Extrême-Orient Extrême-Occident

34 | 2012 Political Rhetoric in Early China Rhétorique et politique en Chine ancienne

Paul van Els, Romain Graziani, Yuri Pines and Elisa Sabattini (dir.)

Electronic version URL: http://journals.openedition.org/extremeorient/241 DOI: 10.4000/extremeorient.241 ISSN: 2108-7105

Publisher Presses universitaires de Vincennes

Printed version Date of publication: 1 November 2012 ISBN: 978-2-84292-352-5 ISSN: 0754-5010

Electronic reference Paul van Els, Romain Graziani, Yuri Pines and Elisa Sabattini (dir.), Extrême-Orient Extrême-Occident, 34 | 2012, « Political Rhetoric in Early China » [Online], Online since 01 November 2015, connection on 29 September 2020. URL : http://journals.openedition.org/extremeorient/241 ; DOI : https://doi.org/ 10.4000/extremeorient.241

This text was automatically generated on 29 September 2020.

© PUV 1

L’art de la persuasion politique en Chine ancienne. Les auteurs explorent les stratégies de prise de parole, analysent le développement de procédés stylistiques dans le contexte de l’idéologie monarchiste et impériale. L’originalité de ces études consiste dans la perspective aménagée : il s’agit d’analyser non pas ce que les penseurs et hommes d’État de Chine ancienne ont dit, mais de comprendre comment et pourquoi ils l’ont dit de telle ou telle façon. Il est aussi question de comprendre comment les conceptions politiques de la Chine ancienne ont orienté le développement de la rhétorique et de l’art de bien écrire. Ce numéro est exceptionnellement rédigé en langue anglaise.

EDITOR'S NOTE

Numéro publié avec le soutien de l’association Nippon Koten Kenkyukai 日本古典研究 会

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction: Political Rhetoric in Early China Paul van Els and Elisa Sabattini

I. Difficulties and Dangers of Political Persuasion

Sly Mouths and Silver Tongues: the Dynamics of Psychological Persuasion in Ancient China Albert Galvany

Rhetoric that Kills, Rhetoric that Heals Romain Graziani

II. Overt and Covert Rhetoric against Ruling Elites

Alienating Rhetoric in the Book of Lord Shang and its Moderation Yuri Pines

“Waiting for the Sages of Later Generations”: Is there a Rhetoric of Treason in the Shiji? Dorothee Schaab-Hanke

III. Stories and Slogans as Rhetorical Tool

Tilting Vessels and Collapsing Walls—On the Rhetorical Function of Anecdotes in Early Chinese Texts Paul van Els

“People as Root” (min ben) Rhetoric in the New Writings by Jia Yi (200-168) Elisa Sabattini

IV. Regards extérieurs

Political Rhetoric in China and in Imperial Rome: the Persuader, the Ruler, the Audience Alexander Yakobson

Paroles justes, paroles efficaces Gabrielle Radica

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Introduction: Political Rhetoric in Early China Rhétorique et politique en Chine ancienne

Paul van Els and Elisa Sabattini

Introduction

1 Early Chinese thought enjoys a wide appeal, in the scholarly world as much as elsewhere, as people are keen on learning about the ideas of Confucius, Mencius, and other thinkers whose views have shaped traditional Chinese culture. In the study of early Chinese thought, emphasis has long been on what thinkers said, not on how they proffered their views. Even studies that do consider the how, tend to focus on logic and argumentation, rather than rhetoric. Fortunately, in the past few decades growing attention has been paid to Chinese rhetoric which has led to an impressive number of publications. This issue of Extrême-Orient, Extrême-Occident feeds into the current debate on Chinese rhetoric by exploring facets that have hitherto been underemphasized, if explored at all. In this introduction, brief outlines of rhetoric in the West and in China are followed by synopses of the six articles in this issue.

1. Rhetoric in the West

2 Rhetoric, from the Greek word rhētōrikē (ῥητορική), traditionally denotes the civic art of speaking in law courts and other formal and political occasions, especially in the democracies of Syracuse and Athens. Rhetoric is often said to have been “invented” in the city-state of Syracuse in the fifth century BCE. After the expulsion in 467 BCE of two tyrant kings, Gelon and Hieron I, citizens were instructed in the art of speech in order to reclaim property seized during the heyday of the two tyrants.1 This is when, allegedly, the first rhetorical handbooks were composed.2 The democracy of Athens inherited the Syracusian teaching of rhetoric. In Athens, citizens were part of the penal courts. Those who took it upon themselves to accuse or defend a suspect, delivered a

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public speech in order to convince the jury, which was also made up of citizens. An extensive technical vocabulary and refined techniques were required in order to polish one’s argument, arrangement, style, and delivery for persuading the jury. In Syracuse and Athens, the first attempts were made to describe features of a persuasive speech and to teach people how to plan and deliver one. From then on, the study of rhetoric gradually became a regular part of the formal education of young men, and it pervaded not only debate in law courts, where it was born, but also in other activities, such as the literary production of poetry and prose.

3 At the risk of oversimplifying, three kinds of rhetoric can be discerned in the West, at least according to Chaïm Perelman: ancient rhetoric, classical rhetoric, and new rhetoric.3

4 Ancient rhetoric refers to rhetorical theories developed and practiced in ancient Greece and the Roman world. Important representatives include Aristotle (384-322 BCE), Cicero (106-143 BCE), and Quintilianus (ca 35-100 CE). Aristotle, the great theoretician of rhetoric, famously identified three kinds of persuasive speech (political, legal, ceremonial) and three ways in which persuasion is accomplished (ethos, pathos, logos). Cicero, the great practitioner of rhetoric, emphasized the importance of various forms of appeal in oratory, and stressed that orators must be knowledgeable not just about specific cases of argumentation, but about all areas of human life and culture. Quintilianus, the great teacher of rhetoric, formalized rhetorical training.

5 Classical rhetoric, as understood by Perelman, started in the sixteenth century with Pierre de La Ramée (1515-1572), who rejected many aspects of ancient rhetorical argumentation, except for elocution (the study of the ornate style). His friend Omer Talon (ca 1510-1562) was responsible for the first book dedicated exclusively to rhetorical figures (ornate style). Perelman associates the death of ancient rhetoric and the birth of classical rhetoric with these two men. From the mid-sixteenth century to the mid-twentieth century, rhetoric was mostly confined to the study of stylistic devices, such as metaphors. This identification of rhetoric with style is often considered a limitation of the discipline of rhetoric as understood and taught in antiquity, where rhetoric was thought to cover much more than just style. Classical rhetoric is hence seen by Perelman as a pale shadow of ancient rhetoric, and Kennedy likewise defines it as “secondary” rhetoric.4

6 New rhetoric gradually came about through the works of Burke, Perelman, and others, from the 1950s and particularly the 1970s onwards.5 It goes back to ancient rhetoric, but its audience has grown. Whereas ancient rhetoric was devised to persuade a group of people in the presence of the speaker, in new rhetoric the audience can range from one person (an internal monologue) to mankind at large. In addition, new rhetoric does not limit persuasion to speech or writing, but also considers other forms of communication. The general idea is that there is no such thing as a non-rhetorical discourse. Rather, rhetoric is that quality in discourse by which agents (speakers, writers, and so on) seek to persuade (or convince, seduce, mesmerize, and so on) their audience. Hence, using Kennedy’s words, in “speaking, writing, hearing, and reading, we are better off if we understand the process” of rhetoric.6

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2. Rhetoric in China

7 Traditionally, the study of rhetoric in the West did not concern itself with non-Western forms of rhetoric. Scholars who did look beyond the geographical boundaries of their field faced severe obstacles, such as the language barrier, as they relied on available translations. Their studies are naturally hampered by the limited number of translated texts, where the quality of the translation may have left something to be desired.7 Fortunately, the situation has gradually improved in the last century, particularly during the last few decades.

8 For Chinese rhetoric, pioneering studies include Crump and Dreher’s short papers “Peripatetic Rhetors of the Warring Kingdoms” and “Pre-Han Persuasion” from the early 1950s. These have been followed by a steady flow of books and articles from the 1960s all the way to the present day. Underlying most of these publications appears to be a desire to explore other forms of rhetoric, or to counterbalance the perceived Western monopoly of rhetoric. In recent years a more pragmatic motivation for studying Chinese rhetoric has arisen, as teachers in the West are increasingly exposed to students from different rhetorical traditions. This led to a special issue of the journal College English (March 2010) and to Kirkpatrick and Xu’s book Chinese Rhetoric and Writing: An Introduction for Language Teachers (2012).

9 Questions pervading publications on Chinese rhetoric include: What is Chinese rhetoric? Where do we find it? How does it correspond to, or differ from, rhetoric in the West? Answers to these questions vary, depending on the chosen approach. Let us look at a few influential approaches.

10 One way to study Chinese rhetoric is to select Greek rhetorical figures and show examples of their use in Chinese literature, as Unger does in his Rhetorik des klassischen Chinesisch. Offering Chinese examples for a plethora of Greek rhetorical figures—such as anaphora, ellipsis, and chiasmus—Unger shows that Chinese writers were perfectly capable of using such figures. Still, despite its obvious merits, Unger’s approach is not without problems. For instance, a Greek rhetorical figure may be successfully identified in a Chinese text, but that still does not mean it was “applied consistently and deliberately” by Chinese writers.8 Moreover, in some cases it takes a rather liberal translation or subjective interpretation of a Chinese passage to make it correspond to a Greek rhetorical figure. For example, Unger uses the saying “the grace of a woman is boundless, the rancor of a wife knows no end” to show that synonyms were used to avoid repetition of words.9 However, the words “woman” (nü) and “wife” (fu) in this saying are not used merely for variation, but as references to different types of females (unmarried vs married).10 This leads to a more fundamental problem of the approach, namely that it analyzes the Chinese situation through the lens of Greek rhetoric, which inevitably involves some amount of fitting square blocks into round holes. Through the Greek prism, with its well-defined understanding of rhetoric, any non-Western type likely falls short, much in the same way that the ancient Greeks and Romans may not pass if Chinese forms of rhetoric were to be used as a yard stick.11

11 In full recognition of these difficulties, several scholars, including Oliver and Garrett, emphasize the importance of examining the Chinese rhetorical tradition in its own terms.12 Taking this advice to heart, a number of studies have appeared focusing on technical vocabulary used in early Chinese disputation, such as bian “dispute, debate,” shui “discuss, persuade,” and shuo “argue, explain.”13 The studies show that Chinese

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contemporaries of the ancient Greeks not only used rhetorical strategies, but discussed them at a meta-level with a highly developed technical vocabulary. Regrettably, while these meta-discussions throve in the Warring States period, they seem to have ceased as soon as the First Emperor unified these states under the Qin dynasty, which will be grist to the mill of those who maintain that China’s rhetorical tradition pales in comparison to that of the West.

12 The practice of disputation in China may have been relatively short-lived, but China does have a tradition of writing that goes back several thousand years. Most if not all written texts, such as contemplations by thinkers or petitions by ministers, are aimed at persuading the reader and hence involve rhetoric. Not surprisingly, China has a long tradition of reflections, remarks, and comments on rhetoric in writing. A famous early example is The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons (Wenxin diaolong) by Liu Xie (ca 467-522) which, among others, recognizes “metaphor” (bi) and “allegory” (xing) in other texts.14 Incidentally his book also contains several mentions of “ornate use of words” (xiuci), the term that now translates “rhetoric” in China. Rules of Writing (Wenze) by Chen Kui (1128-1203) examines rhetorical devices used in various early Chinese texts, and is generally considered to be the first systematic account of Chinese rhetoric. 15 Chen’s work was followed by many other books on the topic, such as A Guide to Composition (Wenzhang zhinan) edited by Gui Youguang (1506-1571).16 This tradition fully matured in the early twentieth century, when rhetoric in China became a recognized branch of learning. Chinese scholars started studying Western works of rhetoric and compiling inventories of rhetoric Chinese style. This led to hundreds of monographs, such as Zheng Dian and Tan Quanji’s A Compendium of Reference Materials for Ancient Chinese Rhetoric (Gu Hanyu xiucixue ziliao huibian); to monthly academic journals, such as Studying Rhetoric (Xiuci xuexi); to academic centers for the study of rhetoric, for instance at Fudan University in Shanghai; and to a national association and several regional and provincial organizations for the discipline.17 Scholars such as Liu Yameng elaborate on this long history of rhetorical reflections to show that it is easily as rich and diverse as that of the West.18 One problem with this approach is that all the sources under discussion (e.g. The Rules of Writing, A Guide to Composition) deal with writing. This is at odds with Western rhetoric which since its inception has focused on the spoken word. This has led to a view that Chinese narrowly limit rhetoric to stylistic devices in writing, perhaps not unlike de La Ramée, Talon, and other proponents of “secondary” rhetoric in the West. An interesting study by Wu Hui shows how Chinese students in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries first encountered Western rhetoric when they studied in Japan, where terms such as xiuci (“ornate use of words”) were used to translate rhetoric.19 Given that xiuci is traditionally associated with the written word, it is no wonder that Chinese scholars in the past century came to develop an understanding of rhetoric that differs markedly from that in the Western world.

3. Rhetoric in Early China

13 Our goals in this issue of Extrême-Orient, Extrême-Occident are modest. We are not striving to find counterparts for Greek rhetorical figures in China, nor do we expect to lay bare a rich Chinese tradition of theorizing about rhetoric. Instead, we take rhetoric in its broad definition as a tool to inform, persuade, or motivate particular audiences, as we examine how this tool is discussed and employed in early Chinese texts. Through

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close reading of textual passages from the Warring States period to the Former Han dynasty (roughly the first five centuries BCE) we explore methods or means of persuasion, such as “alienating rhetoric,” “rhetoric of treason,” or the rhetorical use of anecdotes—forms of rhetoric that are not necessarily congruous with Western rhetorical figures. In this way we hope to show how the masters of early China found unique ways of winning others to their views.

14 The first two papers analyze the difficulties and dangers of political persuasion in early China. While influential thinkers such as Confucius tried to subjugate discourse to an ethical code and to certify a strict and appropriate relationship between words and deeds, they could not prevent the increasing intellectual and political influence of a new class of orators who, stripped of any moral attachment, consider persuasion from a purely strategic perspective. In the first paper, Albert Galvany shows the essential dynamics of the rhetorical techniques they use, as well as some of the most relevant attempts to neutralize and evade the persuasive capacity of orators, diplomats and counsellors. The latter indicates that game of political persuasion in early China was highly risky and often deadly. This is the topic of the next paper, by Romain Graziani, who identifies and evaluates contrasting attitudes among persuaders, ranging from cognitive optimism to moral pessimism, regarding the capacity of language to convince and influence the listener or improve his moral behavior.

15 The next two articles deal with overt and covert rhetoric aimed at specific rulers and the ruling elites at large. One of the most overt (and absurd) forms of rhetoric in early China can be found in The Book of Lord Shang (Shangjunshu) by Shang Yang (d. 338 BCE) and his disciples. That book at times adopts a radically alienating rhetoric, attacking ideas and values that were overwhelmingly respected by members of the educated elite. Several chapters deride fundamental moral norms, such as benevolence, righteousness, filiality, fraternal duty, trustworthiness, and honesty; they call for establishing a regime in which “scoundrels rule the good”; and they advocate military victory by performing “whatever the enemy is ashamed of.” In the third paper, Yuri Pines argues that the peculiar rhetoric and abusive language might have been designed so as to strengthen Shang Yang’s image as a daring and innovative thinker. An apposite example of covert rhetoric can be found in Records of the Historian (Shiji). In some passages of that book, the historian discusses aspects related to the rule of a sage. All aspects he mentions are related to measures taken by the contemporary ruler, Emperor Wu of the Han dynasty (r. 141-87 BCE), thus implying that this emperor could scarcely be regarded as a sage ruler. Moreover, in these passages he even addresses later sages as his expected readers. This address to later sages has a parallel in an earlier text, The Gongyang Commentary (Gongyang zhuan), in a context that can be characterized as “inevitable treason.” By alluding to such “treasonous” rhetoric, Schaab-Hanke argues in the fourth paper, the author of Records of the Historian incurred the risk of being charged with high treason.

16 The last two articles describe the use of historical anecdotes and political slogans as rhetorical tools. Early Chinese argumentative texts are full of historical anecdotes. These short accounts of events in Chinese history enhance the appeal of the text, but they also have an important rhetorical function in helping the reader understand, accept, and remember the arguments propounded in the text. The fifth paper examines the rhetorical function of historical anecdotes in two argumentative texts of the Western Han dynasty (202 BCE-9 CE): Han’s Illustrations of the Odes for Outsiders (Han shi

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waizhuan) and The Master of Huainan (Huainanzi). These two texts found creative use for anecdotes, namely as illustrations of quotations from canonical sources. Through case studies of several combinations of anecdotes and quotations, the paper argues that the combinations serve to present the creators of these texts as beacons of knowledge with profound understanding of historical events and canonical literature, and with the necessary skills to fruitfully combine the two. The final paper focuses on the rhetorical expression “people as root” (min ben) in New Writings (Xin shu) ascribed to Jia Yi, a young prodigy active at the court of Emperor Wen (r. 179-157 BCE). The paper shows that in New Writings the appeal to the people is due to its emotive connotation rather than signifying a concrete set of people-oriented policies. Here the term “people” becomes an instrument used to reassess the young Han imperial interests. The expression “people as root” is thus part of the strategy of Jia Yi’s political persuasion.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

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DEFOORT, Carine (2001). “Is there such a thing as Chinese philosophy? Arguments of an implicit debate.” Philosophy East and West, no. 51.3: 393-413.

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GARRETT, Mary (1993). “Pathos reconsidered from the Perspective of Classical Chinese Rhetorical Theories.” Quarterly Journal of Speech, no. 79: 13-39.

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KENNEDY, George (1999). Classical Rhetoric and its Christian and Secular Tradition from Ancient to Modern Times. Chapel Hill, N.C., The University of North Carolina Press.

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KIRKPATRICK, Andy (2005). “China’s First Systematic Account of Rhetoric: An Introduction to Chen Kui’s Wen ze.” Rhetorica, no. 23: 103-152.

KIRKPATRICK, Andy and XU, Zhichang (2012). Chinese Rhetoric and Writing: An Introduction for Language Teachers. Fort Collins, The WAC Clearinghouse.

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OLIVER, Robert (1961). “The Rhetorical Implications of Taoism.” Quarterly Journal of Speech, no. 47: 27-35.

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PERELMAN, Chaïm and OLBRECHTS-TYTECA, Lucie (1969). The New Rhetoric. A Treatise on Argumentation. Notre Dame, University of Notre Dame.

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SCHIAPPA, Edward (1999). The Beginning of Rhetorical Theory in Classical Greece. New Haven, Yale University Press.

UNGER, Ulrich (1994). Rhetorik des klassischen Chinesisch. Wiesbaden, Harrassowitz Verlag.

WU, Hui (2009). “Lost and Found in Transnation: Modern Conceptualization of Chinese Rhetoric.” Rhetoric Review, no. 28.2: 148-166.

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APPENDIXES

Glossary bi 比 bian 辯 Chen Kui 陳騤 fu 婦 Gongyang zhuan 公羊傳 Gui Youguang 歸有光 Han Feizi 韓非子 Han shi waizhuan 韓詩外傳 Huainanzi 淮南子 Jia Yi 賈誼

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Liu Xie 劉勰 min ben 民本 nü 女 Shiji 史記 shui 說 shuo 說 Wenxin diaolong 文心雕龍 Wenze 文則 Wenzhang zhinan 文章指南 xing 興 Xinshu 新書 xiuci 修辭 xuexi 學習 Zhanguoce 戰國策 Zhuangzi 莊子

NOTES

1. Kennedy 1963: 58ff. See also Schiappa 1999. 2. According to Cicero (Brutus: 46-48), Aristotle identifies the “inventors” of rhetoric as two logographers (speechwriters) named Corax and Tisias, who taught citizens the art of speech in order to reclaim expropriated property, and later composed the first rhetorical handbooks. 3. Perelman 1977: 18-25. 4. Kennedy 1984: 3. 5. Burke 1950 and 1967; Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca 1969. 6. Kennedy 1994: 10. 7. Lu & Frank 1993: 447-449, discuss problems due to a dependency on translation in the study of Chinese rhetoric. 8. Harbsmeier 1999: 121. 9. Unger 1994: 25. He identifies this variation of words as “metaphrase” μετάφρασις. 10. This was noted by Harbsmeier 1999: 122. 11. This problem also occurs more generally in the study of philosophy, where non-Western philosophies are analyzed from the viewpoint of traditions that developed in the West. See Defoort 2001 on the question whether or not there exists something like a Chinese philosophy. 12. Oliver 1971: 2 61; Garrett 1993. 13. Garrett 1993, Kirkpatrick 1995, Lu 1998. 14. For a study of the rhetoric in this book, see Cai 2001. 15. Kirkpatrick 2005. 16. For a discussion of relevant books on rhetoric in China, see Liu 1996. 17. Kao 1993: 143. 18. Liu 1996.

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19. Wu 2009.

AUTHORS

PAUL VAN ELS Paul van Els is associate professor of China Studies at Leiden University. His area of specialization is early Chinese thought, which includes thinkers, texts, and traditions from the Warring States period to the Han dynasty (roughly the first five centuries BCE). More information is available at www.paulvanels.nl.

ELISA SABATTINI Elisa Sabattini is currently Assistant Professor of Chinese Studies at the University of Sassari (Italy). She was educated at the University of Venice and at INALCO in Paris. In 2007 she became a two-year post-doctoral fellow, funded by the Chiang Ching-kuo Foundation, in the Department of Sinology at the Catholic University of Leuven. Her research focuses on Chinese intellectual history, with particular attention to the Warring States and early Han periods. Major publication: Lu Jia. Nuovi argomenti (Venice, Cafoscarina, 2012).

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I. Difficulties and Dangers of Political Persuasion Des dangers de la persuasion en politique

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Sly Mouths and Silver Tongues: the Dynamics of Psychological Persuasion in Ancient China Bouches sournoises, langues spécieuses : dynamique de la persuasion en Chine ancienne 口蜜腹劍，油嘴滑舌——中國古代游說之動力

Albert Galvany

EDITOR'S NOTE

This research has been supported by a Marie Curie Intra-European Fellowship (PIEF- GA-2010-274566) within the 7th European Community Framework Programme for Research and Technological Development. I would like to thank both Jean Levi and Paul van Els for their comments on early drafts of this essay. I am also indebted to the reviewers of Extrême-Orient, Extrême-Occident for providing incisive suggestions and valuable corrections. Of course, all remaining mistakes and infelicities are my own responsibility.

The enemy is already inside the gates: from Zi Lu to Zi Gong

1 The project for political and moral restoration conceived by Confucius seems to have been largely shaped by a clear awareness of the dangers associated with discourse, or with unseemly, careless use of language. Mistrust of verbal communication, denunciation of rhetorical manoeuvres and censure of any language that was not subordinate to morals are all recurrent elements in Confucius’ thought. The fundamental role of the Master within the community of his disciples was to guarantee strict correspondence between the property of language and the property of action.

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Hence Confucius evokes a commitment between words and facts that, if it ever existed in antiquity—the idealised image of which he draws upon to project his own ambitions —had broken down by his own times: “In olden times, one was loathe to speak for fear of being unable to put one’s maxims into practice.”2 It is not surprising, then, that the nobleman or gentleman (junzi)—the figure that paradigmatically embodies the moral standard compatible with the Confucian programme—is ashamed of any word that exceeds his deeds, that is, of any discourse that is not immediately and incontrovertibly translated into its corresponding action.3 In contrast with this concept of language, which was defined by the will to specify and conserve in a rigorous fashion the relationship between words and things, between names and facts, between the plane of enunciation and the plane of action, the socio-political context in which the Confucian doctrine emerged was already pervaded with a growing and almost overpowering interest in the persuasive effects of language. Such tenacious attempts to prevail over the flow of words point to a reality dominated precisely by an amoral and even wilfully immoral resort to discourse. In this situation, Confucius’ project is articulated and organised around the notion of moral quality (ren) which, with regard to one’s relationship with words, goes back to a constellation of ethical concepts that validate an appropriate use of language, for example the concept of sincerity or credibility (xin). 4 However, in the early centuries of the Zhou dynasty the term ren tended to mean splendour of form, of physical beauty as befits individuals belonging to the noble classes. This, in turn, found an equivalent in the realm of discourse with the phonetically and graphically related concept of ning, meaning appealing in word, or eloquent.5 Throughout the Analects ( Lunyu) one can confirm the extent to which Confucius strove to break the connection between these two originally linked notions and even to make them opposite and incompatible. It is essential, in his view, to shun eloquent people since this attribute of adroit acuity in wielding words, far from epitomising nobility, signals danger, and it therefore has nothing to do with the moral aspiration to which the notion ren now harks back.6 The antagonism between the two notions in the Analects is brought about by way of accomplishing a slippage between levels. This appears in the explicit association established between moral quality as expressed by the term ren, and restraint, temporisation or circumspection in use of language (na).7 As a result of this total inversion, the term thus shifts from initially referring to agility in discourse (ning) to being conflated with frugality and prudence of speech. Confucius endorses this new identification between moral quality and rhetorical abstemiousness precisely by means of ingenious wordplay. Questioned by his disciple Sima Niu about moral quality, the Master, almost certainly trying to counteract his penchant for eloquence, pronounces, “Moral quality (ren) consists in being sparing (rena) with words.”8 As evident in this anecdote about Sima Niu, the tension between these two antagonistic ways of understanding and experiencing language is not only articulated around the axis defined by the Confucian community and the outside world but it is also lodged in the very heart of the school. The heterogeneous group of disciples attending the Master also reflects the predominance and the extent of the inappropriate or even deviant use of words. There are several episodes included in the Analects in which Confucius is obliged to criticise and keep his disciples in check when they flaunt an unworthy relationship with words. To give one of the more evident examples: Zi Lu had Zi Gao appointed governor of Bi. The Master said, “You are injuring the son of another man.” Zi Lu replied, “He will be in charge of the people and the

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altars of the Land and the Grain. Why must only men who read books be deemed cultivated?” The Master exclaimed, “This is why I detest glib-tongued people (ning)!”9

2 Zi Gao, the disciple whom Zi Lu wishes to establish in the government of Bi, is naturally not the most gifted pupil and neither is he the most competent for fulfilling a task of such magnitude. Confucius describes him at another point in the Analects, along with some of his fellow disciples, including Zi Lu himself, as being something of a cloddish dolt.10 Confucius’ first reproach to Zi Lu should be interpreted then as a warning on the disproportion between the responsibility demanded by the position and the scant aptitudes of Zi Lu’s candidate. The latter, far from recognising his error, obstinately defends his decision and, in so doing, attacks the Master. First, he attempts to convince him that, whatever Confucius might believe, the destiny he has in mind for Zi Gao is appropriate for him and, second, he simultaneously tries to elude and neutralise the Master’s admonishment by wielding against him words from his own teachings. Indeed, the sentence “Why must only men who read books be deemed cultivated?” goes directly back to one of the maxims to be found in the selfsame text: Zixia said: “As for persons who care for character more than beauty, who in serving their parents exert themselves utterly, who would sacrifice their life in the service of their ruler, and who, in interactions with colleagues and friends, make good on their word; however much people say of such persons that they are unschooled, I would insist that they are well educated indeed.”11

3 The impertinent disciple attempts to turn the Master’s own teaching against him. Impervious to the nuances and the deep meaning of the words with which he has been challenged, Zi Lu responds exclusively to the logic of debate and addresses the Master as if he were a mere adversary to be routed in a sterile dialectical skirmish. Hence Confucius responds with all his contempt for people who stoop to eloquence (ning). The characteristic that Zi Lu shares at this point with smooth-tongued orators undermines from within the very foundations of the Master’s thinking. It reveals that, driven by the power of words, even one of the privileged beneficiaries of the doctrine that supposedly aims to put an end to the abuse of language by means of establishing a moral and ritual code has come to betray the basic principles of this teaching. This anecdote expresses in all its radicalness the tension hovering over the question of language, showing the deep unease and suspicions with which the precursor of philosophical reflection in China goes about his project. Nevertheless, despite the reserve and even rejection repeatedly expressed by Confucius, some of the disciples closest to him stand out precisely for their oratorical skills.

