Shōbōgenzō “Mujō seppō” 䃉ね婔㱽 (Preaching of the Dharma by Insentient Beings) he cites a Chan master’s intriguing verse in regard to the preaching of insentient beings like the mountains and rivers. This passage comments on the synaesthesia implicitly involved in naturalism as an extension of Su Shi’s spiritual experience by concluding: “Do not listen with the ears, but hear with the eyes!” However, Dōgen also cautions that this injunction should not be taken in a simplistic way to presume that all things automatically embody the Buddhist teachings, but as a motivation to purify the mind in order to embrace natural phenomena as appropriate to one’s own spiritual realization.

VI. Doctrinal Poems The topic of Dōgen’s appropriations of Chan and Buddhist doctrines expressed through his groundbreaking interpretations of kōan cases via prose and poetic remarks, often based on reworking Chinese syntax through Japanese rhetorical appropriations, is tremendously complex and varied, so I will limit my discussion to his commentaries on the so-called “Mu Kōan” 䃉℔㟰 (Ch. Wu Gongan). According to the version of this case that is most frequently cited in Chan texts, in response to a disciple’s question of whether a dog has Buddha-nature ἃ⿏ (Ch. foxing, Jp. busshō), a universal endowment possessed by all beings according to Mahayana Buddhist doctrine, master Zhaozhou 嵁ⶆreplies “No” 䃉 (Ch. wu, Jp. mu), which literally means “it does not have” but can be taken to imply transcendental negation rather than absence or lack. However, there is an alternative version in which the negative answer is followed by an ironic dialogue and is also accompanied by a “Yes” 㚱 (Ch. you, Jp. u) response, which literally means “it does have,” and is followed by yet another brief dialogue. While the truncated No-only version of the kōan is taken to highlight the notion of absolute nothingness, the more complex Yes-No version suggests the relativism of opposites. Following Hongzhi, who cited the complex version in his recorded sayings Hongzhi lu ⬷㘢抬, which became the basis of the Record of Serenity ⽆⭡抬 (Ch. Congronglu, Jp. Shōyōroku) kōan collection of 1228, the complex version is cited by Dōgen in Mana Shōbōgenzō and Eihei Kōroku, as well as in an extended passage in Shōbōgenzō “Busshō” (“Buddha-nature”); note that in some cases in the citations of Hongzhi and Dōgen as well as other masters from the period, the negative response precedes the positive one but in other instances this sequence is reversed. The Record of Serenity resembles the Blue Cliff Record’smultilayered structure for one hundred cases that includes the main kōan case along with When Dōgen Went to China 95 capping phrase comments and additional verse commentary with its own set of capping phrases, and that is also accompanied by wide-ranging prose remarks. I cite below two of the important sections featuring this literary style contained in case 18 (capping phrases are in parentheses) because of its intrinsic value and also to demonstrate that capping phrases, which are a uniquely Chan form of indirect, allusive, ironic rhetoric, are a key example of the kind of Chinese poetic expression that Dōgen did not attempt to construct:

Record of Serenity 18 Main Case with Capping Phrases29

A monk asked Zhaozhou, “Does the dog have Buddha-nature or not? (He blocked his way for a while). Zhaozhou said, “Yes.” (This did not add to understanding). The monk said, “Since it has, why does it force itself into this skin-bag?” (As soon as you welcome someone, it immediately causes you to stick your neck out). Zhaozhou said, “It knows better, but it willingly transgresses.” (Meanwhile, he does not admit to talking about “you” [the monk]). Another monk asked, “Does the dog have Buddha-nature, or not?” (They were born of one mother [or, “the apple does not fall far from the tree”]). Zhaozhou said, “No.” (This does not detract from understanding). The monk said, “All sentient beings have Buddha-nature. How come the dog does not?” (The foolish dog snatches a sparrow hawk). Zhaozhou said, “Because it has karmic consciousness.” (As usual, Zhaozhou seizes the occasion of small talk to wrap up the case).

Next follows Hongzhi’s Verse Comment with Capping Phrases by a later editor:

The dog has Buddha-nature; 䉿⫸ἃ⿏㚱 the dog does not have Buddha-nature 䉿⫸ἃ⿏䃉 (Beaten into one ball, melted into one lump) ㇻ ᶨ⛀拲 ᶨ⟲ A straight hook really seeks fish who’ve given 䚜憋⃫㯪屈␥欂 up on life (Now these monks go belly up) (忁₏Ṳ㖍⎰㬣) Wandering pilgrims [itinerant monks] follow 徸㯋⮳楁暚㯜⭊ the smell looking for incense (They don’t even know that it has penetrated (䨧⌣滣⫼ḇᶵ䞍) their nostrils) The noisy chatter of idle speculation ▰▰暄暄ἄ↮䔷