4 Notable among them is Zi Gong, who embodied the new kind of man who was to mark the Warring States period. He held prestigious official positions in Lu and Wei, was a prudent politician, a canny diplomat and a redoubtable negotiator who, moreover, had entrepreneurial talents and a flair for financial operations.12 Above all, Zi Gong excelled in rhetorical skills. A passage from the Analects depicts him, together with Zai Wo, as someone distinguished for his ability in speech (yan yu)13; the Mengzi affirms that, Zi Gong “was excellent at composing persuasive speeches” (shan wei shuo ci)14; and Sima Qian also considers that he was “an able orator gifted with a sharp tongue” (li kou qiao ci).15 It is not surprising, then, that when Confucius is questioned in the Analects as to his views on the morally superior man (junzi), the Master, modulating his response to the particularities, leanings and deficiencies of his interlocutor, should take the opportunity to remind him that this ethical paradigm begins by putting one’s words

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into practice and abiding by them (xian xing qi yan, er hou cong zhi),16 a clear allusion to Zi Gong’s inclination to a rhetorical, or nothing less than an amoral, use of language.

5 However, while Confucius vehemently censures such qualities, when pushed by some adverse situation, he is obliged to have recourse to them himself. Hence, according to some ancient sources, fearing that the state of Qi was about to launch a military attack on the state of Lu, endangering the tombs of his ancestors, he agrees that Zi Gong, whose talents as an orator and political adviser he was very well aware of, should set off on a diplomatic mission in an attempt to counter the plans of Qi.17 In order to achieve his objective, Zi Gong manages to obtain an audience with several monarchs and, thanks to his power of persuasion, is able to impose his strategy. By means of a cunning diplomatic plot involving the states of Qi, Wu, Yue and Jin, the crafty Zi Gong is able to head off the military assault on Lu that was initially scheduled by Qi, getting Qi to abandon the plan and, instead, turn its armies against the state of Wu.18 The consequences of this complex and delicate diplomatic mission by Zi Gong are summarized in another early text as follows: “In one fell swoop Zi Gong brought civil war to Qi, destroyed Wu, advanced Jin, and strengthened Yue.”19 If we are to give credence to these written sources, the disciple successfully completed the mission thanks to his rhetorical skills but this also entails recognising the inevitable, definitive defeat of the Confucian programme. While Confucius’proposal requests a transparent world in which internal and external, intention and expression, the announced and the executed, necessarily coincide, the realms in which his realistic disciple moves are governed by opacity, secrecy, and pretence. The success of Zi Gong’s mission means that the survival of Lu, emblem of traditional moral values, necessarily requires the adoption of qualities (the arts of persuasion, wily intelligence, inveiglement, slyness, and so on) which can only signify its decadence and categorical ruin. If the traditions of Lu represent the past, it is necessary to recognise that the present and the future seem to belong to these itinerant orators who, thanks to their persuasive eloquence, are capable of effectively conducting political manoeuvres governed less by probity and loyalty than by acumen and, in the end, by subterfuge and seduction. As Confucius himself puts it, with both clarity and bitterness: Without the eloquence of the priest Tuo or the beauty of prince Chao of Song, it is difficult to succeed in today’s world.20

6 In the new context of the Warring States period, mastery of the word, the art of seducing listeners become necessary instruments not only for acceding to the heart of political power through obtaining promotion, or to an adviser’s position by imposing one’s own terms on adversaries and competitors, but also because the very future of the state now depends on the aptitudes of the itinerant orators.21 In a time of intrigues, discourse becomes one of the pillars of the political mechanism on which the stability or instability of the different powers depends. In order to carry out the convoluted plans hatched over a long time by far-sighted minds with the aim of directing diplomatic manoeuvres, plotting conspiracies, forging alliances or foiling military operations, it is essential to know how to persuade a person by passing off false as true and true as false. The emergence of this new breed of statesman, the salaried counsellor, brings a completely different hue to the delicate balance of political and diplomatic forces: at once adviser, spy and double agent, the itinerant orator becomes the true protagonist of the almost infinite succession of risky, complicated and astute machinations through which the state’s destiny is now being decided.22

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7 In the course of presenting his case, the itinerant orator who sets out to win the support of the sovereign or acceptance among influential courtiers resorts to all kinds of rhetorical procedures. Naturally, his spiel includes the linking up of logically arranged arguments that will bear the fruit of conviction thanks to the power of their formal architecture. It must also dispel any doubts his audience might harbour as to the matter in hand. Furthermore, a frequent resort to expressions of humility and other ornamental touches, precision in selection of quotes and proverbial expressions, shrewd use of analogies, and deftness in organising, deploying and propounding premises and propositions all determine the success or failure of an oral intervention. Nevertheless, and despite the fact that this in no way suggests any relegation of the complex conglomerate of the purely formal elements of rhetorical endeavour to a mere theory of manipulation, the influence of such exploitation of the psychological factors intervening in any project of persuasion – detection and opportune utilization of passions, inclinations, vacillations and weaknesses of listeners or interlocutor, and so on – is not to be denied either.23 Hence, as I shall attempt to demonstrate below, in most of the classical Chinese writings that present the reader with reflections on the mechanisms of persuasion, or that expound on rhetorical techniques, one finds a manifest awareness of the fact that canny husbanding of these psychological tactics that appeal to the irrational elements of the audience constitutes an essential tool for any orator. It is not only a question of convincing one’s interlocutors through well- reasoned arguments but also of captivating them, fascinating them, moving them and, where necessary, intimidating them. Devoid of any moral commitment that would oblige them to respect the correspondence between designations and realities, and willing to exploit the emotions of their listeners to their own advantage so as to attain their own goals, able advisers and diplomats like Zi Gong would certainly be the living embodiment of this diverse and ambivalent facet of rhetoric in ancient China.

Persuasion as flattery: the imperative of adaptation

8 The prevailing profile of the orator in these times is that of a true mercenary of words, a man who has cast off all scruples and any vestige of moral commitment both to the truth of his assertions and fidelity to his duty. Hence, the figure of the wandering orator and the power of the word that he incarnates give rise to the most devoted admiration in the political and philosophical literature of the Warring States, along with the deepest unease and constant dark boding about the imminent ambush of betrayal. The great intellectuals of the period insistently point out the orators—and, in general, anyone who sees language as a mere instrument of persuasion independently of any sense being conveyed—as constituting the germ of the political and social upheavals of the times, the true root of all the evils and misfortunes threatening the nation: The ruler of men, frequently relegated to a minor role in the conversations and discussions, and with few opportunities to participate in the debates and diatribes, is easily moved through sophistry and persuasion. Ministers turn to the eloquent advisers of foreign states in the hope that, thanks to the refined effectiveness of their allocutions and their fashionable expressions, the ruler will act in favour of their particular interests. They seduce him with the appeal of benefits and dismay him with fear of calamities so that with their hollow verbiage they quickly make him totally subservient to their will. All these are called “fashionable practices.”24

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9 Again, the same writers coincide in unanimously signalling the growing importance acquired by silver tongues through this new political and social mechanism of the art of persuasion, to such an extent that even thinkers who, like Xunzi, proclaim themselves adversaries of rhetoric do not hesitate to recognise the enormous power of words: Words of praise from another are warmer than clothing of linen and silk. The wound caused by words is deeper than that of spears and halberds. Thus that one can find no place to walk through the breadth of the earth is not because the earth is not tranquil but because the danger to every step of the traveller lies generally with words.25

10 Extremely dangerous ground which requires the most scrupulous prudence and caution, language also constitutes a powerful weapon through which the success of any enterprise can be guaranteed. In the fundamentally agonistic context of political operations and diplomacy within the court, with the itinerant orators as the key players, very often the art of oratory in ancient China tends to be identified with the art of war and of strategic intelligence. Overcoming the enemy’s resistance on the battlefield is comparable with the strivings of rhetoric to convince an interlocutor by routing him. The conception of strategic war and the emergence of the figure of the strategist have their perfect reflection, in the sphere of discourse, in the orator. A fragment from the Lüshi chunqiu offers an illustrative example with regard to this close correlation between the art of war and the art of psychological persuasion: Those who are adept in the art of speaking resemble those able warriors who, on adapting to the other, make the adversary’s strength their own and emulate his movements of advance or retreat. They project neither forms nor figures but live and expand in keeping with the rhythms of others, while their voice is an echo whose tone is now intense and now modulated. However powerful or talented the other may be, they eventually take control of his destiny.26

11 If exhaustive knowledge of the adversary is a basic requisite in the art of war, since, in the last instance, every strategy depends on adequately adapting (yin) to the rival, in the case of the art of persuasion, ability to penetrate the mind of the interlocutor and thus scrutinise his preferences and weaknesses, his convictions and vacillations, is also essential. Unlike what generally happens with the Greek sophists, the Chinese orators do not address an auditorium, which is to say that their speeches are not intended to convince a majority, and neither are they aimed at a more or less numerous group of listeners, but are more or less exclusively for the ears of the person who holds absolute power: the sovereign.27 In this singular situation, the task of the adviser who speaks to the person who possesses political authority becomes especially risky and dangerous. The orator is exposed to the arbitrary will of the prince and is therefore obliged to calibrate and minutely ponder all the elements of his performance: the choice of the moment, of tone, of analogies and of examples becomes vital, not only for the success of his plans but even for his very survival. Pitting his word against the absolute authority of the prince, he might be lavished with praise or condemned to death. The success or failure of his intervention depends to a great extent on the knowledge he has of the man he is addressing, or the reading he makes of his psychological profile. In general terms, the difficulty of persuasion consists in examining the mind of the person one is addressing in order to find the accurate words. If we speak of benefits to someone who is only concerned with renown, he will deem us grasping and we shall be despised and rejected; yet if we speak of virtue to someone who thinks only of benefits, we shall be branded as stupid and we shall have strayed from the crux of the matter without being able to attain any promotion.28

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12 All this signifies that the art of persuasion is frequently reduced to a sort of technique of adulation where the supreme aim is to be able to accurately select propositions that will exalt the qualities and tastes of the interlocutor while simultaneously avoiding anything that might irritate him or expose him in any way. Once again the analogy with military thinking weighs in here. In war, as the Sunzi bingfa repeats over and over again, there is nothing permanent. There are no recipes or formulas that will be valid forever and neither are the circumstances of any one battle ever repeated. This is a dynamic process which, as such, requires continuous adaptation to all the circumstances relevant to the combat and, in particular, to the adversary. Military dispositions are like water: just as the disposition of water is to avoid heights and precipitate downwards, the disposition of the army is to avoid the consistent and to attack where there is absence. And just as water adapts its form to the land, the army adapts its strategy of victory to the enemy. In effect, just as water lacks a permanent form, in war there is no permanent strategic potential either. He who is able to win by adapting to the variations and transformations of the adversary is called “inscrutable.”29

13 Adaptation to the adversary is as necessary for the orator’s strategy as adaptation to the lie of the land is for water. However, if water can deploy this huge potential for adaptation this is because, as the Sunzi bingfa points out, it lacks permanent form. It is its absence of form or disposition (wu xing) that endows it with this continuous readiness and hence its invariable capacity for adaptation. Victory over a sinuous reality in constant metamorphosis can never be won unless by means of a superabundance of mobility, through an even greater power of transformation. All the strategic vocabulary revolves around this principle. Like water, the army must present a perpetual polymorphic plasticity, a formation eternally in movement or transformation which confounds any attempt to detain it or fix it. Like the Way (dao), the first and last principle that governs the functioning of the natural order and that is usually associated with water,30 the army cleaves to this principle of absence of form or formation (wu xing) making it impossible for the rival to understand what is happening: imperceptible, impossible to number, indefinable, the troops of the superior army will melt into the subtlety and efficacy of spirits (shen). Like them, it becomes fathomless and beyond the rival’s reach. In an analogous manner, in the sphere of persuasion it is not so much a matter of imposing an argument for its own sake but rather swaddling the discourse in nuances and a tone that faithfully adapt to the interlocutor’s most intimate preferences. The orator must know how to play with the aspirations and vanity of the person he is addressing, how to exploit his weaknesses to his own advantage and detect the differences between the intentions he declares and the desires he really harbours within. Hence, as with strategies for the battlefield, there are no fixed formulas for convincing or persuading someone of the court. One must adapt and modulate the oral intervention in keeping with the specific characteristics of each listener and each circumstance that arises. As the Guiguzi states quite openly: The righteous man who disdains riches cannot be seduced by benefits but can be coaxed if one speaks to him of frugality; the valiant warrior who scorns difficulties will be undaunted by fear yet he can be defeated if skilful advantage is taken of his inclination for risk; the wise man can only be approached through calculation and the light of reason and hence one should not try to outwit him through honesty, but rather by making him believe that one is using rational means, and convincing him through adeptness alone.31

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14 As is also the case in the field of military strategy, persuasive action is organized around a continuous dialectical process that confronts, on the one hand, the will to know, the obligation to penetrate the reality of the other, to shed light on him and lay him bare so as to be able to prevail over him and, on the other, persisting in remaining secret oneself and screened from inquisitive gazes. Gaining ascendancy over one’s adversary necessarily involves projecting a light that meets no opposition, that generates total transparency while yet taking on an impenetrable opacity. Indeed, it means bringing one’s rival into a relationship of inequality in such a way that he shall remain totally exposed to one’s perception, while one remains invisible to his. It is therefore emphasised that one must know all the factors present in the struggle and ensure that each and every manoeuvre is cloaked in the most impenetrable secrecy. The mouth is the gateway of the heart and the heart is the master of the spirit. Intentions and ideas, inclinations and desires, thoughts and cares, cunning and plans, all pass in and out through this gateway.32

15 The orator, like the military strategist, must be able to expose his opponent to his complete scrutiny and to detect and correctly interpret the most tenuous of clues. He must be so deft that he can bring to the surface the longings, ambitions, thoughts and even plans that are so zealously hoarded inside the individual. The persuader using these psychological skills must then calculate (chuai) gestures, movements and, in particular, words until he has infiltrated the emotional mechanisms of the other (qing). 33

Even if you possess the way of the former kings, and the planning ability of sages and worthies, without figuring out the inner feelings you will not be able to unmask the hidden and the occult.34

16 What is required, then, is the ability to adapt oneself to the tastes and inclinations of one’s interlocutor in order to win his confidence and prompt him to speak so that he will reveal the matter of his concerns and aspirations. Go along with his tastes and desires in order to perceive his intentions and ideas.35

17 It becomes essential to learn the preferences of the person one is addressing so that it will be possible later to adapt one’s discourse to these particular conditions. Hence, if Sunzi considered that, in the military domain, it was necessary to defeat the enemy before embarking on the combat against him, on the battlefield of the word it was a question of convincing him or persuading him even before speaking. Just as the success of the military action resides in confronting an already-vanquished adversary,36 that of the sophist onslaught resides in addressing a listener who is predisposed to accept one’s suggestions in their entirety. The itinerant orators are well aware that the word is never a neutral medium or indifferent with regard to the person pronouncing it, and that the persuasive effect of what is said does not depend on the content of what is uttered alone, nor just on the way or moment in which it is spoken but also, and to a great extent, on the person who is enunciating it. The efficacy of persuasion frequently depends more on credence or trust in the orator than the message he might convey. The same words expressed by two different people never have the same effect on the listener. Once again, the chapter in the Han Feizi devoted to the difficulties of persuasion contains an eloquent illustration of the influence that the favourable or unfavourable inclinations of the sovereign might play in his judging of the words and deeds of his advisers. The anecdote refers to the case of the favourite of the ruler of Wei, Mizi Xia who, in spite of breaking the law by taking the royal carriage for his own

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private use without seeking permission and having had the temerity to present the ruler with a peach he had previously bitten into, far from being upbraided is extolled because, moved by the affection he has for Mizi Xia, the sovereign judges his conduct from the standpoint of his admiring partiality. Nevertheless, the text also relates that when Mizi Xia’s allure and beauty begin to fade with time, the prince, recalling the same behaviour that once won his praises, does not then hesitate to criticise it harshly. The Han Feizi finishes its account with the following reflections: Hence the words of the man who addresses the ruler when he enjoys his affection are found to be sagacious and right and only reinforce the sovereign’s fondness, while the proposals of the man for whom the sovereign has revulsion are always seen to be wrong. I thus recommend that any persuader who offers his advice and words to the ruler should pay the utmost attention to his affections and to what disgusts him before starting to speak.37

18 Similarly the Lüshi chunqiu states: Those who listen to the words of others frequently find them warped and thus hearing these deformations is disturbing. These deformations have many causes although the main one resides in the fact that men are necessarily swayed by their inclinations and aversions. He who looks to the east will not see the wall that is raised in the west, and he who looks to the south will not perceive the north. The same phenomenon occurs with thoughts.38

19 The accomplished orator must win the trust and achieve the emotional attachment of the sovereign so that his words will be judged from the partiality of a propitious subjective dimension or, at least, ensure that they will not be appraised from an antipathy that would be definitive, condemning to the sterility of failure all subsequent efforts at persuasion. However, this is not a matter of gaining trust in the moral sense of the term, which is to say the credence derived from a firm commitment to coherence between the word uttered and the deed to which the word refers, but rather a gullible reliance (or to put it in the terms of military strategy, a seduction or lure) attained through flattery, which in fact serves as a trap or bait, a preliminary ploy to assure the facility of verbal manipulations.

20 When an orator has ensured that the subjective leanings of his listener will be open to his intentions, he can then deploy a second and definitive smokescreen of ruses and wiles, this time consisting of words. Once the listener’s initial psychological barriers or resistance are surmounted, the adroit adviser can completely shatter the relationship between designations (ming) and the effective reality that they are supposed be denoting (shi).39 Once the link between language and reality is broken, the orator is then in the position to exploit all the possibilities of attraction and charm that are to be found in hollow, self-referential discourse that shuns any obligation to reality. The use of this self-referential language is undoubtedly one of the most characteristic procedures of the orator. His speech is situated on a plane where, without any inconvenient subjugation to the link with reality, words turn back on themselves, generating a sort of circular all-enveloping mesh thanks to which they acquire great powers of fascination. This is when the orator is at his most dangerous, when his discourse secretly exudes its maximum efficiency, enveloping and totally beguiling the imagination of the sovereign who, captive to appearances and the majestic connotations conjured up by the empty verbiage, offers no resistance. Imbued with a partiality that favourably and a priori approves of any utterance or opinion without checking its veracity, the ruler is swept away by the forceful current of alluring discourse while the orator succeeds in inverting the dialectic that should govern

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relations between sovereign and subject, between dominator and dominated since the exclusive source of absolute authority has been exposed to the gaze and will of the orator who, opaque and impenetrable, hides behind the emptiness of his words and remains out of reach. As in the military domain, where it is essential to shed any constant form (wu xing) in order to predominate over the adversary, the sphere of persuasion also demands a complete absence of any fixed shape or form so that the orator can impose his will on that of his listener. In no case must the orator harbour any prejudice or opinion but must be permanently available, empty and vacant (wu) so as to be able to mould himself to the contours of his opponent and thereby overcome any resistance the latter may present.

The ghost and the machine: cancelling persuasion through an evanescent ruler

21 It is clear, then, that within this context of power relations dominated by the subtleties and scheming that characterise military thinking, any project to counter the orator’s attempts to overmaster the sovereign by means of such techniques of persuasion must also proceed from the same logic of strategic ascendancy. Hence a text like the Han Feizi not only relates the fundamental qualities of the persuasive word but also describes the risks entailed by the prevalence of such skills in the bosom of power, while also offering a whole range of advice on how to forestall them.40 Of prime interest here are the techniques (shu) for controlling the bureaucratic apparatus, which were anticipated by such writers as Shen Buhai.41 Indeed, the Han Feizi makes a notable effort to establish the procedures that would make it possible, for example, to calibrate the precise correspondence between words and deeds or the divergence between what is said and what is done (shen he xing ming), in such a way that, according to the degree of coincidence between the two spheres, punishments and rewards can subsequently be meted out.42 The just application of punishments and rewards, the true foundation of good government and social peace in the Han Feizi, lies precisely in the equivalence between signifier and signified, wherein only one single verifiable reality corresponds to each designation. Nonetheless, since the sovereign is permanently exposed to cunning, falsity and duplicity in utterances that rarely refer to their real object, he needs instruments to enable him to recover the reality lurking behind the words and to achieve a perfect art of listening (ting zhi dao). It is essential to submit the words and behaviour of retainers who address and work for the sovereign to the most painstaking scrutiny, constantly cross-checking the truth of their discourse, the effectiveness with which they perform their duties and the loyalty of their services. Hence, the Han Feizi proffers a full description of the methods the sovereign must be able to employ in order to achieve effective management of the flow of words and information, to substantiate the veracity of the proposals submitted by his subjects: networks of surveillance, secret services for information, scrupulously compared and contrasted probes and inquiries, different forms of interrogation, and so on.43

22 As described above, the parallels between the arts of war and rhetoric are very close. If the success of any persuasive endeavour depends in the last instance on the skills of the orator in adjusting his words to the inclinations, hopes, desires and fears of his listener, then the sovereign’s disarming of the persuasive action requires, in turn, the total obliteration of any expression of his emotions so that nobody can intrude on his

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intimacy. It is hardly surprising, then, that the Zhanguo ce, relates that the advisers of Li Dui, Prime Minister of the state of Zhao, ask him to cover his ears completely (jun jian sai liang er) in order to negate the persuasive influence of the declamations of Su Qin.44 It is of course probable that the anecdote offered in the Zhanguo ce is mainly concerned with exalting the extraordinary gifts of oratory attributed to Su Qin. However, the idea that the ruler must diminish and even block his faculties of perception in order to protect himself from the enthralling influence of orators is in no way extravagant. Besieged not only by the suggestive eloquence of wordsmiths, the sovereign is also exposed to their indiscreet gaze which seeks to detect and decipher his deepest emotions as they attempt to arouse his passions, desires and aversions through the power of their words. Hence, at the beginning of the chapter in which the Huainanzi is precisely concerned with describing techniques of control for the exclusive use of the ruler (zhu shu), after which it goes on to state that the ideal sovereign must remain serene, empty and immobile, the following information is offered: “Thus the kings of ancient times wore caps with strings of pearls in front so as to mask their vision and silk plugs in their ears so as to obstruct the acuity of their hearing.”45 It is not merely a matter of filtering and attenuating the reception in the sovereign’s ears of the florid, brazen words of the orators, or tempering any agitation or desire he might experience on contemplating beautiful objects, but also of masking the expression on his face when he is confronted with such stimuli so that he is thus shielded from any intrusive scrutiny and able to foil all attempts to discern his preferences and inclinations. This is also why the Han Feizi not only details the procedures of vigilance and inspection that can lay bare those who would address the sovereign, but also insists that the latter must at all times be opaque, impermeable and inaccessible. Bearing in mind that one of the keys to retaining supremacy and thwarting the effects of persuasion consists in ensuring that there is no way that the orator might adapt himself to the sovereign’s inclinations, deceit appears as one of the most expedient mechanisms when it becomes necessary to elude and confound intrusive gazes. Secrecy and concealment play a crucial role in aborting any attempt to infiltrate the emotional reality of the ruler. Accepting this basic principle of imperceptibility as the goal to be attained, the Han Feizi readily recommends simulation and dissimulation, or covering up and falsifying his inner condition so as to befuddle the orator’s powers of psychological discernment while also, and as a result of this, demolishing his ability to mould himself to his listener. As for the enlightened ruler, his main concern is complete secretiveness. Therefore when one shows one’s delight with someone then the ministers will use generosity to reward that person. When this generosity becomes evident, then the ruler’s authority is divided. As for the words of the enlightened ruler, they are therefore blocked off and not to be divulged; they are all secretive and not manifest.46 If the ruler shows his hatred, then the various ministers will hide their motives; if the ruler shows his likings, then the various ministers will misrepresent their abilities; if the ruler’s desires emerge openly, then the various ministers can avail themselves of this in their attitudes.47 [The ruler] does not show his facial expression and the subordinates become plain and straight.48

23 However, in the exposition of all this in the Han Feizi, the ideal ruler must not be content with camouflaging his emotions and preventing them from coming to the surface and being detected by his subordinates but, still more radically, he must also completely suppress all his inclinations, preferences and aversions, which is to say all

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the elements of his emotional constitution. The text therefore exhorts, “Discard likes, discard dislikes and the ministers will become plain (qu hao qu wu, chen nai jian su).”49 Only thus is it possible to reverse a situation which, at least in principle, would appear to be detrimental to the sovereign’s interests, for his words, his actions and his movements are subject to the most tenacious and meticulous scrutiny of the eyes of his numerous underlings, while he can only depend on his own eyes to examine this host of individuals. An anecdote in the form of a dialogue between the King Xuan of Qi (r. 319-301 BCE) and the Master Tang Yi about hunting birds by bow and arrow offers a clear illustration of this situation. The fragment is preceded by words that the Han Feizi puts in the mouth of Shen Buhai when he is urging the sovereign to be extremely cautious with his words and actions since, if he allows any glimpse of his intentions and emotions, his subordinates will adapt to them in order to bemuse and deceive him. The advice that Shen Buhai offers at the end of his speech consists precisely in controlling the advisers and court officials by means of non-action (wu wei).50 Shen Buhai depicts the perfect ruler as a majestic figure, not actively intervening in the government but presiding over it with complete impartiality, in a state of total serenity and imperturbability.51 The dialogue between the King Xuan and Tang Yi functions then as a kind of additional explanation of the principle, which has been anticipated by Shen Buhai: King Xuan of Qi asked Master Tang Yi: “When hunting with stringed arrows, what is the most important issue?” And Master Tang Yi replied: “The most important issue is being careful about the decoy granary.” And the king asked again: “What do you mean by being careful about the decoy granary?” [Tang Yi] answered: “The birds observe men with several hundred eyes while man looks at the birds with two eyes: how can one fail to be careful about the decoy granary. That is why I say: the point is in being careful about the decoy granary.” The king said: “Well, then, when one is ruling the world how does one create this decoy granary? Now, the ruler of men looks at the whole state with just two eyes while the whole state looks with myriad eyes at the ruler. How can one turn oneself into a decoy granary?” Tang Yi replied: “Zheng Zhang once said that if one is empty, calm, inactive and invisible, then one is surely able to make this decoy granary.”52

24 As I have mentioned, in accordance with Sunzi’s principles of the art of war, successful action on the battlefield is accomplished when the strategist is able to ensure that his troops’ manoeuvres are imperceptible, invisible to the adversary once they have shed any fixed form, shunned any particular formation and fused with the spirits (shen). This permanent absence of any form or disposition, of any emotion, disturbance and even activity, also defines the absolute domination by means of which the sovereign seeks to undo any attempt at manipulating him through the artfulness of persuasion.53 The almost demiurgic condition that the ruler must achieve if he is to avoid being prevailed over by his subordinates with their use of flattering adulation and worthless eloquence expands to the point of his becoming comparable with the Way (dao). In this resolute process of divestment, of emptying and even dehumanisation, the sovereign needs to take on all the negative characteristics of the Way that will attest to his superiority and command: he must appear as impassive, serene, immobile, invisible, unknowable, and so on. The Way consists in being invisible; its utility lies in being unfathomable. Empty, still, and without occupations, from the darkness he observes others’ faults. He sees

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but is not seen, he hears but is not heard, he knows but is not known. When he hears a proposal he proceeds, and without changing and replacing, by the method of comparison [of words with deed] he observes what happens. […] He hides his traces, conceals his basic motivations, so those below cannot reach the source [of his intimacy].54 Thus, eliminate likes, eliminate dislikes and, by way of emptying the mind, you will make of the Way your dwelling.55

25 The ruler attains absolute power thanks to his identification with the negative attributes of the Way. In transcending the specific dimension of forms, he unfolds in pure virtuality and prevails over forms because, like the beginning without a beginning that governs the universe, he is able to relinquish them and thereby remain in a state free of any determination. Concealed in the depths of his palace, the sovereign remains in a perfect state of quiescence and inactivity and, without the least sign of emotion, he neutralises the attempts of his underlings to adjust their oral interventions to his leanings and predispositions, thus obliging them, as I have noted, to present themselves as simple (su) and straight (zheng).56 Now divested of any kind of determination, the sovereign becomes indistinguishable from spirits and phantoms. Like them, unseen he sees, unheard he hears, and unknown he knows.57 Just as, when one turns to the invisible spirits, there is no place for calculation or measurements (shen zhi ge si, bu ke du si),58 before this subtle, ineffable sovereign, subordinates are unable to scheme in advance and are forced to behave exactly as they are. On becoming dehumanised and identified with the metaphysical principle that regulates the cosmos or with adept and subtle spirits, the ruler turns into a sort of cold, objective entity, an impervious machine that, without being affected by the persuasive dimension of words, examines the correspondence between words and deeds, between denominations and realities. Making the best possible use of the information procured by his networks of surveillance and espionage, the impenetrable opacity in which he is shrouded, and the fact that the ones who must speak (and hence reveal themselves) are his possible adversaries, while he remains silent, the ideal sovereign conceived by the Han Feizi engineers a total disarming of the wily-tongued orators.

26 To conclude, it is instructive to salvage a brief fragment of the Han Feizi which, after a condensed account of the historical development of humanity and distinguishing three chronological phases (remote antiquity, middle antiquity and the present) as well as their respective modalities of characteristic relations (virtue, cunning, and strength), offers a very different view of the diplomatic mission supposedly led by Zi Gong to the monarch of Qi, i.e. the episode that I mentioned at the beginning of this article: The state of Qi was preparing to attack the state of Lu and they therefore decided to send Zi Gong so that he might persuade their adversary. The people of Qi responded [after the meeting], “It is not that you lack rhetoric skills but what we desire are your lands and, naturally, we do not see them in your words.” So in the event they sent out their troops, vanquished the army of Lu and extended their realm to within ten miles of the capital of Lu.59

27 I believe that the fact that the Han Feizi does not reproduce the specific content of Zi Gong’s speech in the court of Qi is significant. Through this silence, the text somehow seems to be expressing the futility of any persuasive endeavour before a sovereign who, blank, serene and imperturbable, has shed all emotion or prejudice and is not to be swept away by any specious flow of discourse but, rather, responds only to the objective criterion of effective realities. In contrast with the diplomatic success that is attributed to the oratory feat in the Shiji and the Kongzi jiayu, in the version of the Han

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Feizi Zi Gong’s words echo in vain at court. His exhortations, which one imagines to be ingenious and highly accomplished, fail, however, to produce the desired result and, with scant resistance, the venerable lands of Lu end up being desecrated by the conquering hordes of Qi. Similarly, the absence of the sovereign in the anecdote is highly significant. I believe that if the Han Feizi deliberately omits him precisely at the point where his intervention might be expected, replacing it with the unanimous voice of the people of Qi, it could be because the sovereign has successfully assimilated the techniques that enable him to shed his emotions completely, and has managed to impose strict control over the correspondence between designation and reality within the bureaucratic apparatus. Therefore his presence is no longer necessary. Once he has been able to safeguard the propriety of appellations by thus fixing the univocity of names and things and, by extension, prescribing the just application of punishments and promotions, he is now embracing the ideal of the intangible and impenetrable sovereign who, in the image of the ancestors and natural cycles, silently, effectively and invisibly radiates authority. Under the mandate of this disembodied ruler, the whole population becomes impermeable to the pernicious persuasive action of those who would abuse words and pervert reality through psychological tactics and machinations. Besides exemplifying the eruption of a new virulent historic context, which justifies the resort to violence and coercion by political institutions, the anecdote appears to contain a twofold message about the power of speech-making. First, Zi Gong’s failure represents the sterility of any rhetoric attempt by an orator in a state where the master of denominations is immune to the effects of verbal subterfuge; and, second, the military invasion of Lu, emblem of Confucian orthodoxy, represents the death throes of Confucius’ programme that attempted to subordinate the use of language to a superior moral order. Paradoxically, the version of this story offered in the Han Feizi, in which the mission assigned to Zi Gong ends in resounding defeat, somehow seems to suggest the attainment of Confucius’ longed-for transparent world in which the relationship between designations and realities, between words and facts is perfectly coherent and concordant. Zi Gong’s ill-fated diplomatic mission fails precisely because the persuasive capacity of his discourse finds not even a single chink through which to infiltrate and become effective. The rhetorical dimension of his language is therefore conclusively neutralised. In some sense the anecdote offered in the Han Feizi might even be interpreted as something akin to minor revenge in favour of Confucius and against his presumptuous disciple. Nevertheless, the triumph of the chimera that Confucius had once glimpsed comes about in the Han Feizi not by way of the restoration of any moral dimension that would guarantee the honesty and credibility of the words pronounced, but thanks to a strategic device that deactivates any endeavour to bring the sovereign under the sway of words. There is no room for delusion in this regard: the invasion by the army of Qi of the territory of Lu, the Master’s birthplace, also symbolises the rout of his project and hence its categorical decline.

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CREEL, Herrlee G. (1970). “On the origin of wu-wei.” In What is Taoism? And Other Studies in Chinese Cultural History. Chicago, The University of Chicago Press.

CREEL, Herrlee G. (1974). Shen Pu-Hai, A Chinese Political Philosopher of the Fourth Century BC. Chicago, The University of Chicago Press.

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APPENDIXES

Glossary chuai 揣 dao 道 Guiguzi 鬼谷子 Han Feizi 韓非子 Huainanzi 淮南子 Jin 晉 jun jian sai liang er 君堅塞兩耳 jun zi 君子 King Xuan of Qi 齊宣王 Kongzi jiayu 孔子家語 Li Dui 李兌 li kou qiao ci 利口巧辭 Lu 魯 Lunyu 論語 Lüshi chunqiu 呂氏春秋 Master Tang Yi 唐易子 Mengzi 孟子 ming 名 Mizi Xia 彌子瑕 na 訥 ning 佞 qi 器 Qi 齊 qing 情 qu hao qu wu, chen nai jian su 去好去惡，臣乃見素 ren 仁

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rena 訒 shan wei shuo ci 善為說辭 shen 神 Shen Buhai 申不害 shen he xing ming 審合刑名 shen zhi ge si, bu ke du si 神之格思、不可度思 shi 實 Shiji 史記 shu 術 Sima Niu 司馬牛 su 素 Sunzi bingfa 孫子兵法 Su Qin 蘇秦 ting zhi dao 聽之道 Wei 衛 Wu 吳 wu 無 wu wei 無為 wu xing 無形 xian xing qi yan, er hou cong zhi 先行其言，而后從之 xin 信 Xunzi 荀子 yan gan ci qiao 言甘辭巧 yan yu 言語 yin 因 Yue 越 Zai Wo 宰我 Zhanguo ce 戰國策 zheng 正 zhu shu 主術 Zi Gao 子羔 Zi Gong 子貢 Zi Lu 子路

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NOTES

2. Lunyu IV.21. 3. Lunyu XIV.27; see also Lunyu V.25. For an analysis of Confucius’ use and conception of language, see Jean Levi 2002: 90-130 and the developments by Jean-François Billeter 2005: 180-188. 4. See Lunyu I.3, I.7, XIII.20, XV.6. 5. It is highly likely that Confucius was the first person in history to use the term ren as an ethical concept. It rarely appears in written sources pre-dating his times and, indeed, when it does appear, it bears no relation to the moral load it would subsequently be given. See Lin Yü-sheng 1974-1975: 172-204. As David Nivison observes, in archaic Chinese the term ning was pronounced *nieng and was a graphic modification of its cognate ren which, in fact, was pronounced *nien. See Nivison 1999: 745-812, especially 751. One passage in the Analects suggests that this link between the two notions was also evident for some of Confucius’ contemporaries: Lunyu V.5. 6. See Lunyu I.3, XV.11 and XVI.4. 7. Lunyu IV.24 and XIII.27. 8. Lunyu XII.3. 9. Lunyu XI.25. 10. Lunyu XI.18. 11. Lunyu I.7. See also Lunyu I.8 and I.14. 12. Sima Qian 司馬遷 1959: chap. LXVII, 2201. 13. Lunyu XI.3. 14. Wang Yunwu 王雲五 1984: 58. 15. Sima Qian 1959: chap. LXVII, 2195. The Lunheng includes Zi Gong among the orators with sweet words and clever speech (言甘辭巧): Huang Hui 黃暉 1990: chap. LXXX, 1115. For a more detailed study on the influence of Zi Gong in the diplomatic and rhetorical traditions of antiquity, see the study by Zhuan Jianping 傳劍平 1995: 83-101. 16. Lunyu II.13. 17. There can be no doubt that Confucius, at least in what one may glean from the Analects, recognises Zi Gong’s practical (political, diplomatic, economic) qualities since when the latter asks him for his opinion of his own person (Lunyu V.4), the Master employs the term qi 器 (“vessel” or, in the wider sense, “utensil” or “instrument”) to portray him. However, the moral ambiguity harboured in the term—since in Lunyu II.12, Confucius declares that the noble man, exemplar of the morally adequate individual, is not a vessel—most probably expresses the ambivalence awakened by Zi Gong and his attributes in the bosom of the Confucian community. In the account of this diplomatic mission to stop the attack by Qi, the Shiji states: “Zi Lu asked for permission to leave, but Confucius stopped him. Zi Zhang and Zishi asked for permission to set off, but Confucius would not agree to this. Zi Gong asked for permission to set off, and Confucius agreed to this.” (Shiji: chap. LXVII, 2197) It seems clear then that, according to Sima Qian, the Master decided to select Zi Gong because of his talent as negotiator and diplomat. 18. Sima Qian 1959: 2197-2201. See also Chen Shike 陳士珂 1980: chap. XXXVII, 213; and Xiang Zonglu 向宗魯 1989: chap. XII, 296. 19. Li Bujia 李步嘉 1992: chap. I, 1. The intricate diplomatic triumph achieved by Zi Gong for the state of Lu is described fully in detail in another section of this text: chap. IX, 162-167. For a translation and study of this chapter, see Olivia Milburn 2010: 205-219. 20. Lunyu VI.14. The priest Tuo was renowned for his speech-making eloquence and skills (Yang Bojun 楊伯君 1996, Ding gong 定公 Year 4: 1535), while Prince Chao of Song was famous for his captivating beauty (Cheng Shude 程樹德 1980: 397-399). 21. Of course, not all orators and advisers were necessarily itinerant in the Warring States period. Nevertheless, it seems clear that the appearance of this new class of wandering officials,

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which was part of an extraordinary general process of social mobility, brought about far- reaching changes in institutions and practices as well as in the mentality of the times. The fact that, at least potentially, even permanently appointed officers could move to another kingdom or, on the contrary, could accept in their courts advisers hailing from other parts had an enormous impact. For further discussion of this, see Cho-yun Hsu 1965; and Jean Levi 2007: 805-823. 22. For a complete description of the ascent to power of the itinerant orators and of discourse as an instrument of political effectiveness, see the contributions of Jean Levi 1989: 61-85; and 1992: 49-89. 23. With regard to the influence of psychological factors in conceptions of rhetoric in ancient China—in other words, the elements that, to use the terms of classical western theories of rhetoric, are considered to pertain not so much to reason (logos) as to emotions (pathos)—see Garrett 1993: 19-39. 24. Chen Qiyou 陳奇猷 2000: chap. IX, 182. See also Chen Qiyou 2000: chap. XLIX, 1114. 25. Wang Xianqian 王先謙 1997: chap. IV, 33. Translation by Knoblock 1988: 186. Another illustration of this may be found in the opening chapter of the legalist text traditionally attributed to Shang Yang 商鞅, the Shang jun shu 商君書 or The Book of Lord Shang. The author (or authors) of this compilation of texts—attributed to the influential statesman—opens the work with a description of the debate between Shang Yang and the rival ministers Gan Long 甘龍 and Du Zhi 杜摯 over reforming the political institutions of the state of Qin, which was then governed by the Duke Xiao 孝公 (r. 361-338 BCE). It is still surprising that one of the paradigmatic figures in the struggle against all forms of oratorical refinement should be somehow obliged to resort to a scene in which triumph over ideological adversaries by way of greater powers of persuasion is presented as necessary and unavoidable when it comes to consolidating his political project (Jiang Lihong 蔣禮鴻 1986: chap. I, 1-6). 26. Chen Qiyou 陳奇猷 2002: chap. XV.5, 913. Su Qin 蘇秦 himself establishes an explicit relationship between the techniques of persuasion and diplomatic dexterity as a form of combat or war: Fan Xiangyong 范祥雍 2008: chap. XII.5, 670-676; Sima Qian 1959: chap. LXIX, 2242-2261. See also Raphals 1992: 117-123. 27. For an interesting comparison between Greek eloquence when seeking to persuade the listeners in an auditorium and the Chinese form as focused on the person of the sovereign, see Lloyd 1996: 74-92. 28. Chen Qiyou, 2000: chap. XII, 254. See also Wang Xianqian 1997: chap. V, 85. 29. Yang Bingan 楊丙安 1999: chap. VI, 124-125. In the same sense, the chapter devoted to military strategy in the Huainanzi sustains: “Everything that has a form (xing) can be vanquished. It is always possible to adapt somehow to anything that has a form. This is why the wise man hides his form in nothingness and lets his mind roam in emptiness. A barrier can block the passing of the wind and of water more than of cold and heat for the latter two have no form (wu xing) and can penetrate the most solid state, passing through metal and stone, reaching the most remote confines all the way to the ninth sphere of the heavens and descending into the very depths of the earth. They can do all this because they have no form.” (Zhang Shuangdi 張雙棣 1997: chap. XV, 1578.) 30. See Cheng Guying 陳鼓應 1989: chap. 8, 89. 31. Xu Fuhong 許富宏 2008: chap. X, 152. 32. Xu Fuhong 2008: chap. I, 15. 33. For a more comprehensive analysis of the term qing 情 within the philosophical and political literature of early China, see the following contributions: Cheng 1999: 31-58; Tang Yijie 2003: 271-281; and Harbsmeier 2004: 69-148. 34. Xu Fuhong 2008: chap. VII, 106-107. On this issue, see Tsao Ding-ren 1985: 135-145; and Wu Xingming 吳興明 1994: 193-201.

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35. Xu Fuhong 2008: chap. I, 7. 36. See Yang Bingan 1999: chap. IV, 74-75. 37. Chen Qiyou 2000: chap. XII, 268-269. 38. Chen Qiyou 2002: chap. XIII.3, 693. 39. See Makeham 1994: 51-84. 40. On the dangers of the itinerant orators and persuaders, see for example Chen Qiyou 2000: chap. IX, 182 and chap. XLIX, 1114. 41. See Creel 1974. 42. Chen Qiyou 2000: chap. VII, 126. 43. Chen Qiyou 2000: chap. XLVIII, 1063-1064 and 1074-1075. 44. Fan Xiangyong 2008: chap. XVII.8, 969. 45. Zhang Shuangdi 1997: chap. IX, 889. See also Wu Zeyu 吳則虞 1962: chap. VII.9, 452-453. 46. Chen Qiyou 2000: chap. XLVIII, 1072. 47. Chen Qiyou 2000: chap. VII, 130. 48. Chen Qiyou 2000: chap. VIII, 145. 49. Chen Qiyou 2000: chap. V, 66. 50. On the political dimension of this notion in ancient China, see Creel 1970: 48-78. 51. A fragment credited to Shen Buhai states: “To speak ten times and ten times be right, to act a hundred times and a hundred times succeed: this is the business of one who serves another as a minister, it is not the way to rule. (十言十當，百為百當者，人臣之事,非君人之道也。)” (See Creel 1974: 350.) 52. Chen Qiyou 2000: chap. XXXIV, 777. 53. “If the master above is not like a spirit, those below will find something to adapt to him (主上 不神,下將有因)” (Chen Qiyou 2000: chap. VIII, 163). 54. Chen Qiyou 2000: chap. V, 74. 55. Chen Qiyou 2000: chap. VIII, 157. 56. To my mind, the use of these two terms in the Han Feizi is not innocent: in the texts associated with the so-called Taoist school, the term su 素 designates the primordial goodness and simplicity of humanity that had not yet been undermined and contaminated by the political and pedagogical institutions (see, for example, Guo Qingfan 郭慶藩 1968: chap. IX, 334-335); again, the term zheng 正 denotes, in a fair part of the writings associated with Confucianism, the integrity and moral probity of the individual who has been able to complete a process of cultivating himself. Paradoxically, the Han Feizi seeks to procure these qualities among the subjects, not by returning to a primitive society or by completing some form of moral cultivation but, rather, by means of the sovereign’s adopting certain sophisticated and immoral techniques. 57. The “Zhong Yong” 中庸 acknowledges the elusiveness of ghost and spirits: “We look for them but cannot see them; we listen for them but cannot hear them (視之而弗見,聽之而弗聞)” (Shisanjing zhushu 十三經注疏 1995: 1628). And, again, the Huainanzi states, “We look for the ghosts and spirits, but they have no form; we listen for them but they have no sound (夫鬼神視 之無形，聽之無聲)” (Zhang Shuangdi 1997: chap. XX, 2050). 58. Mao Shi zhengyi 毛詩正義, in Shisanjing zhushu 十三經注疏 1995: 555. 59. Chen Qiyou 2000: chap. XLIX, 1092-1093.

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ABSTRACTS

The philosophical adventure begins in ancient China with a clear consciousness of the power and the potential dangers deriving from the rhetorical use of words. In spite of all the efforts made by Confucius in order to subjugate discourse to an ethical code and to certify a strict and appropriate relationship between names and deeds, the truth is that the Warring States period is characterized by the increasing intellectual and political influence of a new class of orators who, stripped of any moral attachment, consider persuasion from a purely strategic perspective. As in the art of war, as it was understood in early China, this kind of persuasion based on psychological skills needs malleability, adaptability, simulation and dissimulation; exhaustive knowledge about the adversary and, at the same time, impenetrable secrecy and opacity concerning one’s own intentions. In my paper, I will try to show the essential dynamics of these rhetorical techniques as well as some of the most relevant attempts to neutralize and evade the persuasive capacity of orators, diplomats and counsellors.

Les débuts de la réflexion philosophique en Chine ancienne sont indissociables de la conscience aiguë des dangers potentiels d’un discours rhétorique. Malgré tous les efforts de Confucius pour subordonner le discours à un code éthique afin d’instaurer une relation stricte et appropriée entre les noms et les choses, l’époque des Royaumes Combattants est marquée par l’influence intellectuelle et politique croissante d’une nouvelle classe d’orateurs qui, dépourvue de toute considération morale, conçoit les effets de persuasion d’un point de vue purement stratégique. Comme dans l’art de la guerre, tel qu’il est conçu et pratiqué en Chine ancienne, ce type de persuasion psychologique exige l’adaptabilité, la malléabilité, la simulation et la dissimulation ; il préconise également d’avoir une connaissance exhaustive de l’interlocuteur, de dévoiler les émotions de ce dernier et, en même temps, d’enfouir ses propres intentions au plus profond de soi-même. Le présent article s’efforce de montrer les principes communs à ces techniques rhétoriques ainsi que les tentatives les plus efficaces pour neutraliser et déjouer la force persuasive de ces orateurs, diplomates et conseillers.

古代中國哲學思想自始便對言辭使用之潛在危險有著很深的意識。儘管孔子曾努力嘗試將話 語納入一套倫理規範的約束之下，試圖確立「名」與「實」之間嚴格正確的對應關係，戰國 時代的政治與思想卻顯然為一批影響日益壯大的新型言說家們所左右。這些人毫無倫理顧 忌，純粹是從戰略的角度來構想言說的效力。如古代中國構想並施行的兵法理念所提倡的， 說客之言要善於調整、迎合、偽裝、隱藏；為此，說客需對言說對象有充分徹底的認識，要 求能夠揭開其情感內核，而與此同時，又要把自己的意圖深藏不露。本文旨在闡明這些言說 技術的共同原則，以及化解這些說客、外交官和權貴顧問之說服力的可行之法

AUTHOR

ALBERT GALVANY Albert Galvany is a “Marie Curie” programme researcher at the Department of Humanities at Pompeu Fabra University in Barcelona, and affiliated researcher in the East Asian Studies Department at Cambridge University. His field of research is early Chinese intellectual history.

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Rhetoric that Kills, Rhetoric that Heals Fleurs vénéneuses de rhétorique 生亦修辭，死亦修辭

Romain Graziani

Political context in early China for the development and use of rhetoric1

1 One day, Marquis Wen, head of the state of Wei (r. 424-387 BC) and hailed as a great patron of scholars, asked Tian Zifang, sitting in attendance, why he never took the trouble to mention who was his master. It is Shun (Docile) of the Eastern Wall, replied the counselor to his lord. After which he offered this description, taut and terse in wording, but long-lasting in effect: This man is truthfulness incarnate. He has the semblance of a human being, but inside the vacuity of Heaven. He holds fast to his authenticity while stringing along. In his purity, he can encompass everything. If someone is led astray, he makes him come to his senses by dint of his upright countenance. In his presence, people’s intentions just evaporate. How could someone like me be qualified to mention him? The impact of Tian Zifang’s words on the marquis of Wei is overwhelming: After Tian Zifang took leave, Marquis Wen remained dumbfounded; he did not utter a single word till the end of the day. The next morning, he summoned those who stood in attendance to him and told them: “Out of reach! Such is the gentleman endowed with a flawless virtue! I used to think nothing could trump the enlightened words of the Sages and their just and humane behavior, but after hearing about Tian Zifang’s master, my body seems to have disintegrated, and I feel no desire to act any longer. My mouth is frozen and will not speak. All the things I have learned, why, they are now just like clay figures turned into mud. In truth, the state of Wei has become a burden to me!” 2

2 In this story drawn from the Writings of Master Zhang or Zhuangzi, one of the canonical texts of the tradition that was later be labeled Taoist, and written for the greater part during the Warring States era, we encounter a well-documented historical figure, the

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marquis of Wei, set in an imaginary situation among fictitious characters. The lord of Wei is stunned by the description of this guileless master, who, by his sole presence, exerts the deepest moral influence on other people without even having to utter a word. The marquis himself becomes speechless, but in an ironic symmetry with this master Shun of the Eastern Wall, here it is only the symptom of his inability, after hearing Tian Zifang, to resume his life in the palace and fulfill his lordly office. This polarity separating the silent sage and the dumb marquis, both masters of Tian Zifang in two different perspectives, situates speech, with all its artifices, in a middle zone, between the sage’s life and our foolish existence which we become sometimes aware of through an unexpected encounter. And yet, to get an inkling of this master Shun’s “complete virtue” (quan de), we still need an artful portrayal peppered with striking images. The superiority of the speechless master can only induce a mesmerizing effect because it has been conveyed using slick rhetoric. In this sense, Tian Zifang conjures up a person who is both the praise and the negation of his speech. This is in all likelihood why he concludes with the semi-rhetorical question: “How could I be worthy of mentioning him?” as if he felt that the very fact of speaking about him did him wrong.

3 In sum, only deft language can adequately ingrain the belief that a true sage dispenses with language. Far from holding this brief story as a rhetorical divertimento, I will take it as the preliminary step in an inquiry into a debate on the nature and uses of rhetoric in early China. My rendition of the literary landscape will remain fragmentary, and will simply isolate two significant swaths of thought that exploited to the full and in a very conscious way the resources of a well-crafted language of the human mind. After expounding Han Fei’s (256-223 BC) ambiguous attitude toward rhetoric and persuasion in his encompassing doctrine of the monarchical centralized state, I will show that some texts pertaining to the later strata of the Zhuangzi, but hinging on one of its earliest chapters—“In the World of Men”—develop techniques of communication and strategies of persuasion that were purported to dispel the hazards and dangers inherent to palace politics, denounced by Han Fei with such frightening acumen. But first of all, for the reader unfamiliar with texts from early China, a few remarks germane to our theme.

4 Any public display of oneself in order to gain influence or exert persuasion, regardless of its efficacy, involves a form of rhetoric, whatever the standpoint: the intention of the addresser, the speech itself or the effect it produces on the listener or reader (the addressee).3 Political rhetoric features prominently in early China in the context of a one-to-one exchange.4 If we rely on written records from early China, it seems that there was barely any form of collective decision-making such as voting or negotiation.5 That is to say, argumentation was merely a personal exercise of persuasion resorting to a wide variety of rhetorical devices. At least, the extand sources from the Warring States period (453-222 BCE), where the art of speech reached great heights of sophistication, show us a recurring paradigm for the display of rhetoric in politics: a dialogue between persuader and ruler (with all the expected variations: a sage and a king, an envoy and a prince, a hermit and a duke, a counselor and a grandee, etc.). Sometimes other ministers, advisers, or officers attend the audience, get a word in edgewise, make objections and jostle to catch the ear and assent of the one man in power. This canonical political pattern must be understood within the broader context of the overarching paradigm of monarchism in Chinese political culture. The Chinese persuader is not strictly speaking a “rhētōr,” a public speaker defined by his command

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of the civic art of persuading, as defined for the first time—though retrospectively—in Plato’s dialogue Gorgias. Hence, the classical personification of political rhetoric in ancient China is not the orator before an assembly or a citizen addressing other citizens.6 Chinese rhetoric originated far from the constitutional framework of Athenian democracy, and was not developed for speakers in a court of law: there is no comparable judicial rhetoric in early China that we are aware of (even in the recently excavated legal manuscripts).

5 The political context of a throng of persuaders and courtiers engaged in keen competition to be heard by a ruler whose power was not limited by any institutional mechanism, accounts for the highly risky and often deadly game of political persuasion in the Warring States. An adviser, a persuader or an envoy who lost hovered credit with his ruler, disappointed him or appeared to be a threat to the state in question between life and death. As a tactical gambit, some persuaders asked their lord to be relieved of their duties, or even to be sentenced to death. For instance, in the first chapter of the Han Feizi, the author harshly lectures the king of Qin, scolds him for the errors of his policies and comments on the foolishness of his advisers. Han Fei lampoons and criticizes with an openness that hardly anyone before him and almost no one after him ever attained. After his excoriating diatribe, he steps up to offer himself as a strategist and adviser to the king, while demanding to be sentenced to death if he does not succeed in procuring Qin’s hegemony over its rivals.7

The self-defeating nature of rhetoric in politics

6 We hardly need the long list of valiant advisers tortured and put to death in ancient times, drawn up with a kind of gloomy delight in the Zhuangzi, and later the Han Feizi,8 to remind us that moral discourses and exemplary conduct are incapable of changing someone who refuses to be changed, particularly when that person is an all-powerful being whose status precludes the use of physical constraints. Han Fei, with a hair- raising rhetorical pathos, gives us a detailed picture of the disastrous ends met by the advisers who preceded him and who had the misfortune to displease. They had their flesh hacked from their bones, salted, dried, minced, soused or roasted, or they were suspended from beams by their tendons, thrown into ditches full of sharpened stakes, had their hearts torn out or their feet amputated, were sold as slaves, torn apart or sawn into pieces. He himself, having been summoned to the kingdom of Qin because of his sagacity, ended up being slandered and thrown into a cell. Because of the treacherous specious tongue of a rival (maybe Qin Prime Minister Li Si, maybe someone else), he was forced to drink poison at the king’s behest, although it is said the king of Qin later regretted his verdict. How ironically tragic an end, when one thinks of Han Fei’s institutional precautions and antidotes to prevent any persuader from impinging upon the authority and judgment of the ruler!

7 In this respect, we should take into account the ambivalent attitude of late Warring States thinkers, like Han Fei and Xunzi, who advised orators on how to please the ruler or avert his hostility.9 They offer a repository of strategic attitudes and recipes for conduct that can be seen as a sort of court survival kit. But at the same time they discuss political authority from the point of view of the ruler and no longer from the perspective of persuader or political advisor (shi), as if all the effects of the advice they have been giving were as if nullified. Han Fei tries to exploit the powers of rhetoric and

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eloquence to their full extent while at the same time he tries to protect his ruler from them. The new political order was accompanied by far-reaching reforms of the Chinese language itself.

The ambiguity of rhetoric in Han Fei’s world

8 In Han Fei’s idealized state, language is to be used solely for technical, informative and descriptive purposes, and rhetoric is the last refuge of deceivers and incompetents. Rhetoric must be abolished in favor of a use of language which is stripped of all artifice, and in which each and every word is justified by a corresponding action.10 The misrepresentations found in everyday language transactions will thus become impossible, sophists and masters of rhetoric will be muzzled, and the ruling language, once the spectre of the insidious gap between reality and its enunciation has been revealed, will be the language of the bureaucracy.11 Ideally, this should be a language made up of objective signs whose content is purely informative and which are completely verifiable.

9 Han Fei’s rhetoric concerning the confidential nature of information and of personal invisibility can be viewed as a medical precaution, a sort of political quarantine, to ensure the ruler will not be contaminated or infected by the persuasive charisma of an eloquent adviser, a minister, or even a concubine. The monstrous creation of the arch ruler, patterned after the Way in a seemingly transcendent legitimation of kingship (omniscient, invisible, spirit-like), an ascetic “man without qualities,”12 is Han Fei’s desperate response to his gnawing irritation with the detrimental effects of rhetoric on the way the state is ordered and on the way administrative appointments are made. It is an extreme attempt to avoid any emotional commitment on the part of the ruler, to eliminate any possibility that a skillful orator might infiltrate the inner place where he harbors his desires and ambitions. The ruler must be shielded and insulated from any attempt to maneuver his mind.