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(Fighting and gnawing at dried bones—crunch! (䪞漏㝗橐ⓨ┵▍⏈) snap! howl! roar!) Making quite a show ⸛⯽㺼 (If you do not deceive them, your fellows will (㰺帢㫢ẹ⺅婢) pipe down the chatter) And feeling so comfortable ⣏抒冺 (When talents are lofty, the speech sounds (㛸檀婆⢗) superb) No wonder my family was confused from the 卓⿒₪⭞ᶵヶ⇅ start (As soon as a word is uttered, even wild horses (ᶨ妨↢⎋榇楔暋徥) can’t pull it back) Even if you only point out its flaws, you still try ㊯溆䏽䕝怬⤒䑏 to grab the jade (Like a thief pointlessly trying to pick (䘥㉰ⶏ‟) someone’s pocket) The King of Qin was not aware of Lin Xiangru 䦎䌳ᶵ嬀喢䚠⤪ (Even though it’s right in front of him, he keeps (䔞朊己忶) walking by).

The aim of the capping phrase commentaries in this complex Yes-No version of the Mu Kōan is to showcase that there is no single clear understanding to project and yet also no full misunderstanding to reject, since errancy and illusion lead circuitously to appropriating truth and reality, which in turn can never escape their opposites. Dōgen’s main commentary on the case is in the penultimate section of the 14-part “Busshō” fascicle, which elsewhere examines a variety of Chan sayings and dialogues about the meaning of the Buddha-nature in relation to sentient and insentient beings. The purpose of Dōgen’s analysis resembles the Record of Serenity in overcoming the dichotomies of yes or no, positive or negative, have and have not, and right versus wrong, but the rhetorical style varies significantly in relying on interlinear prose comments that allude to other Chan sources yet are tinged on occasion with a poetic flair. To cite some key examples, in his comment on the disciple’s initial query Dōgen highlights the transcendence of opposites from the standpoint of dedication to the religious quest:

The meaning of this question needs to be clarified….The question does not ask whether the [dog] must have the Buddha-nature nor does it ask if the [dog] must not have the Buddha-nature. It asks whether a man of iron also studies the way. Although [the monk] may regret having stumbled upon a poisonous hand, this recalls the When Dōgen Went to China 97

situation of meeting half a saint after thirty years [a reference to an obscure Chan dialogue].30

Dōgen then remarks on Zhaozhou’s positive response in order to move beyond conventional understandings of having or affirming realism:

Zhaozhou said, “Yes.” The meaning of this yes [or being or existence] is not the being of scholastic treatises or the being discussed by the Sarvastivadins [an early Buddhist school of realism]. The being of Buddha is the being of Zhaozhou; the being of Zhaozhou is the being of the dog; and the being of the dog is the being of the Buddha-nature.

Furthermore, in his comment on the monk’s follow-up question about why, if the dog has Buddha-nature, it forces itself into the shape of a living being, Dōgen zeroes in on the philosophical meanings implicit in the term “already”:

The monk’s saying inquires whether it is present being, past being, or “already being,” and although already being resembles the various kinds of being, already being clearly stands alone. Should already being imply forcibly entering or should it not imply forcibly entering? There is no merit in idly considering the effort of forcibly entering the bag of skin.

Although the discussion in “Busshō,” one of the longest Shōbōgenzō fascicles and the one with the most sustained argumentation on a single topic, is his best known writing on the topic, Dōgen also offers two kanshi verses on the case in Eihei Kōroku 9.73 (in addition to several other prose comments in the sermons in the first seven volumes):31

The whole body of dog, the whole body of ℐ幓䉿⫸ℐ幓ἃ Buddha— It is difficult to discuss whether there is or is not 䬯塷暋婾㚱ḇ䃉 [Buddha-nature]. Selling off or gaining back through buying ᶨ䫱岋㜍怬冒屟 comes out the same. Have no regrets over losses or partial gains. 卓ㄪ㉀㛔⍰ῷ㝗

Yes and no as two sides of Buddha-nature 㚱䃉Ḵἃ⿏ Does not determine the fate of sentient beings. ᶵ忈䛦䓇␥ Even though it seems like milk turning into 晾Ụ愒ㆸ喯

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cream, It leads to the complete extinction of thought in 䋞⤪㹭䚉⭂ samadhi.

In both of these poems, Dōgen reinforces the ideological message of “Busshō” by stressing the relativism of apparently contradictory answers to the case’s core query. Given these verses written in the early stages of his career over a half a decade before “Busshō,” and despite the variety of ways in which he approaches interpreting the Mu Kōan, it is notable that he refrains from attempting the capping phrase technique.