10 So, according to Han Fei, just what kind of language, should be used by the perfect ruler? In his description of the ideal monarch, Han Fei time and again insists he should deliberately keep silent, which is unsettling for his courtiers: the king is careful not to enter the arena of language, which would immediately give rise to debates and schemes; he does not even try to use the cunning or magical powers of language to bolster his prestige. The rhetoric of kingly authority dispenses with words. His terrifying silences must lend themselves to an infinite number of interpretations, making it impossible to discern the object of his wishes, his likes or dislikes. In this sense, the political universe of Legalism is non-discursive.

11 Han Fei’s attempt to produce a person not only impervious to the attractions of adroit and alluring persuasion, but fundamentally devoid of any emotional dispositions,13 is the linchpin of his institutional construction and, at the same time, in anthropological terms, a sheer mirage. The kingly figure he creates is an anthropological monstrosity. The theoretically almighty ruler is in effect a nullity. The whole system depends on the creation of a super-king who transcends his human condition in order to retain authority and ensure he is never robbed of his power by those around him. But by eliminating all vulnerable elements from this idealized, ivory tower sovereign, Han Fei is led to exalt with mystical overtones a speechless dummy, an empty concept, and a Utopian viewpoint. In so doing, he reproduces the kind of rhetoric he pretends to have

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eliminated once and for all, the rhetoric that wittingly substitutes an imaginary and illusory reality for the actual situation. It seems that Han Fei, supposedly the radical realist enemy of sophists, glib tongues and artful persuaders, has internalized the political rhetoric he denounces. In devising the conceptual means to eradicate the subversive use of language,14 he falls prey to the very kind of logical inconsistencies he has been attacking. Hence his unparalleled eloquence, and also the impracticalities of his system.15

12 We have seen how rhetoric can be examined from two different perspectives in Han Fei’s work, and the rhetoric he himself uses needs to be distinguished from his ideas about the nature of rhetoric. These perspectives reveal signs of strain, and even contradictions, in the Han Feizi, and this has far-reaching consequences for the overall coherence of his political plan. Han Fei’s extraordinary eloquence and powers of persuasion are actually partly invalidated by what he says about language. It seems as if he uses his rhetoric purely to help him achieve a commanding position from which he can monitor and control all use of language which diverges from a strict representation of objective facts. One might respond that he is simply showing off his eloquence and persuasiveness in order to crack down on the lies and deceitfulness of the court sophists, but this argument seems to me not entirely convincing. His frequent use of amplification and exaggeration, the opportunistic and non-contextualized recourse to anecdotes16 and historical precedents, 17 the way he builds up a cumulative effect, or uses the absurd to illustrate his point, the free expression of his displeasure and sarcasm—all of these show Han Fei to be an expert persuader, although the Han Feizi falls far short of providing practical solutions to all the problems that weaken kingdoms and undermine political authority.17

13 More importantly, Han Fei falls into the trap of self-deluding rhetoric when he elaborates on what is at the center of the state he sees it, namely the king. Readers of the Han Feizi frequently observe that some chapters are written from the point of view of ministers forced to deal with ignorant and benighted rulers, while other chapters envision political authority solely from the perspective of the monarch, and treat ministers and servants as dangerous and seditious creatures who should never be given any authority or room for maneuver. Ascribing these conflicting chapters to different authors is a sound and tidy solution, but it assumes that Han Fei himself was unable to adopt different perspectives, and that his thinking lacked tension and complexity. How can we account for this tension between the astute advice given to persuaders (as in the “Dangers of persuasion” chapter) on the one hand and the resounding attacks directed at persuaders of every sort, on the other?

14 There are indeed obvious tensions in the Han Feizi envisioned as a whole. Chief of these is undoubtedly the tension between the contending views of the pro-minister and pro- monarch chapters, as it undermines Han Fei’s capacity to build a systematic theory of political authority. This polarity is reflected in his equivocal stance on rhetoric. When it comes to protecting a principled counselor or minister from a boastful, headstrong and wicked ruler, Han Fei is guarding the interests of his peers and perhaps imparting his wealth of experience of the world. When, from the other standpoint, he decries the art of persuading and influencing others, he is attacking a debased, unprincipled and biased use of rhetoric by people hostile to him or those who are likely to lead the ruler astray (in practical terms these two classes of individuals overlap). This tension between Han Fei’s speeches about persuasion and his persuasions about speech does

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not necessarily require a rationalizing explanation. When we pay due attention to these apparently conflicting chapters, we come to realize that Han Fei is not advocating a use of rhetoric on one hand while condemning it on the other. In “Dangers of persuasion” he gives advice on a very specific situation: the predicament of the Legalist persuader,18 isolated and vulnerable, who must somehow contrive to obtain an audience with a ruler, impose his agenda of reforms against the private interests of the courtiers, and manage to stay alive, even though is threatening the existence and influence of all those people who thrive only in a state which is feudal and corrupt.

15 The perspectives on the art of language alternate according to the duality which the Han Feizi establishes between the servant of the law and particular techniques (see the phrase fashu zhi shi 法術之士 in the chapter “A lone man’s frustration,” “Gu fen”). Rhetoric is a weapon to be wielded by the servants of Legalism, when they are destitute and facing hostility from all sides. It is to them that Han Fei is speaking when he gives advice on how to worm one’s way into the soul of a ruler and win favor with him. But when the tricks of language are employed for personal ends (by favorites, dignitaries, sons, ambassadors, concubines and so on): rhetoric destroys the state and blinds its ruler. In the former case, rhetoric saves, in the latter it kills. Most of the time, it fails.

16 Both Zhou Xunchu (1980) and Zheng Liangshu (1993) account for this apparent contradiction in the Han Feizi by distinguishing different periods in Han Fei’s intellectual development, and they see “Dangers of persuasion” as a later chapter, reflecting his battle-weary experience of the world. In one of the first modern philological studies of the authenticity of the Han Feizi, Rong Zhaozu (1982) asseverates that this chapter was most certainly from the hand of a wandering persuader or strategist. Although the text considered per se could well be the work of one of these persuaders, the situation it reflects and the advice it proffers also make perfect sense when we consider Han Fei’s personal circumstances, for he was himself a wandering persuader.19 Summoned to court because of his eloquence in writing, he was slandered by a rival minister and brought down by a cunning and persuasive speech against him.

17 Han Fei’s tragic end gives a particular momentum to “Dangers of persuasion.” The fate of the victim of Li Si and his clique reminds us that any form of speech, and any personal style of communication, is likely to be criticized, derided, slandered or attacked. Ultimately, one must accept the fact that there is no safe way to speak in the political arena: one is always surrounded at court by mischief-makers ready to pounce, whatever one says and however one says. And when the ruler is cruel, stubborn or stupid, the best rhetoric proves useless, if not fatal to oneself. In “Dangers of persuasion,” Han Fei stresses this point with great bitterness: what matters ultimately, when speaking during either an official or a private audience, is not the quality of the speech itself, but the capacity to gain the ruler’s ear, to make oneself understood. The kind of effect produced on the ruler is in the end the only yardstick by which to judge the value of a speech. Rhetoric is not apprehended by Han Fei from the perspective of the speech itself: its inner consistency, its stylistic elegance, its arguments are of no importance. What matters is to speak the kind of language that pleases the ruler. And even then, when one manages to dovetail one’s plan with the ruler’s desires, one still risks disgrace or death. From the moment one opens one’s mouth, one is in danger. Whatever one may say or do, one is exposed to malevolence, suspicion, slander. The best plans, the most honest speeches, the most meritorious actions will never be powerful enough to ward off mistrust and jealousy. In sum, no rhetoric can make a

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speech immune to an iniquitous or dishonest interpretation, and the rhetor will never have the means to secure his defense, for he has to submit to the subjective, irrational or whimsical arbitrariness of the ruler. Han Fei intimates here that the real problem revealed by reflection on the impotency of a true and useful speech is the monarchic regime’s lack of attention to any institutional method of securing the prevalence of laws.20 For Han Fei, or rather, according to the intersection of political, ethical and moral perspectives in the different strata of the Han Feizi, rhetoric appears simultaneously as a clear marker of an astute but potentially seditious mind, a blatant display of immorality, a quintessential resource for the Legalist thinker, a blight for the state, a dilemma for the unprepared ruler,21 and finally a necessity in the current state of things, but one which will have no reason to exist in a Legalist society. At this stage, the eloquence of facts will trump any spurious attempt to give language a virtue of its own.

18 Looking beyond Han Fei’s case, it is noteworthy that over the course of the Warring States period rhetoric exacerbates the generally shared suspicion of language that had already contributed to the rejection of investigations on logic and verbal analysis, seen as spurious disciplines. Mencius, in his workman-like style and with fastidious care in his historical account of civilization, defends himself against the rumor that he is fond of debating as this implies an accusation of immorality.22 By the time of Xunzi, with the proliferation of sophists and ill-doers, persuasion and debates have become a necessary evil, and even noble men must engage in them.23 Most thinkers pertaining to the tradition later labeled as “Confucian” see eloquence and rhetorical artistry as running counter to morality, as if rhetoric were always tantamount to sophistry. Prominent literati and scholars from the Han era, such as Yang Xiong and Ban Gu, flying in the face of Sima Qian’s high opinion of this frustrated kindred spirit, held Han Fei to be an immoral persuader, of the same ilk as Su Qin or Zhang Yi, and saw his tragic demise as the pathetic outcome of his own immoral persuasions.24 Political rhetoric in particular is a deadly weapon that ultimately turns against the one who uses it: for a perfect illustration of the ambiguous nature of rhetoric, let us now turn to the wealth of stories contained in the Zhanguoce (Intrigues of the Warring States).25

The art of persuasion in the Intrigues of the Warring States

19 The Intrigues of the Warring States is a collection of historical anecdotes, speeches, fables, debates, letters and tales of famous persuaders, ministers, advisers and rulers from pre- imperial China (ca 300-221 BCE). It is the richest existing repository of Chinese political rhetoric, and a reservoir of figures of speech that, overtly or covertly, contributed to the political education of scholars throughout Chinese history. It has attracted the literary admiration of dozens of generations, and long passages from it have been integrated into anthologies, although officially it remained an object of scorn in Confucian milieus. The book supposedly endowed its diligent reader with potentially damaging powers. In the absence of an explicit tradition of textbooks, manuals of composition and style, treatises and lectures that describe and prescribe what is public speaking, that is to say, of a metarhetorical tradition (or conceptualization of rhetorical techniques), the Intrigues of the Warring States doubles as the earliest known textbook of political rhetoric from early China. We know almost nothing about the history of the teaching and practice of rhetoric in early China. All we have are these brilliant pieces,

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written with wit and gusto, that seem unquestionably to command the assent of the listener.

20 It should be noted, however, that none of the speeches collected in the Intrigues of the Warring States deal with the ultimate ends and values of politics: they are chiefly concerned with decisions and tactics. The book lays bare the cynical genius of sophists, spies, agents and traitors, all enthralled by the logic of war games and far-reaching treasure-winning strategies at the expense of, or rather regardless of, any moral concern.26 For if “without power, nothing can be established, and without a position of authority, nothing can ever be achieved, only the shrewd deceiver can achieve things successfully for the man who sits on the throne.”27 No doubt these texts were used to train readers in the persuasive power of rhetoric. In this respect, they serve different purposes: some are aimed at converting the ruler to a view contradicting the one he holds, some at implanting beliefs and desires previously unknown or overlooked, others at proving the sagacity and uprightness of the speaker. The imperial librarian and editor Liu Xiang confessed his admiration for the talent of these persuaders: They were officials of great talent. They estimated the capacities of rulers of their age, put forward the most amazing plans and manifested uncommon intelligence. They turned peril into security and loss into salvation in a manner which delights: it is well worth reading.28

21 Liu Xiang’s phrasing is quite ambiguous, however, and perhaps unknowingly discloses the ambivalent nature of political rhetoric: “turning peril into security and loss into salvation.” One may understand here that a well-trained and fully-fledged sophist is able to give an admirably fallacious account of a situation and by sleight of hand turn black into white. Rhetoric here would mean a talent for duping and deception, a highly risky game indeed. No wonder that at the end of the Han dynasty the book was reviled and attacked as wicked. The very mention of the Intrigues “greatly stimulates the flow of choleric humors in proper guardians of public morality—most particularly, one imagines, among those who have never read them.”29

22 The alternative reading of Liu Xiang’s phrase means that as a strategist, and not merely a sophist, the persuader is able to change what is in effect a desperate situation and, by his wily ploys, save any weak state from ruin.

23 As these puritanical late Han literati saw it, the core of the book illustrates the skills of Zhang Yi, Su Dai and Su Qin in preserving their own lives and wealth while destroying and killing others.30 The imperial scholar Zeng Gong, who in the eleventh century reconstructed and edited the received version of the text, dared not set out his stall as a devotee of the book on which he worked for so many years, and emphasized the detrimental effects of Warring States rhetoric that could ultimately result only in loss, death and destruction.

24 Confucius and Mencius had no need of exotic argument. Their one hope was never to be lax in preserving principle. Of them it can be said they remained unaffected by the drift of the times and maintained faith in themselves.

25 But the persuaders of the Warring States were not of the same stamp. They recognized no way in which to have faith and took delight in changing an argument to fit any circumstance; they bent their hearts and minds to only one thing—devising the comprehensive scheme! For this reason they argued only the convenience of treachery and concealed its perils, they spoke only of the goodness of warfare and hid its grief so that all who did as they bade profited from it—but the profit never exceeded the harm.

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There was much to be gained, but it never equaled the loss. In the end Su Qin, Shang Yang, Sun Bin, Wu Qi, Li Si and their ilk lost their lives, while Qin and the other Feudal Lords who employed them lost their states.31

26 Rhetoric is indicted here as a self-destructive practice that brings ruin and death to all parties: the enemy in question, the state or ruler who is advised, and in the end the adviser himself. The Intrigues of the Warring States is the chronicle of a spectacular political suicide, as it proved to be for the Six States at war against each other or against Qin, and then for Qin itself; as it proved to be as well for all the wandering persuaders, the peripatetic orators who could easily be added to the appalling list of advisers and ministers tortured and slaughtered to be found in the Han Feizi chapter dedicated to the hazards and dangers of rhetoric.

27 Some hold that the Intrigues of the Warring States is sheer fiction, has nothing to do with history and can in no way be seen as a reliable record of the Warring States era. For Maspero, the portions of the book that deal with Su Qin and Zhang Yi, the devisers of the Horizontal Alliance (with Qin) and the Vertical Alliance (Qi and Chu) are the cycles of a romance, not a historical work.32

28 J.I. Crump contends that the book can be better understood, and many apparent contradictions fall into place, if we acknowledge its true nature as a repository of suasoriae, on the model of Sophistic exercises in Greek and Roman rhetoric. These involved rhetoricians giving their pupils examples of historical events and asking them to invent a speech or devise a proper course of action in order to display their political skills and persuasive art.

29 If we are to concur with the views of Maspero and Crump on the fictitious, or purely didactic, character of these speeches, the imbalance in the effects of rhetoric between loss and gain, destruction and preservation mentioned previously is aggravated, since none of the major successes brought about by powerful rhetoric which are recounted in the book can be taken as real. This imbalance would also nullify the little credit given by Liu Xiang to these persuaders, since it stems from the belief that, thanks to Su Qin’s persuasive powers, Qin was at least kept at bay behind the western pass and did not dare draw its weapons for a whole generation.33 In fact, the Six States were never successfully united against the predatory Qin. The Warring States’ political situation became a canonical topos for the textual practice of rhetoric, but the persuasive power of political rhetoric in the Warring States was defeated by the military force of Qin and its strategy of deterrence (which, one should admit, is another form of rhetoric).

30 According to Aristotle’s classification of rhetoric as deliberative, judicial or epideictic, the kind favored by the Intrigues of the Warring States is deliberative rhetoric: while judicial rhetoric appraises the justice of a past action and epideictic rhetoric focuses on the moral aspect of an action and expresses praise or blame, the persuaders at work in these speeches are concerned solely with the benefit they may reap from a future action. These persuasions are ultimately grounded on passions, which range from greed for material possessions to a personal sense of pride, from attachment to one’s own name to hegemonic ambition to hold sway over the world. Reason is involved insofar as the recurring pattern in these speeches is a computation of the benefits or harm one might expect from a course of action. It is not moral reason but instrumental reason that underpins conduct and speeches. Reason is implicated only to the extent that it is rational to follow a course of action that preserves one’s life and proves more beneficial and less costly than another. The orator and the ruler communicate mostly

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through the shared tool of instrumental rationality: the former calculates for the latter optimal effect with minimum loss. A computational pattern is the armature of these speeches, which tacitly or explicitly contemplate a pair of contradictory decisions, and then advocate strict adherence to one single possible sequence of action. This pattern is dressed in a wide variety of scenarios.

31 Even if, in the Intrigues of the Warring States arguing means providing a set of reasons in favor of a normative proposition (waging war, appeasing an enemy, taking an oath, and so on), persuaders never adopt the position of someone who is merely spelling out his own subjective view, or stating his personal preference: they always imply the objective validity of their speech. The gist of most of these speeches can be understood as decision on a risk: a risky decision, for the addresser, for the matter at stake, and for the persuader himself. However, one of the rhetorical weaknesses of these speeches is that they deliberately disregard those risks, or the hazardous outcomes of a decision. Persuaders lay out a chain of conditions and consequences without any sense of unexpected contingencies. We must note here an uncanny cognitive optimism on the part of the persuaders, who never explicitly acknowledge the degree of uncertainty and the unpredictable outcomes of the decision they advocate. When it comes to taking decisions bearing on what must ultimately be called risks, we find no trace of reflection on probabilities. Sometimes, two possible outcomes of a single course of action are anticipated, but only to justify, in the light of both anticipated results, the rightness of the present decision (model: If you do A, two results might ensue: B and C. With either B or C you’ll be better off than if you choose non-A).

32 When persuaders assess the capacities and responses of a potential enemy, and thence deduce a course of action to be strictly followed, they assume they are privy to the innermost intentions of this enemy, without recognizing the highly conjectural nature of their analysis.34 They speculate on the unknown, and even on “unknown unknowns.” And their urging the ruler to follow a course of action never results from a discussion, from an exchange of views or a collective deliberation. Even when we find traces of an evaluation of probabilities, this evaluation has no objectivity, since it is not grounded on the frequency with which similar consequences occurred in the past. In the Intrigues of the Warring States, experts mention precedents, but they remain purely theoretical, since they are founded solely on the subjective connections made by the speaker and do not lend themselves to any kind of argumentation. The dogmatic nature of these speeches of persuasion is only to be expected if they are, as we surmise, written exercises and rhetorical drills. It also accounts for the fact that in the Intrigues of the Warring States some of the material is more turgid than witty and smacks of routine rhetoric, the churning out of a batch of hackneyed verbal devices. Sometimes it is witty and eloquent, in the sense that true eloquence dispenses with rhetoric, sometimes it is just rhetoric.

Dispensing with rhetoric to achieve persuasion

33 I shall now examine a set of situations where rhetoric is employed not to win a case, or to obtain something specific, nor to defeat an opponent. My focus will be the kind of rhetoric that seeks to accomplish the highest task of the wise educated man (shi): changing the ruler, reforming the mind of the sovereign, triggering a process of transformation that may have an impact on the political body. All the stories of sages

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meeting rulers35 to which I will now refer share a common pattern: they aim at remedying a mental dysfunction (sadism, depression, anxiety, and so on) in the ruler treated as a patient. This relationship, the therapeutic nature of which is unknown to the patient, involves a new technique of communication far from the canonical standards of political rhetoric developed in the Confucian tradition. It is now impossible to know how much credence was given to interventions of this kind, but they may have enjoyed long-lasting popularity as cautionary tales.

34 Is there such a thing as a technique which can influence a person, whatever his temperament and no matter how powerful he may be? How can one manage to pierce the shield of unwillingness? How can access be gained to the workings of a person’s mind, workings which govern his moods, his desires, the relationships he has with those around him? The question of how to transform the ruler effectively is central to the thought of the most important philosophers of the Warring States period, because it is the key to the overall reform of the state. There is, as we know, a wide variety of possible relationships between an adviser and a ruler,36 and I shall start with an extreme example, one where a cruel and insane king refuses to come to his senses and hence renders rhetoric useless or self-destructive. Who could influence a bloodthirsty ruler who put the lives of everyone around him in danger, and recognizes no law but that of his own desires? Is it possible to sway him trusting only in the power of language? Would one use persuasion, seduction or dissimulation, or would one have to resign oneself straightaway to plotting and assassination? The figure of the sadistic ruler, deaf to his courtiers, immune to customary threats and inducements, impervious to practical expediencies, mobilized and challenged all the resources of cunning and ingenuity which the orator and the court advisers had at their disposal.

35 This was a recurring situation in ancient China, and is touched on in much of the literature of the Warring States period. These writings allow us a glimpse of the highly- charged atmosphere in which those who ventured to approach the throne might advance their careers. In some audiences, a man would knowingly risk everything in order to dissuade the king from embarking on a war which would inevitably bring the whole state to its knees. Historically, this gamble was a response to the need to put an end to wars and widespread violence, but also to the necessity of obtaining a post, a position of responsibility, and thus achieve what for an educated man (shi) was the highest purpose of all.

36 The pressure of norms, and the sense of obligation, are usually of little assistance when they appear to conflict with the interests and desires of the ruler who is hearing such exhortations. Instead, the adviser is putting himself in mortal danger and his rhetoric is a treacherous weapon that can turn against him.

Meeting with a mad ruler

37 Historically, any adviser or envoy who approached insane rulers of the sort depicted, for instance, in the Zhuangzi knew that he was putting his life on the line. The typical situation between the ruler and his adviser, exacerbated by the geopolitics of the Warring States (a proliferation of rival kingdoms, the logic of war, the uncontrollable and arbitrary nature of rulers in the absence of stable institutions and of any opposition) forced both orators and courtiers to ponder with extreme care and subtlety their methods of persuasion, manipulation and influence.

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38 Several times in chapter 4 of the Zhuangzi, “In the world of men” (“Renjian shi”), the author addresses the question of the mental preparation and the appropriate behavior required when confronting an evil tyrant. We witness profound thought being given to the possibility of transforming a ruler without oneself being affected by the behavioral strategy and verbal rhetoric one is using. In the first of the three dangerous missions recounted in the chapter, a fictitious Confucius gives a piece of his mind to his quixotic disciple Yan Hui, initially to dissuade him from embarking on a moral crusade to Wei, where the new young ruler is wreaking chaos and causing death, only to finally help his disciple gain access to his own inner resources and prepare himself mentally to meet with the mad ruler.

39 The very words and analogies used by both protagonists suggest the therapeutic nature of the intervention. Yan Hui clearly conceives of his mission as a medical intervention, and compares himself to a physician towards whose gate sick people flock (yi men duo ji). The issue is to bring a remedy (chou) to the mad ruler while remaining unaffected by his disease (bu bing).37 The encounter will be all the more dangerous since he cannot rely on any powerful support.38

40 A long discussion ensues on the possible methods of intervention for Yan Hui to use on his ruler, while fulfilling the twin goals of saving his own life and transforming the ruler. Confucius instinctively feels that Yan Hui’s mission is destined to fail and is bound to end in his death, because he is setting out with the preconception that his exemplary moral conduct and the integrity of his intentions should be able to overcome the ill-will of the ruler. Knowing that this can only serve to make the ruler aware of his own mediocrity and immorality, and enrage him, Confucius utterly condemns the attitude of anyone who takes it upon himself to exhort, sermonize and teach lessons, since he sees that it will not only fail to produce the desired result but is also mortally dangerous for the person who adopts such an attitude. He impresses upon Yan Hui that all moral conduct appearing as such is destined for failure, as is shown by the distressing precedents of Bi Gan and Guan Longfeng, both of whom were morally cultivated and brought benefits to the people. Inevitably, they interposed themselves between the throne and the masses, and overshadowed their rulers.

41 He dismisses as self-destructive all the alternative solutions put forward by Yan Hui: The right way of acting brooks no interference from a welter [of conflicting plans], for when they become involved, the result is a plurality which leads to the worst disturbance, and once such disturbance arises, it is impossible to save the situation! 39

42 This is the first time Confucius sounds a note of caution about the danger of adopting a multi-pronged approach and using a number of different sources of intervention. In doing so, the Master condemns in advance what Yan Hui, who is keen to try a variety of tactics, is about to propose, before he comes to the realization that he needs to rid himself of everything which is hindering him. Confucius points out that it is necessary to work on oneself before one can change other people, and one must treat oneself before treating others, in case they contaminate you. Do you not know what destabilizes this state of inner Potency? It is everything which works toward reputation. Do you not know on what knowledge rests? Purely on debates. Reputation comes from the struggle to gain the upper hand over someone else. Knowledge is nothing more than a tool in that struggle. These two tools are harmful, and that is not the way in which to succeed in your undertaking. 40

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43 To carry out his mission successfully, Yan Hui must purge himself of the motive which normally guides traveling scholars: the idea of displaying one’s knowledge and thereby acquiring prestige and fame. The intentions which guide him are self-destructive because they situate his intervention in an agonistic logic of struggle and ostentation, in which a person’s oratorical talents are only exercised to the detriment of his interlocutor. Although Yan Hui is not trying to acquire an official post or gain some personal advantage, Confucius knows that every human being has a gnawing and pernicious desire to make a name for himself, and this is what lies behind our actions, our behavior and our restlessness. It is this desire which mars our actions, even when we are spurred on by good intentions.

44 The dialogue goes on very cleverly to frustrate the counterproductive moral tendencies which risk valorizing Yan Hui at the expense of the ruler. The relationship of duality, established through the demonstration of skills or examples of virtuousness, has to be destroyed. To reveal his skills, his generosity of spirit or his enormous talent for discourse would be fatal—wise men know they should conceal their strengths, because all power conspicuously deployed causes the ruin of the person externalizing it, even when he intends to do good. In this sense, rhetoric as a technique for showing off one’s discourse and making a brilliant display of one’s uprightness is a deadly tool, which ends up arousing hatred and hostility. Even if you have great Virtue and unshakable good faith this will not allow you to reach what drives him in his innermost being. Nothing but your reputation and your refusal to engage in polemics will allow you to gain access to the depths of his mind.41

45 A moral discourse here would be destined to fail. Zhuangzi points out that those who put their energies into producing clever reprimands and homilies will never succeed in winning someone over. Quoting illustrious precedents and behaving in a humble and self-effacing manner can at best ensure that one keeps one’s head, but there is no chance of achieving the ultimate goal hoped for, that of making the ruler change his attitude. Whether one opposes the ruler or agrees with him, it always ends in disaster. Yan Hui finds himself in a real dilemma—he cannot remonstrate with the ruler, but neither can he sympathize with him. The connection has to be made in some other way.

46 The introduction of the term “vital breath” (qi) signals Confucius’ final injunction. He suggests that Yan Hui should look inwards and tune in to the kind of energy which drives him from inside. To put it briefly, if it is to be effective, persuasion must move away from the rhetoric of discourse and of virtuous conduct, and leave words aside in order to unite with the energies which course through the body and drive it. Here, in what is assumed to be the first work of literary fiction in early China, we find a lucid reflection on the self-destructive nature of rhetoric, the shortcomings of verbal communication and the drawbacks of persuasion through signs and symbols. In this, chapter 4 of the Zhuangzi could be compared to book 9 of the Iliad, which illustrates the failure of rhetoric in an episode where Achilles cannot be brought back to the battlefield in spite of his companions’attempts to persuade him, even though they resort to every possible kind of stratagem and argument.42

47 What is the problem here? It lies in the antagonistic relationship between a good man who sets an example and a bad man who, it is assumed, will change upon hearing what the good man has to say. Zhuangzi has a very modern perception of how, disastrously, this creates a hostile and irritated state of mind in the person to whom such lessons are

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delivered, however humbly, because it makes him aware of his own shortcomings. The moral discourse of the righter of wrongs produces hatred in the person he addresses, because he is showing him up in a way which humiliates him.

48 The end of this striking dialogue between Confucius and Yan Hui on the behavior and speech appropriate for use with a dangerous and bloodthirsty ruler sounds like a retreat from politics in favor of the cultivation of the self, leading ultimately to the fasting of the mind. Rhetoric and politics cannot be reconciled. The wise and prudent adviser has no linguistic strategy, and withdraws from the realm of words to connect with the energies underlying consciousness, yielding to these forces that will lead him safely through the perils of the scorpion’s lair that awaits him. We have in Confucius’ response to Yan Hui intimations of a greater potentiality, but one which never emerges, since the chapter ends without telling us if the perilous mission took place or not.

49 Yet, in some of the stories in the Zhuangzi which follow on from chapter 4, dangerous or morose rulers are approached as patients whom the therapist has the power to enthrall by the appropriate use of a sequence of images. These stories, that include the long episode of sword-fighting in chapter 30 “Persuading swords”43 (“Shuo jian”) and, in chapter 24 “Xu Free-from-Daemons” (“Xu Wugui”) the first two dialogues between the gloomy marquis Wu of Wei and the eponymous hermit Xu Wugui, may pertain to a later stratum of the Zhuangzi. They form at any rate a consistent trend of thought that credits a certain kind of rhetoric with uncanny powers of persuasion and transformation. This rhetoric appears as an optimal tool to manipulate the ruler from the inside. It consists of a set of tricks and techniques that were to be exploited and fully theorized over the course of the twentieth century in the fields of psychotherapy and pragmatic communication. Milton Erickson and Paul Watzlawick were early masters of that subtle art of producing a radical psychological change in someone through the use of strange words and baffling injunctions. We may indeed all have heard of the art of “reframing,” of “speaking the language of the listener,” or “conjuring images akin to the desire of the patient,” but we do not necessarily associate these techniques with early Taoist texts. This is, however, one of the Zhuangzi’s most convincing contributions to the art of rhetoric in ancient China.

50 A detailed analysis of chapter 30 of the Zhuangzi, narrating the encounter between a sadistic ruler and an insightful sophist, would require a separate article.44 I will thus simply state a few observations, that can be reasonably drawn from a minute reading of the story. Zhuangzi is in this chapter cast as a dauntless scholar, sent on a mission to Zhao in order to talk the cruel king Wen out of staging deadly fights among his swordsmen. He dresses like an uncouth petty thug in order to approach and please the king, who only delights in the company of swordsmen of the worst kind. The whole story is in keeping with Confucius and Yan Hui’s idea in chapter 4 that the canonical moralistic relationship between ruler and adviser must be replaced by a pragmatic bond between healer and patient.45 This tale about the art of using swords and words endows rhetoric with a new significance: here the art of political persuasion by means of powerful figures of speech becomes a therapeutic intervention on the person of the ruler, now considered as a patient. If previous thinkers from the Jixia academy, among whom were the authors of the “Xinshu” chapters of the Guanzi, had already hinted that the well-being of the state is intimately linked to the mental health of the ruler, this chapter of the Zhuangzi offers a concrete strategy for producing change in a ruler

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unwilling to amend his ways. The rhetoric used bypasses the problem of the inefficiency of moral reasoning. With an almighty ruler impervious to reason, the author’s wager is that language can still be operational and effective. Zhuangzi asks the king of Zhao if he can present to him his three swords. Written in the style of a poetic fantasy that doubles as a stylish parody of political texts tinged with cosmological elements, Zhuangzi’s description of these swords initially enchants the king, but then stupefies and overwhelms him. King Wen’s mind cannot cope with the spectacle of this cosmic sword holding sway over the universe. The grandeur of the first two swords, and the spirit of justice that shines forth from them, bring the ruler to the cruel realization of his lack of majesty and the pettiness of his desires, while the description of the last sword is a ferocious rendition of the gory atmosphere in which the blinkered ruler does exactly as he pleases. Overcome by Zhuangzi’s oratorical prowess, which gets past his resistance to change, the king shuts himself away in his palace, and from then on regards his gladiatorial contests as shameful and unworthy of his position. “When raised, this sword chops off necks and heads, When lowered, it gashes lungs and slashes entrails, The men made for this sword are no different from fighting cocks. Their lives hang by a thread and contribute nothing whatsoever to the State? Now you, mighty King, enjoy the rank of Son of Heaven, but you have become infatuated with the sword of the common man. Pardon my audacity, but is this not lowering yourself?” The king led Zhuangzi up into the ceremonial hall, where the steward for the royal houselhold served them a meal. But the king kept walking round and round, unable to stop. Zhuangzi said to him, “Your Majesty should sit down calmly and catch his breath: this story of the swords is now over!”.

51 How should we understand the rhetorical victory of the disguised scholar? How does he manage to gain this total sway over the king’s mind? We can see that Zhuangzi’s language targets the king’s imagination rather than his reason. It restores to the king the capacity for lofty sentiments and diffuses through his mind an impulse which lifts him out of his desire to see his gladiators cut each other to pieces. To achieve this, Zhuangzi bases his approach on the king’s thirst for power, utilizing the cosmic dimension of the sword to intoxicate him with delusions of absolute authority, and thus giving him back the ability to draw himself out of his little world of swordfighters. The king’s imagination finds itself fired by the images of the sword in motion. In putting his trust in these images, the king suddenly breaks with his nature as a bloodthirsty ruler. The revulsion which he now feels for real, earthly swordfights, and the anxiety which takes hold of him at the conclusion of the story, are the symptoms of this radical change. In a thoroughly Socratic twist, Zhuangzi makes the king realize his past errors not by representing them to him directly but by exposing them in such a way that he is forced to confront their sordidness and absurdity head-on.

52 In this intriguing and half-farcical tale, whose intention should nonetheless be taken seriously, Zhuangzi makes us understand that one can only act upon another person in a profound way if one focuses on the nature of that person’s essential desire, rather than on striving to inculcate moral rules. Of course, we all know that when moral precepts are presented to us dry and unadorned they are hard to swallow, and need the precious excipient of stories, either delightful or striking, to make them more palatable. But in my view something else in my view distinguishes this story from the welter of speeches collected in the Intrigues of the Warring States. What makes the

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Zhuangzi’s narrative so powerful is that it illustrates with an unprecedented awareness the resources available to the man who intervenes in the behavior of another, once he taps into the deep desire of his patient and reveals it to him subliminally, through images which shake his vital forces. To access and move the core sensitivity of the king, one needs to find appropriate images tailored to his desire. In one powerful sweep, the primal images of substances, gestures and forms which are imprinted on the self can awaken a dynamism which exalts feelings and offers new perspectives on one’s life.

53 Zhuangzi’s recurring rhetorical device in this fable is what hypnotherapists of the Erickson school call “seeding.”46 Therefore, in order to re-introduce moral values which cannot speak for themselves, although Zhuangzi utters words like “loyalty,” “heroism” and “conformity” in the description of the second sword, he delivers them through the flux of a dynamic description of the glorious deeds which the sword accomplishes.

Contending models of rhetoric to produce change

54 When Mencius meets King Xuan of Qi, he finds him a warlike ruler adamantly refusing to change his bad habits.47 Mencius’ persuasive homily to the king is underpinned by a belief in the power of reason to persuade and to produce change. All his subsequent rhetoric is dependent upon this belief. Therefore Mencius’ style of argument is above all intellectual, and resorts simply to demonstration, relying on the difference between what is true and what is wrong, on the principle of non-contradiction and the reductio ad absurdum argument. In that case, since you lack nothing, it is not hard to guess what you desire so strongly. You wish to extend your territory, bring the states of Qin and Chu to court, rule over the confederation of the Central Kingdoms and bring peace to the barbarians. But to behave in this way to fulfil your desire is like climbing a tree to look for fish!48

55 These logical tools are pivotal to his attempt to convince the ruler that his conduct is pointless. Of course Mencius does not think theoretical understanding is sufficient to attain authentic virtue. His views on self-cultivation imply that once you have fully realized certain truths about human nature, you still need to work on yourself, to inculcate new habits, but he favors rational argumentation, which provides the overall framework on which the rhetorical devices he uses in his conversation are hinged.

56 Whilst Mencius in his encounter with King Xuan exemplifies the stern rationalist and offers a demonstrative model of persuasion, Zhuangzi when he speaks to King Wen of Zhao embodies a rhetoric of suasion. The former considers rhetoric as a means to moralize a debased person open to rationality. He cannot help hectoring and pontificating, and although he is occasionally sharp and shrewd, he more often appears longwinded and pedestrian. By contrast, the latter uses rhetoric as a healing technique that restores in a blinkered subject an ample perspective on his own life, and energizes him enough to make him act in a moral way.

57 From Zhuangzi’s standpoint, change is produced without the ruler understanding exactly what has taken place within him to lead to change. The rationalist model of persuasion, on the contrary, implies that the ruler is fully aware of what is wrong with him. He receives explicit exhortations to amend his ways and abide by the moral values he is reminded to respect. All the images conjured up in this rational linguistic strategy are subservient to the rhetorical device of analogy, whereas in the pattern of

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persuasion employed by Zhuangzi the principal rhetorical device is metaphor. The model of persuasion based on suggestion that the authors of the Zhuangzi undeniably favor requires the adoption of the language or the position of the listener and his overall picture of the world. Its primary goal is to absorb the patient in the sensation, perception, memory or vision conjured up.

58 The rationalist model of persuasion may work very well with those who insist on taking an active part in the process of moral change. But when dealing with all-powerful or blustering rulers, the second model, the one that favors unconscious suggestion and manipulation unbeknown to the listener, might actually prove more effective. This kind of rhetoric can only work if you catch the listener off-guard. The ruler is unprepared to hear about his situation in this way, and with these intriguing images. This element of surprise is a recurring narrative device in many of the stories in the Zhuangzi and the Liezi.

59 In this strange story of swords, Zhuangzi chooses to conclude his speech with the evocation of a reality that the king can no longer accept, and his words have only the negative task of diverting the king from his death-dealing mania. In choosing to move from the sublimated description of the sword to recalling the sordid exploits of the king’s champions, Zhuangzi takes perverse delight in ultimately demoralizing the king’s vital forces.

60 Chapter 30 of the Zhuangzi completes the main themes of chapter 4, “In the world of men,” and perfects the motifs, drawn from many different dialogues, which illustrate the transformational properties, both for better and for worse, of a particular verbal technique based on an intuitive understanding of the depths of the psyche. In this connection, we can view “Persuading swords” as the culmination of a cycle of stories in the Zhuangzi which attest to an ongoing reflection on the conditions for resolving political problems through engaging with a ruler as a person caught up in his own subjectivity.

Meeting with a sad ruler

61 In the story of swords, a posthumous tribute to Zhuangzi’s brilliance, it seems that the eponymous hero’s chief concern is to deflect the king from his murderous passion, and he is not aiming to take care of him or cure him entirely. It is in another story, the first in chapter 24, “Xu Free-from-Daemons,” that we come across a somber, gloomy king who is restored to psychological health thanks to the bewitching speech of a mountain hermit, who combines and at the same time transcends the functions of the scholar and the shaman-healer. Xu Free-from-Daemons ensconced in the mountain forests high above, has toiled down the mountainside with the sole purpose of intimating that his lord might not be able to continue leading this debased life.

62 The beginning of the story, and the figure of the minister Ru Shang who introduced the hermit in court, remind us that during the Warring States period anyone who was received in audience by a ruler needed a formal introduction by someone close to the throne. As they traveled from state to state in the hope of gaining the ear of the ruler, itinerant scholars, orators in pursuit of an official post or specialists in various fields had to depend on the social skills of courtiers, ministers or favorites if they wished to secure an audience with their master. Xu Free-from-Daemons has to play this game, even though the only reason he wants to meet the marquis of Wei is to help him get rid

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of his entourage. The real issue is to resolve the dilemma in which the depressed marquis has become trapped, since both the unbridled gratification of his desires and the repression of them leave him in the same sorry state.49

63 Let us now look at how the hermit structures his intervention, and the novel communicative technique he uses. Xu Free-from-Daemons suddenly forces the marquis into an awareness of the distress he is experiencing, by describing to him the alternatives between which he is trapped: when he gives free rein to his desires, he exhausts his vital essence in the licentious satisfaction of his appetites, but when, on the other hand, he represses his instinctive tendencies and tries to curb these appetites —or, in psychological terms, when compulsive tendencies are neutralized by the individual’s defenses—the marquis adopts such a strictly proscriptive attitude that it drains him of all pleasure. In brief, either he is imprisoned by his desires, or else he imprisons his desires. This blockage can only be resolved by therapeutic action, and that is precisely what the hermit Xu uses in the rest of their conversation, through the evocation of unexpected images which restore to the marquis the sense of freedom of movement through space.

64 Initially, as he abruptly delivers his diagnosis, Xu pulls no punches in his criticism of the marquis’ personal flaws, and presses painfully on what is a sore point, but this is primarily in order to go beyond the framework of protocol in which their distant subject/ruler relationship is inscribed. He drives out of the ruler’s mind the idea of providing generously for the needs of the poverty-stricken wretch he appears to be, and impresses upon him that the consideration he shows him merely flatters his own vanity, in that he sees himself as bringing back into the bosom of the community a subject whose way of life has set him apart. However, the uncompromising hermit succeeds only in making the marquis dig in his heels, and he cuts their conversation short. “Annoyed, the marquis scowled and did not reply.” Xu does not at first know how to behave, and the silence which settles over the two men marks the transition to an attempt at a different form of interaction, which this time bears fruit. The visitor appears to understand that arguments framed as reproaches will not be helpful and that the comfort he hopes to give requires above all the ability to disarm the marquis rather than belittling him by forcing him into the admission that his life-style is both damaging and unsustainable.

65 The mental punishment inflicted by Zhuangzi on the bloodthirsty king of Zhao, however, contrasts starkly here with the beneficial intervention of the hermit Xu, which is based on the transformative effect that certain images, if handled correctly, are likely to exert. Using his expertise in sizing up dogs and horses, the visitor sets loose a stream of bewitching images which succeed in drawing the king out of his inner isolation. The welter of deft animal metaphors he displays are highly charged with symbolic meanings that resonate more or less consciously in the king’s mind as judgments of the value of life-styles in general, including his own.

66 The value of the two kinds of horses Xu evokes, “horses suited to the state” and “horses suited to the whole world,” is related to the type of space and mobility that defines them: the horses forced to execute strict geometrical figures, by being broken in and whipped, are a good illustration of the subjugation of natural dynamism.50 But from the images of breakaway “horses for the whole world” the marquis regains a sense of himself which he had lost sight of a long time ago.

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67 If Xu Free-from-Daemons sparks in the ruler a reverie that brings him ease, relief and joy, it is because this process of allowing the mind to wander through a wealth of dynamic images enlarges the self. The sharing of these happy images of escape means for him recovering an intimate presence he had forfeited many years previously. The reverie on returning to one’s home brings the marquis of Wei out of the confines of his daily drudgery, and the smile on his face at the end of the hermit’s speech confirms the benefits wrought by the strange description he has just heard. When he emerges from the audience, the minister Ru Shang notices the change of mood in the normally morose and aloof ruler. Though he sees him on a daily basis, and in spite of all his efforts and innumerable successes in his policies, the meritorious minister has never managed to elicit a happy smile from him. He confesses that neither discussions of the major traditional texts nor ventures which directly serve his interests seem to satisfy his lord, and he is therefore greatly baffled and upset by the success of this unconventional visitor.

68 Like Ru Shang, we readers too are witnesses to the miraculous outcome of a type of verbal communication which has a decisive effect on the interlocutor, whereas the repeated speeches of the minister, based on moral reasoning as much as on individual interest, have consistently failed to have any effect and have never elicited feelings of pleasure or contentment. The tale of this encounter between the hermit and the ruler reveals a novel means of gaining access to the psychological depths of a third party. It is to my knowledge the earliest such description we have of a psychotherapeutic approach in Chinese literature. It also points to the inferences which the author wishes to be drawn from it on the political level.

69 Though the story of the encounter between the hermit Xu and the marquis of Wei may be entirely fictional,51 it is nonetheless based on several familiar problems: the first is the possibility of profoundly influencing a person who, due to potent psychological factors, is basically closed to genuine exchange as an interlocutor, and who restricts himself to the conventional format of an official meeting. The second problem, and one which always arises for those who venture into the circles of power, is to find out how to be accepted by a person whose rank cuts him off from the ordinary mass of humanity, who is burdened by office, whose every minute is precious, and who more often than not is surrounded by a competitive or hostile entourage. The third difficulty, in fact only a more intensified version of the preceding two, is the problem of performing the quintessential philosophical gesture: that of making another person aware of the emptiness of his possessions and the harmfulness of his life-style, of liberating him from the factitious existence he has built up for himself and leading him to completely reorganize his ties and attachments to other people, by altering his whole image of the world.

70 Whether we see in this story from the Zhuangzi a simple literary diversion, a lesson in psychology or a political parody ultimately hinges on our belief in the effective power of rhetoric. Xu the hermit, who expects nothing for himself, is unaffected by the pressures familiar to his contemporaries, who are anxious to gain an official post, a treaty or a title from the powerful man who has honored them with an audience. Maybe because of his disinterestedness, Xu manages to escape the pitfalls inherent in an audience at the palace, where constraint mechanisms operate at full strength to ensure that the hierarchical distance between the ruler and his subjects is retained. By using language which privileges imagery, the hermit gradually substitutes unexpected

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and unusual relationship allowing the marquis of Wei to step out of the role in which he was imprisoned.

71 The aim of this kind of rhetoric is not to convince the person addressed that he should cleave to a specific course of action, but to make him feel the benefits of an imaginary expansion of space. The blissful dilation felt by the marquis helps release him from the hell of politics, and makes him see how his everyday actions have cut him off from his true needs. Through his adroit manipulation of primal images, the hermit succeeds in revitalizing the ruler’s morale without ever mentioning morality.

72 We can see in this story, in which a perspicacious hermit explores the healing effect of poetic images in order to bring relief to a gloomy and disgruntled ruler, the incipient use of a healing technique that has now found its full-fledged expression in psychotherapy. A thinker such as Mencius appealed above all to the analytical mind and the powers of rational calculation when he attempted to guide kings towards cultivating moral virtues, and imposed upon them a way of acting virtuously which they found disagreeable. Xu the hermit, on the other hand, once he has forced the marquis to see clearly the problem of his desires, avoids using the language of explanation, argumentation and confrontation. He addresses the right hemisphere of the brain, which is receptive to the language of symbols and metaphor and is characterized by intuitive understanding (in contrast with discursive and analytical understanding). He uses enigmatic images, as opposed to static images drawn from memory and familiar perception that are only intended to illustrate a theoretical point or back up an explanation.

73 As evinced by the situation of the Marquis Wu of Wei, it seems almost impossible to have a genuine exchange or a natural conversation with the holder of supreme authority. In this respect, good rhetoric is the kind which succeeds in breaking through the framework of protocol where both master and servant are restricted to their roles, in order to re-establish a human relationship free from any hierarchical elements. The hard, lonely existence of hermits may distance them physically from the company of ordinary men, but the man on the throne is morally cut off from the whole of humanity. Paradoxically, it is the images of animals forgetful of everything, out in the wilds, which restore to the marquis the awareness of his connection with humanity. Symmetrically, it is the hermit’s evocation of banishment to the furthest reaches of the world of nature, among brambles and creepers, and far from his own people—a situation externally resembling that of the hermit—which best illustrates the existence of the marquis in his palace, among his servants and his women.

Conclusion

74 Han Fei reminds us, particularly in the chapters “Dangers of persuasion” (“Shui nan”), “Dangers of discourse” (“Nan yan”) and “A lone man’s frustration” (“Gu fen”), of the difference of status between the speech-maker and the listener: the rhetor is not on a par with his audience, he is exposed, vulnerable and most of the time doomed to a gory end. When the speaker does not already hold an office, he cannot back up his words, and his language is not underpinned by objective results. Rhetoric is in this case his only resource to help him access a position, which once attained will render the art of speech useless, for only objective results will then be eloquent. In the meantime, the aspiring counselor or minister can only offer his head—in the sense of using his mental

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abilities but also risking his life—to impress the ruler, and this risky wager all reflects all too well the ambiguous nature of his rhetoric, which is so easy to turn against him. In that sense, Han Fei enables us to explore the nature, the function and the limits of political rhetoric in an authoritarian regime, which is far from our vision of rhetoric as hinging on the foundational political experience of democracy in ancient Greece.52 Any message is imprisoned, as it were, by the interpretation the man in charge made at the expense of its author.53 Its ultimate truth is to be found only in the addressee. Hence, psychological conditioning must prevail over any other consideration when speaking to the ruler. It is never a problem for Han Fei to know what to do, what course of action to follow or what kind of reform to carry out. The only problem is to know how to have his suggestions approved and adopted by the ruler. And knowing what kind of rulers he and his fellow persuaders have to deal with, Han Fei does not favor a rhetoric of argumentation nor a sophisticated deliberation. He realizes that seduction and fascination can prove more decisive than comprehension or rational conviction. The authors of the Zhuangzi seem to have had in mind rulers of the same ilk when pondering the best method of communicating with them. Hypnotic influence prevails over philosophical reasoning. As evinced in the Zhuangzi, the Intrigues of the Warring States and the Han Feizi, political rhetoric is a highly dangerous tool in the Warring States world: with a bad ruler, good rhetoric proves useless most of the time, if not self- destructive. With a good ruler, there is hardly any need for rhetoric. What should the wise adviser do if he cannot trust the virtues of language? Han Fei’s ultimate advice deals not with the art of speech, but with the art of self-preservation at court.54 As for the ruler, it seems that the rhetoric that best serves his life, his authority and his prestige are non-action and silence. Rhetoric defined as the art of political persuasion is a poison for the state when all but Legalist advisers avail themselves of it: it intoxicates the ruler and ruins the body politic. But potentially it is even more of a poison that the honest persuader administers to himself, since every word he utters may be used as a weapon against him by his detractors. In both cases, in a good and well-ordered state as well as in an unruly kingdom, there is no positive and safe role for rhetoric. It stands like an island of uncertainty between the scholar’s vital care for himself and the silence of the king.

75 The Intrigues of the Warring States features persuaders endowed with an uncanny mastery of the manipulation of human passions. It can be read not only as a manual of persuasion, but also as an ambiguous tribute to the deadly powers of rhetoric: a glib tongue can change the destiny of millions of souls, an astute speech can ruin a kingdom overnight, or unexpectedly drive two allied states to war against each other. Persuaders and advisers were ready to take immense risks to themselves in their missions,55 and knew that integrity and loyalty to the throne could be as fatal as deception and treachery.56 Their rhetoric favors the use of instrumental reason and hinges on the satisfaction of human passions. A contending model of political rhetoric can be found in the Mencius, which relies on moral reasoning and the superior interest of the common good, as opposed to the satisfaction of personal desires. But the trouble with the traditional rhetoric of virtue is that seemingly it inspires the speaker more than the listener. In the Zhuangzi, an alternative style of communication was invented when broaching the problem of lordly audiences hazardous to personal safety and of little avail in terms of moral transformation. The model of rhetoric we have drawn from chapters 4, 24 and 30 of the Zhuangzi relies not primarily on reasoning, nor on consideration of personal interests, but on the healing virtues of the imagination that

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creates an exhilarating state of dilation. In clear-cut contrast with the Mencius, we must acknowledge that the kind of rhetoric favored in the dialogues from the Zhuangzi examined above relies on fascination and not on intelligent persuasion.

76 This rhetoric is nonetheless subservient to a general project of liberation from the self- destructive logic of political authority, personal ambition and material possessions. Kings and princes in the Zhuangzi are depicted as blinkered, distressed, gloomy, anxious, sick or estranged. In many of the dialogues, the authors of the Zhuangzi explore in many dialogues the virtues of a distinctive rhetoric that does not aim at doing good too the kingdom but to the king himself as a person, making him suddenly feel the burden of positions and possessions. Many an episode in the Zhuangzi touching upon this topos bears testimony to a continuous reflection on the powers and limitations of verbal communication in a very different context from the canonical political situations recorded in the Intrigues of the Warring States. Instead of arguing between two or more possible choices marked by objective risk and subjective uncertainty, they switch to a wider alternative, luring the ruler away from political worries under the spell of dynamic images. On the chessboard of politics, what is at stake in many episodes of the Zhuangzi which exemplify this speech technique is not the next move to win the game, or at least to achieve a draw, but the effort to make the player realize the foolishness of the game itself.

77 As we have contended earlier, these stories from the Zhuangzi are a unique testimony of the conscious use of a speech technique that was later to be theorized and fully exploited in certain schools of psychotherapy, in particular the Palo Alto school.57 They also demonstrate acute observation of the different stages and states an individual goes through as he begins to change. Finally, they draw our attention to the factors that may thwart our efforts to bring about this radical change. We have seen that certain structures of communication between two people, whether used advisedly or by chance, can modify an individual’s basic inclinations, sometimes in a spectacular and unexpected way. In the case of the Zhuangzi, we can assuredly say that the key to this is rhetoric, if by that we mean the mastery of the rules and techniques which ensure an optimal persuasive effect.

78 The metaphors, similes and richly nuanced constructions in many dialogues from the Zhuangzi have over the course of history been used by any number of moderately talented literati, and for that matter by anyone with a modicum of classical literary training. Zhuangzi’s rhetoric has been widely imitated, by both his disciples and detractors, but in the process it lost the eye-opening effect it had at the incipient stage. If we view these texts historically, from the vantage point of his contemporaries, the type of verbal communication that takes shape through the different layers of the Zhuangzi is nothing short of a miracle and a well-nigh inconceivable poetical achievement (though some might find that clarity of thought is still often impaired by fanciful formulations and a taste for witty nonsensical punchlines). Indeed, some of the apophthegms and aphorisms it contains should not be expanded into generalizations, because they are merely aperçus produced by a concrete specific situation—not always crystal clear, but unmistakably cogent, and rhetorically relevant to the situation of the listener. When all is said and done, the authors of the Zhuangzi are speaking of a rhetoric which subordinates political eloquence to the poetic energy of images: in restoring to the ruler his moral strength, or (one might say) saving him from himself,

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they are demonstrating that rhetoric can exert its authority in another way, remote from the game of politics and the heady logic of artful persuasion.