VII. Whither Dōgen’s Poetry? It is difficult to assess Dōgen’s accomplishments as a writer of poetry in Chinese as well as Japanese because of two main interpretative disconnects mentioned above: he repudiates poetry and literature yet composes several hundred kanshi verses, plus the prose throughout his canon relies heavily on the use of poetic expressions; also, his Chinese poems have been almost entirely excluded from major collections of medieval verse, yet his prose is considered a classic of Japanese literature from that era. Because of sectarian tendencies and the highly specialized nature of scholarship on Buddhist studies in Japan in terms of adhering strictly to academic discipline, an ongoing lack of interdisciplinary approaches that could persuasively link religious thought and literature will probably remain the case. The verse of Dōgen, who may never have felt comfortable or confident as a “poet,” if studied at all, will no doubt continue to be examined from historical and textual rather than literary perspectives. Therefore, the question of whether Dōgen’s poetry goes beyond didacticism, or is valuable for reasons other than those directly related to an evocation of the Buddhist Dharma, will undoubtedly still linger. On the other hand, if we could speculate regarding the way that the master himself might respond to the situation, to say that the intriguing element of his poetry is that it enables an appreciation of how literature contributes to a seamless understanding of his overall body of writing that invariably captures and holds true to the creative tension of ambivalence regarding words and silence, or attachment and withdrawal, would probably not be seen as the source of but rather the answer to one of the main hermeneutic issues in Dōgen Studies (Dōgen kenkyū 忻⃫䞼䨞). Most of all, Dōgen would prefer to be understood as one influenced by a poetic dimension that does not use rhetoric for its own sake but as a skillful means of challenging conventions and overturning assumptions in order to inspire students to think for themselves by reading between the lines yet not taking any particular theoretical or practical perspective at face value. When Dōgen Went to China 99

Endnotes

1. This article draws in part upon several of my publications, especially The Zen Poetry of Dōgen: Verses From the Mountain of Eternal Peace (Mt. Tremper, NY: Dharma Communications, 2004); but all of the Chinese poems in this article cited have been re-translated. 2. Eihei Kōroku 1.48, in the collected works of Dōgen, Dōgen Zenji Zenshū 忻⃫䤭ⷓℐ普, ed. Kawamura Kōdō, et. al., 7 vols. (Tokyo: Shunjūsha, 1988-1993), 3:34. 3. Steven Heine, “Empty-Handed, But Not Empty-Headed: Dōgen’s Kōan Strategies,” in Discourse and Ideology in Medieval Japanese Buddhism, edited by Richard K. Payne and Taigen Dan Leighton (London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2006), 218-239. 4. Dōgen Zenji Zenshū, 4:182-297; for a careful and generally outstanding translation of the entire Eihei Kōroku, see Taigen Dan Leighton and Shohaku Okumura, trans., Dōgen’s Extensive Record: A Translation of the Eihei Kōroku (Boston: Wisdom, 2004). I have consulted this translation extensively but in most cases departed from it. 5. Dōgen Zenji Zenshū, 7:152-179. 6. Akane Shōichi, Mujō no shisō 䃉̯ⷠ⿅゛ (Tokyo: Renga shobō shinsha, 1980). 7. Kawabata Yasunari, “Utsukushi Nihon no watakushi” 伶̘̅㖍㛔̯ 䥩 , translated by E.G. Seidensticker as Japan, the Beautiful, and Myself (Tokyo: Kodansha, 1969). 8. Dōgen Zenji Zenshū, 7:90. 9. Dōgen Zenji Zenshū, 4:290. 10. Dōgen Zenji Zenshū, 7:159. 11. Dōgen Zenji Zenshū, 7:156. 12. Dōgen Zenji Zenshū, 4:278. 13. Leighton and Okumura, Dōgen’s Extensive Record, 628. 14. Additional Japanese poems comment further on the visit to Kamakura, where his primary teaching to the shogun was through a collection of a dozen waka verses. 15. Dōgen Zenji Zenshū, 4:276. 16. Dōgen Zenji Zenshū, 3:166-168; see also Leighton and Okumura, Dōgen’s Extensive Record, 246. 17. Dōgen Zenji Zenshū, 4:280. 18. Dōgen Zenji Zenshū, 2:71. 19. Dōgen Zenji Zenshū, 1:133. 20. Quan Tang shi ℐⒸ娑, 25 vols. (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1960), 4:1304. 21. Dōgen Zenji Zenshū, 2:77.

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22. Dōgen Zenji Zenshū, 4:62. 23. This version of the legend is also found in Shōbōgenzō “Baika,” but the encounter takes place with Asoka in the version of the story in Shōbōgenzō “Kenbutsu” 夳ṷ. 24. Dōgen Zenji Zenshū, 4:106. 25. Dōgen Zenji Zenshū, 4:106. 26. Dōgen Zenji Zenshū, 1:274. 27. Dōgen Zenji Zenshū, 1:275-276. 28. Dōgen Zenji Zenshū, 7:163. 29. Taishō Shinshū Daizōkyō ⣏㬋㕘僑⣏啷䴻, 100 vols. (Tokyo: Taisho Issaikyo Kankokai, 1924-1932), 48:238b-239a. 30. Dōgen Zenji Zenshū, 1:39-41. 31. Dōgen Zenji Zenshū, 4:232.