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APPENDIXES

Glossary bu bing 不病 chou 瘳 fashu zhi shi 法術之士 “Renjian shi” 人間世 qi 氣 quan de 全德 Qu Boyu 蘧伯玉 She gong Zi Gao 葉公子高 shi 士 yi men duo ji 醫門多疾 zhan 斬 zu lu 菹戮

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NOTES

1. My deep gratitude goes to Carine Defoort, Albert Galvany, Yuri Pines and Paul van Els who were unduly waylaid for the sake of improving the initial version of this article. 2. Zhuangzi jishi 莊子集釋 (noted hereafter ZZJS), chap. 21, “Tian Zifang” 田子方, see Guo Qingfan 郭慶蕃 (ed.) [1894] 1961: 702. 3. I will be discussing rhetoric mainly in the general sense of an “art of speech” (as when we speak of the power of rhetoric or the amorality of rhetoric). In this case, rhetoric refers to a set of rules and techniques whose utilization secures an optimal persuasive effect. I will also refer to rhetoric in another slightly different sense: the verbal competence and skills of a person (as when we say, “his rhetoric is remarkable”). In this case, the notion of rhetoric means the command (whether intuitive or acquired) that a person has of the rules and techniques mentioned above. 4. Aside from particular circumstances, such as the one recounted in the Yantielun 鹽鐵論 (Disputation on Salt and Iron), where an assembly of ministers (among whom the Legalist-oriented Tian Qianqiu and Sang Hongyang) engages in a violent and colorful polemic with a group of Confucian scholars. 5. We do nonetheless find scant evidence of voting at what seems to have been a popular assembly in the State of Chen 陳 (see Zuo zhuan, Duke Ai 1st year in Chunqiu Zuozhuan zhu 1981: 1607) and other popular assemblies for a discussion on these assemblies, see Pines 2009: chap. 8 & 9 and Lewis 2006: chap. 3, esp. 143-147. Such assemblies seem to have been exceptional, mostly in time of crisis, in early China contrary to what Lewis asseverates in his intriguing “Greekization” of early China (for a disagreement with Lewis’ view, see Pines 2005-2006: 178-179). It is noteworthy that, in the aforementioned instance of voting in the state of Chen, the only piece of persuasion to be recorded is minister Feng Hua’s speech to his lord, Duke Huai of Chen, thereby cleaving, in spite of the “popular” context, to the canonical relationship advisor/ruler. We do not hear the assembly of countrymen (guoren 國人) at all, and they are definitely not Feng Hua’s target. It should also be mentioned that the Zuo zhuan records cases of debates among the ministers, ruler in absentia (e.g. Jin military leaders on the eve of several major battles). For Jin inter-ministerial debates, see for instance Chunqiu Zuozhuan zhu (1981), Duke Xuan 12th year: 722-726. 6. We do have records of meetings between embassies and officials, but it is still fair to say that rhetoric in Chinese politics was never concerned with public address. By contrast, in ancient Rome, political rhetoric was focused on the manipulation of public opinion. A rhetor addressed a large audience: a mob could number several thousand men, and the Senate from 300 up to 600 men in late antiquity. 7. Han Fei claims he is ready to die (Han Feizi I.1, “First audience in Qin” [“Chu xian Qin” 初見秦], Wang Xianshen 1998: 1-2) and later on, asks to be executed (zhan, lit. beheaded) if he fails in his political mission (I.1, “First audience in Qin,” Wang Xianshen 1998: 12-13). Even if this chapter does not reproduce an oratorical piece that was actually delivered in the presence of the ruler, it most certainly uses the kind of rhetorical devices that were favored at the time to gain the ruler’s ear and prove one’s sincere commitment. For a different version of this speech, attributed to Zhang Yi, the persuader who became minister in Qin a century before Han Fei, in 328 BC, see Zhanguoce zhushi, 1991: “Qin ce 1” juan 3.5, 88-91. It is the only pre-imperial version of the chen mei si 臣昧死 (“Your servant, not minding risking death”) formula used by a minister to offer a remonstrance to the ruler, thereby emphasizing that his obligation to sincerity prevails over his own security. This rhetoric of self-sacrifice seems to have arisen during the Qin dynasty and flourished during the Han. It developed into a rich repertoire that included expressions such as “I face the axe” or “If I fail the throne, I, your faulty servant, deserve ten thousand deaths.” On these rhetorical formulas during the Qin and Han dynasties, see Giele’s (2006) study of Cai Yong’s

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蔡邕 work, the Duduan 獨斷, a handbook of definitions and comments concerning government, institutions, imperial administration, protocol, ceremonials and terminology. See also, in the next chapter, Li Si’s asseverations on his readiness to endure the harshest punishments (zu lu, lit. be hacked to pieces and soused) (I.2, “On preserving Han” [“Cun Han” 存 韓], Wang Xianshen 1998: 19-20); such declarations are evidently part of a general rhetoric intented to impress the ruler and give momentum to what follows. 8. There are frequent references in the Zhuangzi to the unfortunate precedents of princes, ministers and advisers who were tortured and executed. In chapter 4, “In the world of men” (“Renjian shi” 人間世), Confucius reminds Yan Hui of their terrifying fate in order to put him on his guard. In chapter 10, “Rifling through boxes” (“Qu qie” 胠篋), the author meditates on the errors of so-called sages who exerted themselves for the sake of the “robbers” on the throne. At the beginning of chapter 26, “External things” (“Wai wu” 外物), these tragic examples are used to illustrate the untrustworthy nature of the world, and the political world in particular. In chapter 29, “Robber Zhi” (“Dao Zhi” 盗跖) gives Confucius a piece of his mind and reminds him of the deaths of Bi Gan, who had his heart torn out, and Wu Zixu, who was forced to commit suicide by throwing himself into a river, because they had mocked “upright ministers.” The “Dangers of discourse” chapter of the Han Feizi lists, with shocking violence, the victims of stupid and brutal princes (Han Feizi I.3, “Nan yan” 難言, Wang Xianshen 1998: 22-23; see also III.11, “A lone man’s frustration” [“Gu fen” 孤憤], in which the author recalls the moral ordeals and physical martyrdom endured by upright and competent Legalist ministers, Wang Xianshen 1998: 81). The book evinces a gloomy delight in evoking a variety of horrible deaths; see for instance Han Feizi III.10, “The ten errors” (“Shi guo”十過), on the martyrdom of Bi Gan 比干 and Guan Longpang 關 龍逄 in the context of a “defensive rhetoric” (Wang Xianshen 1998: 73). 9. I am here considering several chapters of the Han Feizi for a nuanced discussion on the destructive powers of rhetoric, but in no way am I exhausting all the arguments about language in the entire corpus of the Han Feizi. Incidentally, it is a task that has not been undertaken yet. 10. For a terrifying anecdote which illustrates the punishments to be applied to those who did not match their words to their deeds, see Han Feizi, II.7, “The two handles” (“Er bing” 二柄). The author concludes: yue guan ze si, bu dang ze zui 越官則死, 不當則罪 (Every impingement entails death, every failure to match words and actions must be punished), Wang Xianshen 1998: 41. 11. See, for example, Han Feizi, II.6, “On having standards” (“You du” 有度), where the author criticizes diplomatic orators who endanger their states purely because they want their rulers to see them as saviors, even if it means overshadowing them. 12. Borrowing Robert Musil’s famous concept in his homonymous novel, Der Mann ohne Eigenschaften. 13. “Discard likes, discard dislikes and the ministers will become plain” (qu hao qu wu, chen nai jian su 去好去惡, 臣乃見素), I.5, “The Way of the Ruler” (“Zhu Dao” 主道), Wang Xianshen 1998: 27. 14. Namely, qiaowen zhi yan 巧文之言 (artful and refined words), or liu xing zhi ci 流行之辭 (fashionable and alluring expressions). 15. From this perspective, Li Si’s lacerating judgement on Han Fei, recorded in the second chapter of the Han Feizi, is far from wrong. See I.2, “On preserving Han” (“Cun Han” 存韓), in which the jealous minister denounces Han Fei’s devious rhetoric, used to deceive the king of Qin. “After seeing Han Fei at work, how he embellishes his wicked speeches and displays his uncanny talent for delusive rhetoric, I, your servant, fear that Your Majesty will be taken in by his artful words and will agree with his treacherous intentions…” Here, Han Fei is depicted as being exactly like the persuaders and influence-peddlers he repeatedly excoriates in nearly all the chapters of the book, supposedly exerting a detrimental influence on the benighted ruler by dint of artifice and faking. See Wang Xianshen 1998: 17.

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16. The anecdote is a favorite method of exposition in the Han Feizi. It is used to prove the value of an idea, to illustrate an argument, to back up a point, and above all to make the hearer immediately adopt a position either for or against the person who appears in the story. These little tales give a human face to social, political and psychological laws. By demonstrating human failings through these micro-fictions, where the reader early on guesses the often fatal outcome, Han Fei at once enlists him in the camp of the knowing, the well-informed, those who at a glance take in the situation in which the victims, blind to the laws they are breaking are enmeshed. By introducing the figure of an obstinate king, for example, who refuses to listen to the pleas of his adviser and is punished by his own stupidity, Han Fei makes his royal interlocutor determined not to reproduce the same error with him, and obliges him, out of pride, to fall in with his views. A wise man would easily see through this linguistic stratagem, of course, and would not allow himself to be taken in like this. The anecdotes in “The ten errors” (III.10) are a perfect illustration of the rhetorical process of using a story within a story to mirror the situation of the master of rhetoric and his lord. Their specious rhetoric is clear, because they are so systematic: Han Fei never shows an adviser suggesting a course of action which turns out to be a disaster. Dramas and failures are always blamed on a stubborn and stupid ruler, never on the misjudgment of his ministers or simply on unforeseeable changes in the situation. Han Fei’s rhetoric, like that of the authors of the Intrigues of the Warring States, evolves in a universe where reality is totally predictable, and where there are no contingencies. 17. On Han Fei and his use of stories, see Chen Huijuan 陳蕙娟 2004, where the author shows how Han Fei illustrates his ideas through examples and past events, and elaborates on his critique of the past and the kinds of references he makes. 18. The term “Legalist” defines someone or something that pertains to the School of the Law (fajia 法家). I am using here the traditional categorization of trends and schools of thought in early China coined by Sima Tan and his son Sima Qian in the Records of the Great Historian (Shiji 史 記). Although stricto sensu there was never a “legalist” school in pre-imperial China, we consider that Han Fei developed a conception of a centralized state and an absolute monarchy based on the primacy of objective, public and universal laws that easily lent itself to such a labelling. Previous political thinkers such as Shang Yang, Shen Dao or Shen Buhai who inspired Han Fei were also defined as Legalists or belonging to the School of the Law. 19. Here I am not evoking other possibilities formulated by Chinese scholars, which seem to me to be irrelevant. For a recent study on the authorship and datation of the Han Feizi chapters, see Lundahl 1992. 20. Léon Vandermeersch, in a pioneering study of Legalism, has clearly shown very well how a powerful thinker like Han Fei remained subservient to a Confucian paradigm of kingship, at the expense of his conception of an overarching system of legislation. See Vandermeersch 1965: 273. 21. Han Fei (II.9) evokes rulers “easily altered by specious arguments and speeches of persuasion” (yi yi yi bian shui 易移以辯說). See Wang Xianshen 1998: 55. 22. “ 外人皆稱夫子好辯，敢問何也?” “The people out there all call you a Master fond of disputation. May I ask you what is the reason for this?” See Mencius 3B, Jiao Xun 焦循 repr. 1987: (juan 13) 446. 23. See Han Feizi XVI.22, in Wang Xianshen 1998: 422. I cannot discuss here Xunzi’s stance on rhetoric and persuasion, especially in chapters 5 and 13, as it would take us too far afield, but it is clear his position is very close to that of Han Fei, if we do not take into consideration the varnish of morality: one must change with the circumstances, rely on one’s linguistic virtuosity, and always adapt to the ruler’s nature, matching one’s language to his moods, even if this means using deceit and flattery. 24. I am not focusing here on the history of the Han Feizi or its reception in Chinese history, but am singling out contending models of rhetoric in the Warring States.

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25. On the relations between the Han Feizi and the Intrigues of the Warring States, see Chen Huijuan 2004: 208-216. 26. In the episode where Su Dai 蘇代 tests the king of Yan on what he thinks of virtues such as righteousness, benevolence, and incorruptibility, we have an inordinately cynical confession of the political advantage of an adviser fixated on personal profit at the expense of moral virtues. Su Dai shows quite blatantly that it is in the nature of a persuader in the service of the throne to disregard morality. In short, the good adviser is necessarily a bad moral subject. See juan 29, Yan 燕 1 in Zhanguoce 1998: vol. II, 1071 ff. 27. See juan 29, Yan 燕 1 in Zhanguoce 1998: 1075. Note that the expression tuo/yi 訑 in the expression 訑者 can also refer to an arrogant and pretentious person. A “big mouth” foreshadows political potency. For instance, Su Dai favors alliance with Wei, an arrogant but poor state, at the expense of Qi, which is wealthy but humble in its conduct. He declares that burning ambition and a good dose of bluff will scare off any powerful state, and pave the way for political hegemony (see Crump 1970: § 463, 536). See also, in juan 30, Yan 燕 2, Su Dai’s warning to the king of Yan, who is about to yield to the demands of Qin. Su Dai denounces Qin’s successful strategy of intimidation, one that deters other states from resistance. If Han, Chu and Wei submitted to Qin, he says, it is only because they were impressed and scared by its powerful rhetoric（Zhanguoce 1998: 1077 ff.; transl. Crump 1970: § 466, 539 ff.). 28. Crump 1970: 6. 29. Crump 1970: 2. 30. The Intrigues of the Warring States teems with intriguing stories and the reader is sometimes at his wits’ end, not knowing what the correct interpretation should be. I certainly do not seek to exhaust here the richness of this repository of ancient Chinese rhetoric, but merely single out a few themes illustrating the dangers of speech. According to the book, it seems that some persuaders took pleasure in offending the ruler, sometimes with a brazen audacity that seems to suggest that we may be dealing here merely with written exercises. On the difficulty of interpreting stories from the Intrigues of the Warring States see the interesting case painstakingly studied by Blanford (1994). The author examines the fourth section of the Mawangdui text “Writings of the Warring States’ strategists,” which is a more complete version of a story reproduced in the Intrigues of the Warring States. She shows how this excavated fuller version enables us to detect several rhetorical schemata not visible in the received version. In the light of this comparison, it appears that the Intrigues of the Warring States has undergone alterations which make it difficult to understand. The Mawangdui version displays an eloquence in Su’s defense, and the use of rhetorical techniques that are absent from the version in the Intrigues of the Warring States. This comparison between the two texts allows a better understanding of the narrative, and indirectly confirms the puzzling nature of many stories in the Intrigues of the Warring States, so often incomplete or severed from their original context. 31. Translated by Crump (1970) in his Introduction to his translation. 32. Maspero [1927] repr. 1965: 494. 33. Liu Xiang claims this was 29 years, which cannot be true. 34. A good example of this cognitive attitude entailing a very strong and assertive political rhetoric can be found in Han Feizi I.2, in which Li Si devises complex plans of action and surmises with complete assurance as to exactly what the response of the enemy will be. Since he can predict which state will stay quiet and which will offer its allegiance, he presents his plan as infallible and the only way to conquer Zhao. The whole complex chain of reactions triggered by his tactical gambit can be foreseen, without any concession to unexpected contingency. 35. For want of sage rulers, whose absence is subtly denounced and lamented by the Han historian Sima Qian: see in this volume Dorothee Schaab-Hanke’s article, “‘Waiting for the Sages of Later Generations’: Is There a Rhetoric of Treason in the Shiji?”

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36. The persuaders and educated men of the time, the shi, had construed their relations with the ruler in varied ways, always emphasizing the right to be treated with consideration. Some ventured so far as to claim the status of a friend or even, like Mencius, of a morally superior teacher, and many insisted on the non-conditional allegiance to a ruler in a geopolitical context of an open market where recruitment in other courts gave much moral leeway to the wandering shi. On the relationships between the shi and the ruler over the course of the Warring States era, see Pines 2009: chap. 7,“Shi and the Rulers.” 37. The presence of a lexicon pertaining to what is now isolated and described as medical literature is not surprising in the context of the global quest for life-preservation and cultivation of energy in the Warring States period. The search for a remedy can also be found in many other episodes of the Zhuangzi: see chap. 32, “Lie Yukou” 列禦寇 and chap. 21, “Tian Zifang” 田子方; also, in chap. 23, “Gengsangchu 庚桑楚,” the character Nanrong, discomfited about his own mental confusion, compares himself to an ailing person for whom being asked about the Way would be like drinking medicine that would make him even more sick. (For a translation, see Watson 1968: 253.) 38. The final line of the dialogue between Confucius and his favorite disciple Yan Hui is an indication of their status as ordinary people: er kuang san yan zhe hu! 而況散焉者乎！ “How much more should it be the case for persons of no importance [like you and me in contrast to the sage rulers of ancient times]!” 39. 夫道不欲雜，雜 則多，多則擾，擾則憂，憂而不救。The first sentence means litterally: “The Way does not desire complication, for if there is complication, there is plurality.” 40. 且若亦知夫德之所蕩而知之所為出乎哉？德蕩乎名，知出乎爭。名也者，相 （札）〔軋〕 也；知也者，爭之器也。二者凶器，非所以盡行也。 41. 且德厚信矼，未達人氣，名聞不爭，未達人心。 42. For a detailed analysis of this episode from Homer, see Kennedy 1999: chap. 1. 43. The character shuo/shui 說 was not only polysemic but also ambiguous at the time, which made it hard to draw a neat demarcation between “speak/speech/explain” on the one hand and “persuade/persuasion” on the other. The title of this chapter certainly plays on this ambivalence. It means both “Speaking on swords” and “Swords that persuade.” Many passages from the Han Feizi also bear witness to this amphibology. 44. See Graziani 2011: 117-159. 45. The two stories in chapter 4 which follow this meeting between Confucius and Yan Hui are variations, possibly by later writers, on the same theme of the dangers of going on a mission to a violent and obstinate ruler. In the first of these, the duke of She (Zi Gao), minister of the state of Chu, is about to be sent as a reluctant envoy to the kingdom of Qi, and comes to consult Confucius before he sets out. He complains to the Master that he will have no room for maneuver, and confesses to having intestinal problems because of his fear of the fate which awaits him. In the second, a certain Yan He goes to consult the sage Qu Poyu as to how to behave when he is with the crown prince of Wei. Qu Poyu advises him to model himself on the moods of the prince, pretending to go along with his pleasures and his excesses, while at the same time remaining vigilant and taking care never to arouse his fury. 46. The reader who wishes to learn more about this technique is referred to Watzlawick (1978). 47. Mengzi zhengyi 孟子正義 1A; see Jiao Xun 焦循 repr. 1987: juan 3, 88 ff. 48. Mengzi 1A, see Jiao Xun 焦循 repr. 1987: juan 3, 90. 49. Jean-François Billeter has published a concise study of this story, which contains illuminating descriptions of the effect produced on the ruler’s mind, in language which is markedly free from the sort found in the traditional glosses on the Zhuangzi; see Billeter 2003: 19-22. 50. Horses are used as symbols of the subjugation of humans in chapter 9 of the Zhuangzi, “Horses’ hooves” (“Ma ti” 馬蹄, ZZJS II.9.330). The reader interested in the philosophical use of animals in the Zhuangzi, especially of horses, which are the typical victims of human violence,

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may wish to consult my tentative study in Graziani 2006: chap. 2, “Combats d’animaux. Réflexions sur le bestiaire du Tchouang-tseu”. 51. A frequently occurring dramaturgical process in the Zhuangzi consists of a confrontation between a historical personage and one who is totally fictitious. Most often, it is the fictional protagonist who teaches the historical figure about the art of living or of ruling. Marquis Wu of Wei is not a figure invented by the author, he was a feudal lord in the fourth century BCE, the hereditary leader of a territory granted to his family by the royal house. He was the father of the celebrated King Hui of Liang, whom Mencius met several times (though the accounts of their memorable meetings which appear in the homonymous work, the Mencius, are of dubious authenticity). The marquis of Wei died in 370 BCE, a century or so before Zhuangzi, according to the presumed dates of the latter. 52. See Lyon 2008: 51-71. 53. For a good illustration of this truth, see Han Feizi III.12 (“Dangers of persuasion”), the anecdote with the character Flaw-in-the-Jade, in Wang Xianshen 1998: 93-94. 54. See Han Feizi III.12, “Dangers of persuasion,” where Han Fei shows that what matters is not what you say or how you say it, but the disposition of the listener towards you. In this sense, words have no effects of their own, they are merely occasions to elicit a preformed feeling and are interpreted in the light of this feeling. 55. See the episode where Su Dai, at the head of the Qi army, deliberately loses two battles against Yan, sacrifices thousands of men and incurs the risk of being condemned by King Min of Qi (Zhanguoce, juan 30, Yan 燕 2: 1093 ff., transl. Crump 1970: § 464, 536). See also Su Dai’s letter to King Yan (Zhanguoce, juan 30, Yan 燕 2: 1095, transl. Crump 1970: § 464, 538) where one can read the constant anxiety of being a double agent: “I am as insecure as though seated on a pile of eggs” (臣之所重處重（卯）〔卵〕也). 56. See, for instance, Su Dai’s speech to the king of Yan on the dangers of faithfulness and loyalty (zhongxin 忠信) in Zhanguoce, juan 29, Yan 燕1: 1073 that echoes Han Fei’s warnings in “Shui nan” 說難. 57. See Watzlawick 2008. Reading the major texts of the Palo Alto School of constructivist psychotherapy brought home to me many crucial insights on the healing properties of a good rhetoric in communication.

ABSTRACTS

The political context of a throng of courtiers engaged in keen competition to be heard by a lord whose power was not limited by any institutional mechanism, accounts for the highly risky and often deadly game of political persuasion in the pre-imperial period. In this article I examine how early Chinese speeches of persuasion hover between reason and treason, salvation and suicide. Without seeking to exhaust the wealth and ambiguities of each text drawn on, I aim to identify and evaluate contrasting attitudes, ranging from cognitive optimism to moral pessimism, regarding the capacity of language to convince and influence the listener or improve his behavior. After analyzing in the Han Feizi and in the Intrigues of the Warring States a type of deliberative rhetoric that disregards moral ends, I turn to situations where, for once, rhetoric does not serve the purpose of winning a case, obtaining something specific or defeating an opponent, but seeks to accomplish the highest task of the educated man (shi) : that of changing the ruler, reforming

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his mind, triggering a process of transformation that may have an impact on the political body at large.

Le contexte politique d’un essaim de courtisans lancés dans une âpre course pour se gagner l’oreille et recueillir la faveur d’un seigneur dont l’autorité ne se voyait bornée par aucun mécanisme institutionnel, rend en partie raison du caractère hasardeux et souvent fatal de la persuasion politique à l’époque des Royaumes Combattants. La dangereuse oscillation de ces discours entre raison et trahison, salut et suicide, fait l’objet du présent article, qui loin de prétendre épuiser les richesses et les ambiguïtés de chacun des textes qu’il évoque, vise avant tout à repérer et évaluer un répertoire d’attitudes distinctes, depuis l’optimisme cognitif jusqu’au pessimisme moral, face à la possibilité du langage de convaincre et d’influencer son interlocuteur. Dans la lancée des conceptions équivoques sur les ressources du langage que l’on trouve dans le Han Feizi ainsi que dans les Stratagèmes des Royaumes Combattants, certains des discours que j’examine dans cette étude ont pour trait distinctif de déployer une rhétorique qui n’ambitionne pas de l’emporter sur un tiers, ou de gagner quelque chose en particulier ; ils s’emploient bien plutôt à réaliser ce qui constitue l’aspiration suprême en Chine de toute personne éduquée : changer le souverain, réformer son esprit, déclencher un processus de transformation retentissant sur tout le corps politique.

先秦時代，大批朝臣明爭暗鬥，皆欲進言天下獨尊的君主，這一政治背景下，出現了高風險 乃至冒死的政治勸言。本文檢視了早期中國歷史上徘徊于理智與背叛、拯救與自絕之間的勸 說言論，並在不竭盡每個文本的豐富性和歧義性的前提下，理出並評估它們所反映的各種對 立姿態，從認識論層次上的樂觀主義 （cognitive optimism）直至倫理學層次上的悲觀主義，進 而觀察語言對聽眾的說服力和影響力。 在韓非(終於公元前232年)的文字中，作為其絕對控制體系之關鍵的理想化君主形象被設想成 一個雖能免受讒言之害、卻又最終淪為純粹修辭形象的不可思議之人。修辭既是韓非的死 敵，又是支撐其政治體系的利器，我們該如何理解這種矛盾呢？與韓非對語言的矛盾態度相 類似的還有 ，它不僅能被看作一本勸說指導手冊，而且還可以被看作某種向修辭致命能力的 敬禮，儘管這一敬禮似乎猶豫不決。這裡，我將要對書中兩位傑出的游說家——蘇代和蘇秦的 語言策略進行描述。 與一種全然不顧道德後果的修辭法不同(尤其是《戰國策》一書），之後我要提到的修辭既沒 有被用在辯駁取勝，也沒有被用來贏得具體的事物，而是為了完成“士”的終極任務，即改變統 治者及其想法，開啟一場全面撼動政治團體的變革。

AUTHOR

ROMAIN GRAZIANI

Romain Graziani is professor in Chinese studies at the École normale supérieure de Lyon. His research focuses on early Chinese intellectual history. His publications include: Fictions philosophiques du Tchouang-tseu (Gallimard, 2006), Écrits de Maître Guan. Les quatre traités de l’art de l’esprit (Les Belles Lettres, 2011) and Les Corps dans le taoïsme ancien (Les Belles Lettres, 2011). URL: http://iao.ish-lyon.cnrs.fr/spip.php?article189.

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II. Overt and Covert Rhetoric against Ruling Elites À mots couverts, à mots ouverts : la rhétorique contre les élites dirigeantes

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Alienating Rhetoric in the Book of Lord Shang and its Moderation Rhétorique de la provocation dans le Livre du Seigneur Shang 《商君書》中的“疏離性”修辭及其缓和

Yuri Pines

AUTHOR'S NOTE

This research was supported by the Israel Science Foundation (grant no. 511/11) and by the Michael William Lipson Chair in Chinese Studies. It was first presented at the conference “Rhetoric as a Political Tool in Early China,” Jerusalem, May 2011. I am indebted to the conference participants, especially to Paul van Els and David Schaberg, as well as to Extrême-Orient, Extrême-Occident anonymous reviewers for their insightful comments on the earlier version of this paper.

1 Shang Yang (d. 338 BCE) occupies a special place in China’s intellectual history. Few if any thinkers have generated such intense antagonism as he did; few were so overwhelmingly identified as enemies of morality. While to a certain extent these negative views applied to all those thinkers whom we often dub the “Legalists,”2 it seems that Shang Yang was often singled out as an exceptional scoundrel. Thus, in the Lüshi chunqiu—a syncretic text that rarely attacks individual thinkers—Shang Yang’s deeds are presented, ominously, in the chapter named “Unrighteous” (“Wuyi”); while Sima Qian ends his biography of Shang Yang with an unusually explicit negation of his protagonist, who “deserved his ill fame.”3 It seems that neither the thinkers’ recognition of Shang Yang’s achievements in Qin, nor possible sympathy toward him as a victim of unjust execution, sufficed to improve his reputation.4 Su Shi’s (1036-1101) summary, that “from Han (206 BCE-220 CE) onwards scholars are ashamed of speaking about Shang Yang” is characteristic of the long-term attitude towards the Qin thinker.5

2 Shang Yang’s image improved in the early 20th century, when several Chinese intellectuals, most notably Mai Menghua (1874-1915), rediscovered this thinker, and,

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impressed by perceived commonalities between his ideas and modern Western social thought, elevated him to the position of eminence which had been denied him for two odd millennia. While only a minority of modern scholars followed this view, in the latter years of Mao Zedong’s era (1949-1976), Shang Yang’s popularity soared, and he was lionized as a great “progressive” thinker who fought against the “reactionary classes.” This enthusiasm remained brief though, and while in China nowadays Shang Yang is no longer demonized, the interest in his thought and legacy has subsided notably.6 In Western sinology, attitudes toward Shang Yang remain overwhelmingly negative; while some identify him as “totalitarian” thinker and representative of an “amoral science of statecraft,” others tend to disregard him altogether, as is reflected in an almost unbelievable dearth of Western language publications that deal with Shang Yang.7

3 To be sure, criticism of Shang Yang’s perceived immorality and the lack of interest in his intellectual legacy are two distinct phenomena; but they are related to a certain extent. One may identify several reasons for which “scholars are ashamed of speaking about Shang Yang,” and among these the peculiar content of the Book of Lord Shang (Shang jun shu),8 attributed to Shang Yang, figures prominently. Few if any other pre- imperial texts contain such a blatant assault on conventional morality: deriding fundamental moral norms, such as benevolence, righteousness, filiality, fraternal duty, trustworthiness and honesty, as “parasites”; calling for the creation of a regime in which “scoundrels rule the good”; and advocating military victory by performing “whatever the enemy is ashamed of.” Such examples of what may be called “alienating rhetoric” abound in the book, and they may have generated the negative view of Shang Yang among the majority of both traditional and modern readers.

4 In what follows I want first to analyze the “alienating rhetoric” of the Book of Lord Shang in terms of its content, its purported audience and its potential effect. Then I shall go a step deeper into the text and try to demonstrate that in the process of the evolution of the Book of Lord Shang, one can discern attempts by later contributors to moderate the negative impression left by the most blatantly alienating chapters, which, I believe, belong to the earlier layer of the text. I hope that by comparing the two sets of chapters, I shall be able to add yet another dimension to the ongoing discussion about the formation of the Book of Lord Shang and its ideological evolution, demonstrating thereby that analysis of the text’s rhetoric may be a useful device in assessing its nature and its composition.

Preface: the composition of the Book of Lord Shang

5 Any analysis of the Book of Lord Shang should begin with the thorny question of its dating and composition. Although this text was not the focus of scholarly attention in traditional China, a few scholars who did address its nature noticed that it contains a few obviously anachronistic references to the events from the very end of the Warring States period (Zhanguo, 453-221 BCE), which suggest that it was composed long after the death of its putative author, Shang Yang. This view, in turn, generated a dismissive attitude toward the Book of Lord Shang during the Republican period (1912-1949), when many eminent scholars presupposed its belatedness and consequently downplayed its ideological importance, making it secondary to the Han Feizi as a source of so-called “Legalist” thought. Although these sweeping generalizations are no longer accepted in

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Chinese and Japanese research, they continue to influence not a few Western studies, which may explain yet another reason for the paucity of interest in the Book of Lord Shang in the Anglophone community.9

6 It is important to emphasize from the very beginning that the outdated reductionist view, which dates the text according to its latest identifiable layer, is untenable. A more convincing scenario would be akin to that outlined by Mark E. Lewis: namely, texts attributed to major thinkers were created as a result of a lengthy process of accretion, during which disciples and followers added, edited and possibly edited out chapters or sections of the text; hence rather than trying to date the text as a whole, we should focus on the provenance of its “building blocks”: either individual chapters or sections of a chapter.10 This view is indeed adopted nowadays by the vast majority of the scholars of the Book of Lord Shang in China and Japan; and many efforts have been made to distinguish between those chapters that can be identified as Shang Yang’s writings, those attributable to his immediate followers and disciples, and those produced at a later stage, or, possibly, mistakenly added to the book. The results of these efforts are both impressive and frustrating: impressive due to manifold new insights on the structure of the Book of Lord Shang; frustrating—because of the very considerable disagreement with regard to the dating of most of the chapters. Aside from chapter 2, “Ken ling” (“Order to cultivate wastelands”), which is overwhelmingly identified as produced by Shang Yang, and chapter 15, “Lai min” (“Attracting the people”), which was definitely produced after 260 BCE, the dating and authorship of other chapters remain bitterly contested.11 While in the present paper I do not intend to address these debates systematically, a few brief observations would clarify my approach and explain similarities and differences between my views and those of earlier researchers.

7 Two major problems characterize the majority of studies of the composition of the Book of Lord Shang. First, scholars routinely employ the “Biography of Lord Shang” in the Historical Records as the source of reliable information on Shang Yang’s life and thought; accordingly the attribution of individual chapters is contested according to the degree of its conformity with the image of Shang Yang as perceived from that text. This a- priori prioritization of a source that was definitely composed long after the Book of Lord Shang, and that is obviously not free of manifold bias, is methodologically untenable.12 Second, scholars often expect that chapters composed by Shang Yang should display absolute ideological uniformity. This expectation is likewise problematic: a thinker and a statesman, whose career in Qin spanned two decades, can be expected to modify his views either due to changing circumstances, or due to differences in the expected audience of individual chapters. Actually, few texts of the Warring States period display such a remarkable degree of ideological consistency as the Book of Lord Shang; but when differences do occur—such as regarding the proper balance between rewards and punishments—they cannot serve as a reliable indicator of the chapter’s provenance, as has been suggested, for instance, by Zheng Liangshu (1989). We should look for more solid criteria in dating individual chapters of the Book of Lord Shang, either in absolute or in relative terms.

8 These solid criteria do exist, at least with regard to a few chapters. Most obviously, references to the events that postdate Shang Yang’s death by years or even by generations are indicative of the belated creation of several chapters, e.g. of “Attracting the people,” noted above.13 Another indicator for the chapter dating are the ruler’s appellations. While most chapters apply the neutral “ruler” (jun) and “sovereign” (zhu),

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a few others employ “king” (wang), which suggests that they were produced after the appropriation of the royal title by Lord (later King) Huiwen of Qin (r. 337-311) in 325 BCE;14 another chapter (26, “Ding fen,” “Fixing distinctions”) speaks of the ruler as “Son of Heaven” (Tianzi) which suggests a provenance around the age of the imperial unification of 221 BCE.

9 Variations in the ruler’s appellations bring us to another interesting difference among the chapters of the Book of Lord Shang: their preoccupation with the concept of the True Monarch. As I have argued elsewhere, from the Middle Warring States period onwards, many texts focus on this figure of an ideal ruler, who will be able to unify All under Heaven under his aegis and bring universal peace and stability.15 The Book of Lord Shang is one of the earliest texts in which this topic figures prominently; yet the intensity of discussion differs considerably among various chapters. Some chapters, most notably 3, “Nong zhan” (“Agriculture and warfare”) and 4, “Qu qiang” (“Eliminating the strong”), as well as those related to “Qu qiang” (see below), abound with promises for a ruler who heeds the authors’ advice to become the True Monarch; in others, including all the identifiably late chapters, these pronouncements disappear. It is likely that the difference again revolves around 325 BCE: after the Qin rulers adopted the king/ monarch (wang) title it was no longer politically advisable to emphasize the ruler’s need to become True Monarch, implying thereby that his current title is fraudulent. This in turn suggests that chapters 3 and 4 (and a few others, such as “Opening the barred” [7, “Kai sai”]) may well belong to an earlier layer of the Book of Lord Shang. If correct, this observation is singularly important for the discussion below, as it is precisely in chapters 3 and 4 that an assault on traditional moral values appears particularly blatant.

10 One final point should be made here with regard to chapter 4 (“Eliminating the strong”). In all likelihood it occupies a special position within the Book of Lord Shang. As has been noticed by several scholars, two other chapters of the book (5, “Shuo min,” “Explaining the people”; and 20, “Ruo min,” “Weakening the people”) are commentaries on the “Eliminating the strong” chapter.16 In addition, one more chapter (13, “Jin ling,” “Making orders strict,” reproduced as “Chi ling” in the Han Feizi) appears to be closely related to “Eliminating the strong.” While the dating of each chapter in this cluster is debatable (see more below), it is highly likely that the “Eliminating the strong” chapter precedes the three others, and that it might have been conceived of as a kind of “canon” to which commentaries were added at a later stage. This hypothesis, if correct, strengthens my observation with regard to the relatively early date of the “Eliminating the strong” chapter, and will serve us later when we address the modification of the message of that chapter in the “inner commentary” of the Book of Lord Shang.

11 My discussion below will start with analyzing “alienating rhetoric” in chapters 3 and 4 of the Book of Lord Shang; in the next section I shall move to those chapters which in all likelihood come from the later layers of the book, and show how the alienating rhetoric underwent modification and moderation so as to make the text more accommodative toward potential opponents.

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Down with morality! The earliest layer of the Book of Lord Shang

12 Chapter 3, “Agriculture and warfare” is one of the central ideological pieces in the Book of Lord Shang. Its focus is clear from the title: the author proposes various means for directing the population towards the mutually reinforcing pursuits of agriculture and warfare—combined under the name “the One” (yi) —as this is the only way the state will become powerful domestically and externally. To attain this goal, it is essential to undermine the attractiveness of alternative occupations, such as commerce, craftsmanship, and, most importantly, intellectual pursuits. The author is particularly critical of traveling scholars and of the so-called “powerful and eminent” (hao jie) who “change their occupation, diligently study Poems and Documents and then follow external powers to attain renown above and offices and emoluments below.”17 These crafty and talkative intellectuals are the major malady of the state: “When one thousand people are engaged in agriculture and war, yet there is a single man among them engaged in Poems, Documents, argumentativeness and cleverness, then one thousand people all will become remiss in agriculture and war.”18 Moreover, attraction to scholarly pursuits damages the functioning of the government above: “the ruler is fond of words, while officials lose the constant”;19 thereby the state is led astray from the Way of the Monarch.

13 The author’s assault on intellectuals matures at the middle of the chapter, where their negative impact on the state is summarized: Now, when superiors employ the people only after discussing their talents, abilities, knowledge and cleverness, then the knowledgeable and the clever will observe20 the ruler’s likes and dislikes and let the officials manage the affairs so as to conform to the sovereign’s heart. Therefore, the officials will lack the constant, the state will be in turmoil and not engaged in the One, while argumentative persuaders will not [be reined in by] the Law. In this case, how can the people’s pursuits be not multiple; how can the land be not waste?21

14 Having identified “the knowledgeable and the clever” intellectuals as the most hazardous social stratum, the author launches a massive assault on traditional culture and morality as a whole: Poems, Documents, rites, music, goodness, self-cultivation, benevolence, uprightness, argumentativeness, cleverness: when the state has these ten, the superiors cannot force the people to [engage in] defense and warfare. If the state is ruled according to these ten, then when the enemy arrives it will be dismembered, and when the enemy does not arrive, it will be impoverished. If the state eradicates these ten, then the enemy will dare not to arrive, and even if he arrives, he will be repelled; when the army is raised and sent on a campaign it will seize [the enemy’s land]; while if the army is restrained and does not attack, the state will be rich.22

15 This passage—which, as we shall see recurs with minor variations elsewhere in the text —epitomizes the author’s disdain not only of traditional culture as represented by Poems, Documents, rites and music, but of traditional moral values as well. At first glance his dislike of “goodness, self-cultivation, benevolence and uprightness” is almost inexplicable; these values are not mentioned elsewhere in the chapter. What then is the damage from these values? An implicit answer will be that the author does not assault morality as such but is critical of moralizing discourse, due to which “the ruler is muddled by the doctrines, the officials are disordered by discourses, and the people are

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indolent in agriculture.”23 Yet if this is indeed the author’s intention (and I very much believe it is), it is never made explicit in the chapter. A reader—both traditional and modern—is left with a bad taste of a manifestly immoral text, which does not care about attracting the reader but rather openly alienates him.

16 The reader’s feeling of alienation increases dramatically in the next chapter, “Eliminating the strong.” Unlike the preceding chapter, “Eliminating the strong” does not focus on a single topic, but rather presents a series of brief statements that purport to be the quintessence of Shang Yang’s wisdom. The chapter’s eclectic nature has led some scholars to assume that it was produced later than the bulk of the text, as a sort of intellectual summary of Shang Yang’s legacy.24 This supposition, however, is not convincing: the fact that “Eliminating the strong” is the only chapter of the Book of Lord Shang to merit addition of two exegetical chapters makes it highly likely that from the inception it was conceived as a pivot of the book’s message, a “canon” to be followed by “commentaries.” In that case the message in “Eliminating the strong” and even its wording should be of utmost interest to scholars of Shang Yang’s thought.

17 The chapter’s peculiar message becomes clear from its first lines: One who eliminates the strong with the strong is weak; one who eliminates the strong with the weak is strong. When the state engages in goodness, there are many scoundrels. When a rich state is ruled as poor, it is called multiplying riches; he who multiplies riches is strong. When a poor state is ruled as rich, it is called multiplying poverty; he who multiplies poverty is weak. He whose army performs whatever the enemy dares not to perform, is strong; he, who in [military] affairs elevates whatever the enemy is ashamed of, benefits.25

18 Some of the above statements, especially the first sentence, are enigmatic and require exegesis in the “Weakening the people” chapter to be adequately understood,26 yet other phrases are clear enough. Of these, two leave the reader most uncomfortable: the statement “when the state engages in goodness, there are many scoundrels,” and the recommendation for the army “to perform whatever the enemy is ashamed of.” The latter recommendation might have given rise to stories of Shang Yang’s dirty tricks on the battlefield, as narrated in Lüshi chunqiu, among others;27 and as we shall see later, they required the considerable intellectual acrobatics of the text’s exegetes to make them sound less alienating. In the “Eliminating the strong” chapter itself, this phrase is left without further elaboration; rather the author continues to engage in provocative and unconventional statements: Peasants, merchants and officials: these three are constant functions of the state. Three functions give birth to six parasitic affairs,28 that is “year,” “food,” “beauty,” “likes,” “will,” “conduct.” When the six have the root,29 [the state] will surely be dismembered. The root of three functions in three kinds of the people; the root of six [parasitic] affairs is in one Man… When a powerful state is not engaged in warfare, the poison infiltrates its intestines; rites, music and parasitic affairs are born; [the state] will surely be dismembered. When the state wages war, the poison infiltrates the enemy; it lacks rites, music and parasitic affairs; [the state] will surely be strong.30

19 The six parasitic affairs assaulted here are rarely if at all singled out as negative phenomena; according to the exegesis in the “Weakening the people” chapter, they refer to the peasant’s extravagant feasting in the case of an abundant yearly harvest, to the extra incomes of the merchants from beautiful utensils, and to officials’ engagement with self-cultivation at the expense of performing their duties. Without an exegesis, which clarifies that the chapter hints at self-indulgent excesses, the statement

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sounds odd and may further alienate the audience. The alienation increases when we read the author’s argumentation in favor of war: rather than focusing on its contribution to the state’s security and prosperity, he singles out its cultural impact on eliminating “rites and music” along with other parasitic affairs. This argument, again, sounds odd: instead of looking for common ground with his potential opponents, the author appears to be delighted to create more controversies. This delight is even more evident in the next section: When the state has rites and music, Odes and Documents, goodness and self- cultivation, filiality and fraternal obligations, uprightness and argumentativeness— when it has all ten of these, the superiors cannot cause [the people] to go to war, and [the state] will surely be dismembered to the point of final collapse; when the state lacks all ten of these, the superiors can cause [the people] to go to war, and [the state] will surely prosper to the point of [its ruler] becoming True Monarch. When the state employs the good people to rule scoundrels, it will suffer chaos to the point of dismemberment; when the state employs scoundrels to rule the good people, it will be orderly ruled to the point of empowerment. When the state uses Odes, Documents, rites, music, filiality, fraternal obligations, goodness and argumentativeness to rule, then when the enemy arrives the state will be dismembered; and when the enemy does not arrive, it will be impoverished. When one does not use these eight, then the enemy dares not arrive; and even if he arrives, he will be repelled; while when the army is raised in invasion it will be able to seize [the enemy’s territory], and after seizing it, will surely be able to hold it; while when one restrains the army and does not attack, [the state] will surely be rich.31

20 This section echoes the previous chapter in its assault on the entire spectrum of cultural and moral values of the author’s contemporaries. The list of vices is similar to that in “Agriculture and warfare,” but there is one important addition: that of filiality and fraternal obligations. This addition is not negligible: of all major virtues, filiality might have been the least controversial, and by vigorously assaulting it, the author could not but arouse further animosity in most readers.32 Once again, the author does not explain why specific virtues were singled out for his disdain; rather it seems that he has created an inversion of several “Confucian” texts in which positive virtues were put together to urge the rulers to adopt them in toto;33 in his case, he simply advocates total rejection. This “totalistic iconoclasm,” to echo Lin Yü-sheng,34 is still not enough for the author in his search for appalling statements; hence he crowns his crusade against morality with the oddest recommendation to let “scoundrels rule the good people.”35 The entire moral order is turned upside down.

Why abuse the audience? The rationale behind the alienating rhetoric

21 The above analysis leaves no doubt that both chapters 3 and 4 were designed to appall and alienate the audience. Their alienating impact becomes even clearer when we compare them to a few other contemporaneous texts which likewise assaulted aspects of traditional culture and cherished moral values. In terms of content, pronouncements in these texts might have been no less controversial than those in the Book of Lord Shang: suffice it to mention Mozi’s (ca 460-390 BCE) assault on lavish funerals and ritual music; the Laozi dictum “Cut off benevolence, abandon righteousness, and the people will return to filiality and paternal love”; and some of the Zhuangzi statements, e.g.,

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“until the sages die out, criminals could not be stopped.”36 Later, Han Feizi (d. 233 BCE) echoed Shang Yang’s derision of fundamental political and ethical beliefs of the elite. Yet similarities aside, I believe that the impact of these texts on the audience was fundamentally different from that of the Book of Lord Shang, and the difference was less related to the content and more to the form of the argument.

22 Let us briefly consider how the texts mentioned above convey their message. Mozi is anxious to convince his audience that, first, his controversial ideas reflect the true legacy of the sage kings of antiquity, and, second, that they are obviously beneficent to the socioeconomic wellbeing of the populace. The case of the Laozi is more complicated; surely, for many readers the call to “cut off benevolence and abandon righteousness” was no less provocative than Shang Yang’s statements cited above. Nonetheless, the alienating effect of the Laozi statements is moderated in several ways. First, the text’s promise that after heeding its advice the people would return to “filiality and paternal love” means that, in sharp distinction from the Book of Lord Shang, the Laozi accepts at least some of the moral values cherished by the members of the elite.37 Second, the Laozi provocative arguments can be understood in the context of manifold paradoxical statements in the text, which allows reading the above dictum as an attack on erroneous terminology rather than on moral values as such: it opposes the much trumpeted terms rather than the real ethical norms that stand behind these terms.38 Third, and most importantly, the Laozi clarifies elsewhere the reasons for its dismissive attitude toward “benevolence and righteousness”: these are just artificial values which appear in the wake of the decline of the pristine Way and Virtue.39 Evidently, the text does not oppose morality as such but just its man-made definitions. Overall, the Laozi establishes a sort of dialogue with its readers and does not just astound them with an attack on their cherished beliefs; this distinguishes the text critically from the above chapters of the Book of Lord Shang. As for the Zhuangzi, there the author’s irony softens much of the text’s messages.

23 Now, what about Han Feizi? This text shares much of the worldview, argumentation and vocabulary with the Book of Lord Shang and is particularly fitting for comparative purposes. Quite often Han Feizi sounds no less provocative than Shang Yang; and yet the assault on traditional values in the Han Feizi in the final account appears much less vehement than in chapters 3 and 4 of the Book of Lord Shang. Thus, in the Han Feizi filial piety is not rejected in toto but is juxtaposed with another highly acclaimed value— namely, loyalty to the ruler—and is shown to be detrimental to the latter; nor does the text discard benevolence altogether, but rather shows its inadequacy under the current socio-political conditions.40 Surely, many readers would remain alienated from Han Feizi’s message, but at the very least the author—much like the authors of the later chapters in the Book of Lord Shang, discussed below—tries to establish a common ground with the reader rather than abuse him.

24 Going back to chapters 3 and 4 of the Book of Lord Shang discussed above, we may immediately notice how different they are from other “provocative” texts. First, Shang Yang’s iconoclasm in the cited chapters is totalistic rather than selective, as in the Mozi or the Laozi. Second, it is presented in an absolutely straightforward way, not mediated either by appealing to the Way of the former kings, as in the Mozi, or by metaphysical depth, as in the Laozi. Third, unlike another iconoclastic text, the Zhuangzi, Shang Yang’s invectives against morality cannot be reduced to literary exercises or ironic digressions; rather, they appear as a call for action, which may well be frightening for

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some of the audience. And finally, “immoral” pronouncements are neither explained nor justified; unlike the Han Feizi (or later chapters in the Book of Lord Shang itself), they are presented as unquestionable axioms; the author does not try to engage his readers in dialogue. Rather, the audience is left with a choice of “take it or leave it,” and the majority would doubtlessly opt for the latter. Only once does the “Eliminating the strong” chapter sound more accommodating: When one eradicates punishments through punishments, the state is ordered; when one brings punishments through punishments, the state is disordered. Hence, it is said: when in implementing punishments you [punish] heavily for light [offenses], the punishments are eradicated, the affairs are completed and the state is strong; when you punish heavily for heavy [offenses] and lightly for light ones, the punishments are brought in, [more] affairs are born, and the state is dismembered. Punishments give birth to power; power gives birth to strength; strength gives birth to awesomeness; awesomeness gives birth to kindness: kindness is borne of power.41

25 The concluding sentence is indicative of the sophistication of the argumentation in the Book of Lord Shang; as we shall see, in most other chapters, the authors justify the harshness of their proposals by explaining the ultimately blessed impact of these on the populace. In the context of the given chapter, however, a single sentence does not alleviate the harsh feelings engendered in the reader by a series of explicitly immoral pronouncements. It seems that rather than placating the audience, the author of this (and the previous) chapter is satisfied by further irritating it.

26 A reader may well question at this point why, if at all, I apply the term “rhetoric” to the way in which the Book of Lord Shang presents its harsh message. After all, “rhetoric” is commonly understood as being aimed at persuading the audience, not alienating it. Can we apply this term to the overtly abusive messages of the two chapters discussed above? I believe we can: in our case harsh statements may well be a calculated gamble: while alienating most of the educated elite, the author was subtly targeting a significant segment thereof. As such, his controversial pronouncements may well be an efficient rhetorical device.

27 Let us assess now whom did the author target: who was the expected audience of both chapters? A ready answer would be that the texts were prepared by Shang Yang for his employer, Lord Xiao of Qin (r. 361-338), and were formulated in such a way as to please the lord. This suggestion would fit nicely with an anecdote told in the Historical Records, according to which Shang Yang tried at first to teach Lord Xiao the ways of Thearch and Monarch, and only after having failed in this, turned to “the way of hegemon,” namely promoting an efficient, even if immoral rule.42 A second, related explanation would focus not on Lord Xiao’s individual qualities but rather on the cultural background of Qin leaders. Namely, the state of Qin was supposedly a “barbarous outsider” of the Zhou world, which was therefore more receptive to Shang Yang’s anti- cultural messages. This explanation is traceable already to the Huainanzi, which argues that Shang Yang’s laws were constructed so as to fit original Qin customs that were “covetous and wolfish, forceful and violent.”43 In the 20th century many modern scholars, such as Meng Wentong (1894-1968) and others, have put forward a theory that Qin was originally an alien (Rong) polity, which did not share the common cultural values of the Zhou world; this supposition in turn explains why an assault on Tradition, which might have been unthinkable elsewhere in the Zhou oikoumenē, was acceptable in Qin.44

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28 Let us start with the second, cultural explanation of Shang Yang’s peculiar rhetoric. Convenient as it may seem, this explanation is patently wrong. It is clear nowadays that the association of Qin with the cultural Other of the Zhou world is built on an uncritical acceptance of political propaganda of the late Warring States period, rather than on cultural realities. A careful investigation of textual, archeological and paleographic data shows beyond doubt that from the earliest identifiable stages of its history, Qin was a part of the Zhou cultural sphere, and its differentiation from the rest of the Central States occurred in the aftermath of Shang Yang’s reforms, rather than prior to these reforms.45 In cultural terms, therefore, the rhetoric of the Book of Lord Shang would have been as alienating for the Qin audience as it might have been elsewhere in the Zhou oikoumenē.

29 Setting cultural explanations aside, let us check the feasibility of the first supposition, namely that the cited chapters were prepared exclusively for Lord Xiao of Qin, whose individual predilections might have turned him into an eager consumer of Shang Yang’s arguments. Without entering speculative discussion about Lord Xiao’s ideological inclinations, it is important to observe that neither of the two chapters discussed above appear as being directed exclusively at the lord. First, the wording of both chapters lacks any hint of personal communication with the ruler, unlike in the case of many other chapters in the Book of Lord Shang.46 Second, whoever their original addressee, once these chapters were incorporated in the collection of Shang Yang’s alleged writings, it was clear that they would be read by much broader audience than a ruler and his close aides. The very fact that the “Eliminating the strong” chapter was provided with extended exegesis suggests that at a certain point it began circulating widely enough to require written commentaries. Hence, I believe that both chapters analyzed above were targeting not just the ruler but a broader segment of the educated elite.

30 If my conclusion is correct, then why did the author adopt his radically alienating rhetoric? What did he hope to achieve by assaulting values and norms that had clearly pronounced “emotive meaning” for the majority of the readers?47 To answer this question, we should consider the peculiar intellectual atmosphere of the middle Warring States period. It was an age of profound socio-political, economic and military changes; the age when old values were reexamined and no strict orthodoxy existed. In these conditions an assault on dominant values, couched in provocative and even abusive language, was surely alienating for many, but could also increase the author’s renown, and possibly his attractiveness among those segments of the educated elite who would share his radical rejection of mainstream views. The language of these chapters with its undeniable novelty and freedom from ideological conventions might have appealed to some; and it was positioning the supposed author of the Book of Lord Shang, Shang Yang, as a true leader of innovative thinkers.48

31 The intellectual history of the world, especially modern intellectual history, has several examples of a radical movement adopting abusive and alienating discourse to emphasize its novelty and to attract followers from the margins of the establishment. Suffice to recall one example from modern Chinese history: the amazing popularity of “The Revolutionary Army” (Geming jun) by Zou Rong (1885-1905). Published in 1903, this short pamphlet became exceptionally successful: despite being banned, it sold an unimaginable one million copies, becoming one of the major bestsellers of the late Imperial period.49 The pamphlet attracted readers not due to intellectual depth—which

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it lacks—but because of its provocative language, full of racial abuse against the Manchu (Manju) rulers and against the imperial system. In the pre-revolutionary situation of the first decade of the 20th century, the inflammatory rhetoric of Zou Rong was precisely the kind of new discourse which many young literati (and even some of the established figures, such as Zhang Binglin [1868-1936]) were looking for.50

32 To be sure, the Zhou world in the fourth century BCE differed markedly from early modern China, and Shang Yang was not a young revolutionary but a powerful statesman; however there are some important similarities. Both societies were undergoing rapid changes, which invalidated some established beliefs and values; both were in search of novel solutions for a variety of socio-political challenges; both were characterized by a remarkable degree of intellectual pluralism, bolstered by the weaknesses of centralized political power. And, while Shang Yang was not a marginal player, unlike Zou Rong, he might have belonged to a distinct minority of intellectual radicals; hence, by emphasizing his divorce from Tradition he may have hoped to gain support within this minority.

33 We know next to nothing of Shang Yang’s disciples,51 or of his attempts to establish a coherent group of followers; but there is at least one indication that such a group did exist. The Book of Lord Shang, the composition of which spanned several generations, was evidently the result of a collective effort. We do not know—despite the impressive efforts of scholars such as Zheng Liangshu and Yoshinami Takashi—how the book was formed and developed, nor the functioning of what Zheng dubs as Shang Yang’s “ideological current” (xue pai), but it is highly likely that the book was produced by a more or less ideologically coherent group of the thinker’s followers, some of whom might have assisted Shang Yang in launching reforms in Qin. Plausibly, Shang Yang’s followers were attracted precisely by those features of his thought, such as his blatant assault on established conventions, which were most controversial for other contemporaries and for posterity. If so, then Shang Yang’s abusive rhetoric might have achieved its short-term goal, establishing the thinker’s renown as the symbol of resolute innovativeness.

Toward moderation: accommodating morality in the Book of Lord Shang

34 If my parallel between Shang Yang and political radicals elsewhere is relevant, then we may expect a similar development trajectory: namely, after a group or an individual establish their credentials for radicalism and innovativeness, they begin moving back to the “political center,” trying to establish bridges with the mainstream, rather than continuously alienating it. This trajectory is observable, e.g., in modern European history, where radicals on the right and on the left found it expedient at a certain stage to embrace, however superficially, the mainstream discourse of democracy and human rights, rather than trying to develop a comprehensively alternative vision. As I shall try to demonstrate below, this observation is correct with regard to Shang Yang (or, more likely, with regard to his ideological “current,” whose members contributed to the evolution of the Book of Lord Shang). In many later chapters of this book, we can see a subtle but palpable change in the dominant rhetoric, from abusive to more accommodative.

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35 I shall start my analysis in this section with three chapters that are clearly related to “Eliminating the strong,” which, as noted above, epitomizes the overtly “immoral” message of the Book of Lord Shang. The task of explaining—and moderating—this message is performed in two exegetical chapters, each of which comments on approximately one half of “Eliminating the strong.” The dating of both of these chapters—“Explaining the people” and “Weakening the people”—is not clear; although the last section of the latter contains a passage which must have been produced after 278 BCE, this passage is not related to the chapter and might have been mistakenly added by later transmitters.52 It is possible that both were already produced during Shang Yang’s life-time; but it is more likely that they were composed at a later stage, when the thinker’s followers and disciples had to explain his terse and harsh message to a new audience. Whatever the answer, it is clear that both chapters reflect the evolution of Shang Yang’s thought (or the thought of his followers).

36 How do the authors of the exegeses explain some of the harshest pronouncements in the “Eliminating the strong” chapter? The “Explaining the people” chapter starts with a justification of the assault on moral and cultural values: Argumentativeness and cleverness are the aides of turmoil; rites and music are symptoms of excessiveness and indolence; kindness and benevolence are mother of transgressions; appointing according to reputation53 is the rat54 of villainy. When turmoil has aides, it is realized; when excessiveness and indolence have symptoms, they are practiced; when transgressions have mother, they are born; when villainy has a rat, it cannot be stopped. When the eight come together, the people overcome the government; when there are none of the eight, the government overcomes the people. When the people overcome the government, the state is weak; when the government overcomes the people, the army is powerful. Hence, when the state has the eight of these, the superiors cannot cause the people to defend and fight, and it will surely be dismembered to the point of collapse; when the state has none of the eight, the superiors can cause the people to put up a defense and fight, and the state will prosper to the point of [its ruler] becoming [True] Monarch.55

37 These pronouncements, harsh as they are, differ in two critical ways from the mother passage in the “Eliminating the strong” chapter. First, the list of vices is modified: the most controversial pair of filiality and fraternal duties is replaced with much less controversial “appointing according to reputation.” Second, the negative impact of each of the vices is explained; and while many readers may remain unconvinced by these explanations, they do at the very least propose a common ground for debate— advantages and disadvantages of empowering the people vis-à-vis the state—rather than merely alienating the audience. This softening effect of explanations of Shang Yang’s maxims is even clearer in the next section: When the good are employed, the people are attached to their relatives; when scoundrels are employed, the people are attached to regulations. Those who are harmonious and cover56 each other are “good”; those who are separate and regulate each other are “scoundrels.” When the good are spotlighted, transgressions are concealed; when the “scoundrels” are appointed, crimes are punished. When transgressions are concealed, the people overcome the law; when crimes are punished, the law overcomes the people. When the people overcome the law, the state is calamitous; when the law overcomes the people, the army is powerful. Hence it is said: “When the state employs the good people to rule scoundrels, it will be calamitous to the point of dismemberment; when the state employs scoundrels to rule the good people, it will be orderly ruled to the point of empowerment.”57

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38 Here the explanation is crucial for turning an appalling recommendation of “employing scoundrels to rule the good people” into an acceptable, even if disputable one: the authors explain that by speaking of “scoundrels” and the “good people” they simply refer to common erroneous definitions, according to which the selfish and the lawless are identified as “good” while the law-abiding people are “scoundrels.” Once again, opponents may dispute the wisdom of Shang Yang’s alternative definitions, but the common ground for the discussion had been established, and alienation of the readers from the text decreased.

39 On a few other occasions, the authors of “Explaining the people” make statements that may placate at least some of the opponents. Once they mention that “the nature of the people is to be orderly ruled; it is just that their affairs are calamitous.”58 This statement implies that oppressive government corresponds in the final account to the people’s “nature” (qing); it just helps the people to overcome calamity in their undertakings.59 Elsewhere the text echoes the “Eliminating the strong” chapter: Punishments give birth to power; power gives birth to strength; strength gives birth to awesomeness; awesomeness gives birth to virtue: virtue is borne by punishments.60

40 This passage strongly resembles the maternal one; but it replaces the term “kindness” (hui) with a more emotively attractive “virtue” (de). The connection between virtue and punishments is an old one, being already attested in the Zuo zhuan, if not earlier; usually both were conceived as mutually complementary.61 In the Book of Lord Shang punishments are clearly given a priority; but insofar as “virtue” (which in its meaning as “charisma” or “mana” may refer not just to kindness but to the very right to rule) is considered a by-product of the punitive system, the elevation of punishments becomes less controversial. Once again, the discussion becomes more accommodative than in the “Eliminating the strong” chapter.

41 A similar, if less explicit tendency to soften the original message is observable in the second exegetical chapter, “Weakening the people.” For instance it tries to justify the original postulate in favor of immoral warfare in the following way: When there are affairs one is ashamed of doing, multiple scoundrels diminish; when the awards are not losing their constant, multiple scoundrels are stopped.62 When the enemy loses, it is surely beneficial; the army will attain utmost power and awesomeness. When there are no affairs one is ashamed of doing, it is beneficial to use the army; one who dwells for long in the position of benefit and power will surely become True Monarch. Hence, “he, whose army performs whatever the enemy dares not to perform, is strong; he, who in [military] affairs elevates whatever the enemy is ashamed of, benefits.”63

42 Possible textual corruption makes discussion of this passage difficult; Gao Heng assesses that the authors acknowledge the importance of the sense of shame in domestic affairs, while recommending that it be abandoned on the battlefield.64 I do not find strong textual support for this interpretation; but it seems clear at the very least that the authors do acknowledge a certain positive impact of the sense of shame. This view stands at odds with the phrase they are commenting upon (“he, who in [military] affairs elevates whatever the enemy is ashamed of, benefits”), and clearly causes awkwardness for their exegetical effort. Once again, we see an attempt—probably not entirely successful—to bridge the gaps with the more traditional or moral-minded audience, rather than to widen them.

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43 Yet another chapter that is related to “Eliminating the strong” is “Making orders strict.” Here the relations between the two and even their sequence are less evident; the latter chapter does not comment on the former but rather reproduces—either verbatim or with certain modifications—the statements of the former, adding at times new levels of discussion, especially with regard to proper appointments and with regard to the need to ensure full implementation of the laws. The “Making orders strict” chapter was furthermore reproduced with minor modifications in the Han Feizi, adding further complexity to its textual history. For the purpose of the current discussion, I think we do have a hint of the relative earliness of “Eliminating the strong” in comparison to “Making orders strict.” The former first introduces the “six parasites” (“year,” “food,” “beauty,” “likes,” “will,” “conduct”) and then discusses their negative impact on the state. The latter frequently employs the term “six parasites” without introducing it, probably presuming that the term is familiar to the audience. Only after a lengthy discussion of the damage caused by the six parasites do the authors explain: Six parasites: rites and music, Odes and Documents, self-cultivation and goodness, filiality and fraternal duties, sincerity and trustworthiness, integrity and uprightness, benevolence and righteousness, negation of the army, being ashamed of waging war. When the state has these twelve, the superiors are unable to cause the people to engage in agriculture and warfare, and the state will surely be poor to the point of dismemberment. When the twelve come together, this is called: “the ruler’s rule cannot overcome his ministers; the officials’ rule cannot overcome their people”; this is called: “the six parasites overcome the government.”65

44 In terms of harshness, this pronouncement equals those in early chapters discussed in the previous section; the list of virtues-turned-vices is even longer than before, and, just as in “Agriculture and warfare” and “Eliminating the strong” chapters, the reasons behind the selection of specific vices are not provided. This passage clearly contradicts my assessment that later layers in the Book of Lord Shang tend to be milder than earlier ones. However, if we take the “Making orders strict” chapter as a whole, the tendency toward moderation is apparent. Thus, when the author assaults employing “the good,” his alternative is not to employ “scoundrels” but to appoint the people according to their merits (ren gong, SJS III.13: 77)—surely a much less controversial proposal! The accommodative spirit of the chapter is fully visible in its last passage: The sage ruler understands the essentials of things. Hence in ordering the people he possesses the most essential; thus, he holds firmly rewards and punishments supporting thereby the One. [Benevolent is the one whose heart is affluent].66 The sage ruler in ordering the men should first attain their heart; hence he is able to employ force. Force gives birth to strength; strength gives birth to awesomeness; awesomeness gives birth to virtue; virtue is born of force. The sage ruler is singularly possessive of it; hence he is able to implement benevolence and righteousness in All under Heaven.67

45 It is possible that this last section was added or modified at a later stage of the chapter’s transmission; this assertion will explain why “benevolence and righteousness” which were anathematized just a few lines above are suddenly turned into the ultimate goal of the Sage’s rule. Alternatively, it is possible that the difference between two appearances of the same term in both passages is that between faked and true “benevolence and righteousness”: in the first case they refer to the moralizing discourse, which the Book of Lord Shang consistently views as detrimental to the state’s prowess; in the second case, they refer to the reality of perfect order and peace which

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will be attained after merciless punishments and unrestrained warfare eliminate domestic and external foes. This is not the only passage in the Book of Lord Shang which promises that in the end morality will prevail after the author’s program is fully implemented (cf. “Drawing the policies” [“Hua ce”] chapter, SJS IV.18: 107); so the moralizing finale of “Making orders strict” may well belong to the original part of the chapter.

46 I shall not engage here in detailed analysis of each of the other chapters of the Book of Lord Shang, but rather summarize briefly. Not all of these chapters deal with the issues of morality and with the moralizing discourse; but those which do are markedly less abusive than chapters 3 and 4 cited in the previous section. Thus, “Opening the barred” presents an interesting narrative of the evolution of human society; according to this narrative, family values, benevolence, and “elevating the worthy” were indeed appropriate in the past, but are no longer fitting to the present age of violence and warfare.68 Here, the moral means of ruling the people are negated just as elsewhere in the Book of Lord Shang, but this is done in an incomparably milder way than in, e.g., “Eliminating the Strong.” Elsewhere, the “Drawing the policies” chapter (which may belong to a later layer of the book) explains: Hence it is said: the benevolent can behave benevolently toward others but cannot cause them to behave benevolently; the righteous can love others, but cannot cause the others to be loving. From this I know that benevolence and righteousness are insufficient to rule All under Heaven… What is called “righteousness” is when ministers are loyal, sons filial, there is ritual order between the young and the old, and differences between men and women. Yet this is not the [real] righteousness. When the hungry cannot get food improperly, while the dying man cannot get life improperly: this is the constant of the Law. Sage kings did not esteem “righteousness” but esteemed the Law: laws must be clear; orders must be implemented—and that is all.69

47 These statements again bridge the gap between Shang Yang and his opponents. Morality is not condemned outright, but is presented as an inadequate means of policy- making; and the author also explains that when he rejects “righteousness” he simply rejects what is inaccurately understood as so, while his Law is certainly morally right. Time and again we observe a similar pattern: chapters composed at different stages during the formation of the book do not deviate from the fundamental message as expressed in its earliest layers but present it in a more appropriate, and, arguably, more “accommodative” way.

Conclusion: clues about the formation of the Book of Lord Shang

48 Let us summarize our findings. First, amid overall ideological consistency, the Book of Lord Shang presents two types of rhetoric: an alienating and abusive one in chapters 3 and 4, and a more reasonable and accommodative one in most other chapters (chapter 13 is a mixed case). Second, in many, though not in all cases, it may be plausibly assumed that alienating rhetoric came first and was moderated in the later chapters. Third, it is highly unlikely that the differences among the chapters derive from different audiences; rather, all the chapters of the Book of Lord Shang were directed at both the ruler and a broader audience, viz. members of the educated elite of the state of Qin and by extension of the entire Zhou world.

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49 If all these findings, tentative as they inevitably are, are correct, then an intriguing question can be posed. Why did the later editors and transmitters of the Book of Lord Shang not try to get rid of those radical statements which they considered counterproductive and which they tried to moderate through either exegesis or moderating additions? Was it not expedient for them to rewrite problematic sections of chapters 3, 4 and 13 altogether and to make the text more acceptable and less abusive from the beginning? Clearly, they did not feel comfortable with some of the book’s statements, especially those of the “Eliminating the strong” chapter. Why then did they leave the chapter in its current, abusive form?

50 Two possible answers come to my mind. First, that the transmitters of, and contributors to, the Book of Lord Shang were genuinely in awe of the founder of their ideological current, Shang Yang, and dared not alter his original words. Yet the problem with this explanation is that it lacks any corroborative evidence. Shang Yang never became a towering figure for his followers on a par with Confucius, Mozi, or Laozi; even the one major thinker who did praise him—Han Feizi (d. 233 BCE)—is far from considering Shang Yang a Sage whose ideas are sacrosanct and whose legacy is inviolable.70 It is difficult to assume then that out of respect for the founder of the putative “Shang Yang current” his disciples and followers dared not alter his statements, even when these were detrimental to the successful appeal of his message among members of the elite.

51 Another more plausible explanation is that the disciples simply could not alter the text because it was too widespread. We are still wondering: how broadly did texts circulate during the Warring States period? Was there a small group of followers keeping the precious Ur-text and producing copies for a broader public? Or was circulation primarily in an oral form with a few loosely organized copies serving as an antecedent to the Song dynasty huaben books? Or rather the texts circulated in the written form, but, to avoid cumbersomeness, circulation was primarily confined to individual “chapters” (pian) rather than “books” as we know them from the Han dynasty onwards?71 It is not my intention here to engage comprehensively in these questions, nor do I believe that a definitive answer is currently possible. Yet it may be interesting to assess the possibility that “books” (i.e. multi-chapter compilations) attributed to a certain author already circulated as such during the Warring States period.72 If this circulation was broad enough, it would be much easier for the transmitters to add a section or a chapter rather than to omit one. This appears to be a plausible scenario for the circulation of the Book of Lord Shang.

52 There is one piece of evidence that may lend credibility to this scenario: Han Feizi’s statement that “now everybody within the borders speaks of orderly rule; every family stores the laws of Shang [Yang] and Guan [Zhong].”73 Surely, the statement is exaggerative by its nature; and, moreover, it is unclear whether “the laws of Shang Yang and Guan Zhong” refer to the texts associated with these statesmen or rather to a specific set of laws attributed to them. Yet whatever the details are, it is evident that by the end of the Warring States period, the renown of Shang Yang was higher and the circulation of the writings associated with him was broader than was the case from the Han dynasty onwards.

53 There is another indication that Shang Yang’s writings circulated from a relatively early stage as “a book,” rather than as individual chapters: namely the presence of two exegetical chapters on “Eliminating the strong.” The existence of internal exegesis is

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not peculiar to the Book of Lord Shang (the Wu xing text from Guodian and Mawangdui comes immediately to my mind, but there are many other parallels, e.g. in Guanzi).74 While it is possible that originally exegetical chapters were transmitted orally, I think this is less likely in the case of the Book of Lord Shang, the chapters of which appear to me much less memorizable than, e.g., Confucius’ or Laozi’s maxims. If, then, exegetical writings accompanied the “Eliminating the strong” chapter from the early stage of its circulation, this presupposes at the very least circulation of a cluster of chapters together. It is not difficult to hypothesize that many chapters—an antecedent of the Book of Lord Shang as we know it—were already being circulated together in the Warring States period. In this case, excising problematic passages might have been more difficult than providing new commentaries and expanding the text. In my eyes, this is the most plausible scenario to explain the modification of rhetoric in the Book of Lord Shang.

54 This paper is just a first step toward reassessment of the nature of the Book of Lord Shang. Yet it suffices to indicate that paying attention to rhetorical devices may be helpful not just in clarifying the book’s content and its potential impact but even in terms of understanding its internal structure. I hope that this will be a modest contribution towards the increased interest in political rhetoric in early Chinese texts.

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SU, Shi 蘇軾. Dongpo quanji 東坡全集. E-Siku quanshu edition.

TONG, Weimin 仝衛敏 (2007). Shang jun shu yanjiu 商君書研究. Ph.D. diss., Beijing shifan daxue.

YANG, Xiaoshan (2007). “Wang Anshi’s ‘Mingfei qu’ and the Poetics of Disagreement.” Chinese Literature: Essays, Articles, Reviews, no. 29: 55-84.

YOSHIMOTO, Michimasa 吉本道雅 (2000). “Shō Kun henhō kenkyū josetsu” 商君變法研究序說, Shirin 史林, no. 83-84: 1-29.

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ZENG, Zhenyu 曾振宇 (2003). “Lishi de Shang Yang yu fuhaohua de Shang Yang” 歷史的商鞅與符 號化的商鞅, Qilu xuekan 齊鲁學刊, no. 6: 115-120.

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APPENDIXES

Glossary

“Chi ling” 飭令 “Cuo fa” 錯法 de 德 “Ding fen” 定分 Geming jun 革命軍 Guan Zhong 管仲 Guanzi 管子 Guodian 郭店 Han 漢 Han Feizi 韓非子 hao jie 豪傑 huaben 話本 “Hua ce” 畫策 Huainanzi 淮南 hui 惠 “Jin ling” 靳令 “Jing nei” 境內 jun 君 “Kai sai” 開塞 “Ken ling” 墾令 King Huiwen of Qin 秦惠文王 “Lai min” 徠民

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Laozi 老子 Liu Xiang 劉向 Lord Xiao of Qin 秦孝公 Lüshi chunqiu 呂氏春秋 Mai Menghua 麥夢華 Mao Zedong 毛澤東 Mawangdui 馬王堆 Meng Wentong 蒙文通 Mozi 墨 “Nong zhan” 農戰 pian 篇 Qin 秦 qing 情 “Qu qiang” 去彊 ren gong 任功 Rong 戎 “Ruo min” 弱民 Shang jun shu 商君書 “Shang xing” 賞刑 Shang Yang 商鞅 Shen Buhai 申不害 “Shuo min” 說民 Sima Qian 司馬遷 Su Shi 蘇軾 Tianzi 天子 wang 王 Wang Anshi 王安石 wang dao 王道 wang zhe 王者 Wu xing 五行 “Wuyi” 無義 xue pai 學派 Xunzi 荀子 yi 壹

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Zhang Binglin 章炳麟 Zhanguo 戰國 Zhou 周 zhu 主 Zhuangzi 莊子 Zou Rong 鄒容 Zuo zhuan 左傳

NOTES

2. From the Han dynasty on, it became fashionable to blame a group of thinkers, such as Shang Yang, Shen Buhai (d. 337 BCE) and Han Feizi (d. 233 BCE) as responsible for “forcibly imposing the five punishments, employing slicing and amputations and turning their backs on the fundamentals of the Way and its Potency” (Major et al. 2010: 6, 230). In the later tradition these thinkers were usually identified as “Legalists”; for the problematic of this term, see Goldin 2011b. 3. Lüshi chunqiu, “Wuyi” 無義 22.2: 1491-1492; Shiji 68: 2237. 4. Shang Yang’s cruel destiny—he was executed by the lord of the state which he loyally served for more than two decades—turned him into a tragic example of a selfless advisor being persecuted by the benighted ruler. For this view, and for appreciation of his success, see, e.g., Zhanguo ce, “Qin ce 秦策 1” 3.1: 71-72; “Qin ce 3” 5.18: 204-205; “Chu ce 楚策 4” 17.13: 598; Han Feizi, “He shi” 和氏 IV.13: 275; “Jian, jie, shi chen” 姦劫弒臣 IV.14: 283. 5. Su Shi, Dongpo quanji 105: 13-15 on p. 14; for more on attitudes toward Shang Yang, see e.g. Zeng Zhenyu 2003. Zhang Jue (2006) conveniently collects views of Shang Yang from the Warring States to the early Republican period. Su Shi’s invective against Shang Yang might have been triggered by a rare example of positive assessment of Shang Yang’s success, by Su Shi’s arch-rival Wang Anshi (1021-1086) (for whose views of Shang Yang, see Yang Xiaoshan 2007: 77). 6. Views of Shang Yang from the turn of the 20th century to the age of the anti-Confucian campaign of the early 1970s are summarized by Li Yu-ning 1977; for a very brief summary of later research trends, see Zhao Yuzhuo 2010. 7. For labeling Shang Yang “totalitarian” thinker, see, e.g., Creel 1953: 135-158; Rubin 1976: 55-88; Fu Zhengyuan 1996; for his perceived amorality, see Graham 1989: 267-292; for more balanced assessments, see Schwartz 1985: 330-335; Lewis 2007: 46-50. The lack of interest in Shang Yang is epitomized not only by his omission from some of the major studies of early Chinese philosophy (e.g. Nivison 1999), but mostly from a ridiculously small number of scholarly articles dedicated to this thinker. My querying the extensive Ancient Chinese Civilization: Bibliography of Materials in Western Languages by Paul R. Goldin (2011c) has yielded but three articles directly related to The Book of Lord Shang: Kandel 1985; Handelman 1995 and Boesche 2008; to this one should add Fischer 2012. Most recently, an issue on “Legalism” by the Journal of Chinese Philosophy 38.1 (2011) failed to dedicate a single article to Shang Yang or otherwise meaningfully to engage his thought (for an exception see Goldin 2011b). 8. In citing The Book of Lord Shang, I abbreviate it as SJS. 9. For the Republican period insistence on the belatedness of the Book of Lord Shang in its entirety, and its subsequent rejection as a source for Shang Yang’s activities and thought see, e.g., Hu Shi 1919: 322-323; Liang Qichao 1922: 80; Luo Genze 1935; Qian Mu 1935: 266-267; Guo Moruo 1945: 236; Qi Sihe 1947; for this analysis echoed in a major Western study, see Graham 1989: 267-292. Nivison’s (1999) refusal to address Shang Yang’s thought may also be related to this trend. In

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contrast to a somewhat cavalier approach adopted in many of these studies, Duyvendak (1928: 75-87) made an earnest, even if nowadays somewhat outdated, attempt to distinguish different temporal layers in the Book of Lord Shang. 10. Lewis 1999: 58; cf. Boltz 2005. For an alternative view of the “accretion” theory, see Brooks and Brooks 1998. 11. For major studies of the dating and the composition of the Book of Lord Shang, see Zheng Liangshu 1989; Yoshinami 1992; Zhang Jue 2006; Tong Weimin 2007; Zhang Linxiang 2008. 12. For problems of Shang Yang’s biography in the Shiji, see Yoshimoto 2000. 13. Two other chapters with obvious anachronisms are “Establishing laws” (9, “Cuo fa”) and “Weakening the people” (20, “Ruo min”), although in both cases a passage with anachronistic data might have been inadvertently added to the chapter by later transmitters. 14. These are, e.g., chapters “Rewards and punishments” (17, “Shang xing”), “Within the borders” (19, “Jing nei”), and, again, “Attracting the people.” Even if these chapters were produced in other Warring States, whose rulers adopted the royal title earlier than in Qin, they definitely do not belong to the earliest layer of the Book of Lord Shang. 15. The concept of the True Monarch is distinguished from that of a regular “king” by the usage of the term wang in its verbal meaning (“to act as a [true] monarch”), by the compound wang zhe, by the notion of the Monarch’s Way (Wang Dao) and the like (see Pines 2009: 229, n. 5). In the Book of Lord Shang, the verbal usage of the term wang prevails. 16. See discussions by Jiang Lihong in Shang jun shu: 152-162; and Zheng Liangshu 1989: 269-277. 17. 是故豪傑皆可變業，務學詩書，隨從外權，上可以得顯，下可以得官爵 (SJS, “Nong zhan” I. 3: 22). “External powers” evidently refers to foreign states, which often meddled in the domestic affairs of their rivals by fostering ties with powerful statesmen. 18. 農戰之民千人，而有詩書辯慧者一人焉，千人者皆怠於農 戰矣。SJS, “Nong zhan” I.3: 22. 19. 上好言而官失常也。SJS, “Nong zhan” I.3: 22. “The constant” (常) here and elsewhere in the Book of Lord Shang refers to the essentials of the Law (see e.g. SJS, IV.18: 113). 20. Following Gao Heng 1974: 36, n. 29, I emend 希 to 晞. 21. 今上論材能知慧而任之，則知慧之人希(晞)主好惡，使官制物，以適主心。是以官無常， 國亂而不壹，辯說之人而無法也。如此，則民務焉得無多，而地焉得無荒? SJS, “Nong zhan” I. 3: 22-23. 22. 詩、 書、禮、樂、善、修、仁、廉、辯、慧，國有十者，上無使守戰。國以十者治，敵至 必削，不至必貧。國去此十者，敵不敢至;雖至，必卻;興兵而伐，必取;按兵不伐，必富。SJS, “Nong zhan” I.3: 23. 23. 是以其君惛於說，其官亂於言，其民惰而不農. SJS, “Nong zhan” I.3: 23. 24. See discussions in Zheng Liangshu 1989: 23-30; Zhang Linxiang 2008: 101-104. 25. 以彊去彊者，弱;以弱去彊者，彊。國為善，姦必多。國富而貧治，曰重富，重富者彊。國 貧而富治，曰重貧，重貧者弱。兵行敵所不敢行，彊;事興敵所羞為，利。SJS, “Qu qiang” I.4: 27. 26. The “Weakening the people” chapter explains that “strong” and “weak” refer to the fundamental principle of “weakening the people to strengthen the state”; yet possible textual corruption in the first lines of the “Weakening the people” chapter causes considerable confusion as to what should be understood as “eliminating the strong with the strong” (see SJS V. 20: 121-122). In distinction from most commentators, I believe that the passage cautions against the policy of weakening the people through over-empowerment of the state apparatus; yet I shall leave a detailed discussion of this topic to another occasion. 27. Lüshi chunqiu, “Wuyi” 無義 22.2: 1491-1492. 28. Following Zhang Jue 2006: 38, I read 官 in 蝨官 as synonymous with 事. 29. Following Gao Heng 1974: 223, I read 樸 as “root.”

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30. 農、商、官三者，國之常官也。三官者生蝨官者六:曰歲，曰食，曰美，曰好，曰志，曰 行。六者有樸，必削。三官之樸三人，六官之樸一人。… 國彊而不戰，毒輸於內，禮樂蝨官 生，必削;國遂戰，毒輸於敵國，無禮樂蝨官，必彊。SJS, “Qu qiang” I.4: 28. 31. 國有禮有樂，有詩有書，有善有修，有孝有弟，有廉有辯──國有十者，上無使戰，必削至 亡;國無十者，上有使戰，必興至王。國以善民治姦民者，必亂至削; 國以姦民治善民者，必治 至彊。國用詩書禮樂孝弟善修治者，敵至必削國，不至必貧國。不用八者治，敵不敢至，雖 至，必卻;興兵而伐，必取，取必能有之;按兵而不攻，必富。SJS, “Qu qiang” I.4: 29-30. 32. Chen Li 陳澧 (1810-1882) noticed: “One should not talk about rites, music, Odes, Documents, benevolence and righteousness; but as for filiality and fraternal duties: they were adored by everyone since the beginning of humankind; yet Shang Yang considers them parasites that will [lead the state] to sure dismemberment and collapse. One who is neither owl nor leopard (two supposedly parent-devouring animals) but still says these words…: even being dismembered by the chariots is not enough to erase his crime!” Dong shu dushu ji 12: 247. 33. See, e.g., Guoyu, “Zhou yu 1” 周語上 1.14: 36-37; “Zhou yu 3” 周語下 3.2: 88-89; cf. the Wu xing text from Guodian (Li Ling 2002: 78-80) and from Mawangdui, and the like. 34. Lin Yü-sheng 1979. 35. It should be noticed that the term jian 姦 (which I translate as “scoundrels”) belongs to one of the most negative designations in Chinese political discourse; I am not aware of a single other text which employs this term in a positive way. 36. See Mozi, “Jie zang xia” 節葬下 VI.25: 262-268; “Fei yue shang” 非樂上 VIII.32: 379-383; Laozi’s “When the Great Way declines, ‘benevolence’ and ‘righteousness’ appear” (大道廢焉，有仁義) and the above citation (絕仁棄義，民復孝慈) Boshu Laozi 18-19: 310-312 (but notice that in the Guodian [proto-]Laozi text, the second of these phrases replaces “benevolence and righteousness” with much less controversial “knowledge and argumentation” [絕智棄辯, Guodian Laozi A, slip 1 cited from Li Ling 2002: 4]); and Zhuangzi’s 聖人不死，大盜不 (Zhuangzi “Qu qie” 胠篋 10: 256). 37. For the Laozi’s promise to bring about filiality and paternal love, see Boshu Laozi 19: 312; for more on the Laozi’s complex approach toward filiality, see, e.g., Ikeda 2004. 38. For multiple paradoxes in the text, which teach the reader to mistrust external appearances and common definitions, see, e.g., Boshu Laozi 41: 21-24; 45: 41-44. 39. See Boshu Laozi 38: 1-5. I cannot adequately address here the complex issue of the dating of individual sections of the Laozi and avoid what may become a speculative discussion about how the messages of that text could have been modified in the process of its formation and early transmission. 40. Han Feizi, “Wu du” 五蠹 XIX.49: 1109 and 1092-1093. Notably, elsewhere Han Feizi embraces filiality as a positive moral value (e.g. “Zhong xiao” 忠孝 XXI.51: 1151). 41. 以刑去刑，國治;以刑致刑，國亂。故曰:行刑重輕，刑去事成，國彊;重重而輕輕，刑至事 生，國削。刑生力，力生彊，彊生威，威生惠，惠生於力。SJS, “Qu qiang” I.4: 32. 42. Shiji 68: 2228. 43. Translation cited from Major et al. 2010: 21, 866-867. 44. Meng Wentong 1936; for elaboration of this view, see, e.g., Liu Yutao 1988; Liu Chunhua 2005. Zheng Liangshu (1989) also shares this estimate of the Qin cultural background, using it for his analysis of the composition of the Book of Lord Shang. 45. See Shelach and Pines 2005; Pines 2005/6; and collected articles in Pines et al. forthcoming; see also Kern 2000. 46. No less than seven chapters of the Book of Lord Shang contain the first person pronoun chen 臣, indicating that they originated from memorials submitted by Shang Yang and his followers to the lords of Qin (Gao Heng 1974: 8-9). 47. The concept of “emotive meaning” of ethical terms was developed by Stevenson (1938) and introduced into Sinology by Carine Defoort (2003).

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48. I believe that this line of analysis may be applicable also to the Laozi and Zhuangzi, but this topic should be explored in a separate study. 49. Schiffrin 1968: 273-274. 50. For the context of Zhang Binglin’s involvement in revolutionary activities, see, e.g., Shimada 1990: 1-84. 51. The only preserved name of an alleged disciple of Shang Yang is that of Shi Jiao 尸佼, supposed author of the Shizi 尸子; yet his writings were classified by Ban Gu (班固, 32-92 CE) as belonging to a “miscellaneous school” (za jia 雜家) and not to “Legalist” texts (Han shu 30: 1741). For aspects of the ideology of the Shizi, see Defoort 2001. 52. See, e.g., Zheng Liangshu 1989: 44-46; Zhang Jue 2006: 157. 53. Several recessions of the text have 任舉 (“appointing and elevating”) instead of 任譽 (“appointing according to the reputation”). 54. Jiang Lihong, following Zhu Shiche (朱師轍, 1878-1969), reads 鼠 as 處, “dwelling”; but I think he is wrong: the fact that “the rat” causes villainy to become unstoppable suggests that the original meaning is correct. 55. 辯慧，亂之贊也;禮樂，淫佚之徵也;慈仁，過之母也;任譽，姦之鼠也。亂有贊則行，淫佚 有徵則用，過有母則生，姦有鼠則不。八者有群，民勝其政;國無八者，政勝其民。民勝其 政，國弱;政勝其民，兵彊。故國有八者，上無以使守戰，必削至亡;國無八者，上有以使守 戰，必興至王。SJS II.5: 35-36. 56. Following Zhu Shiche, I emend 復 with 覆. 57. 用善，則民親其親;任姦，則民親其制。合而復之者，善也;別而規之者，姦也。章(彰)善則 過匿，任姦則罪誅。過匿則民勝法，罪誅則法民。民勝法，國亂;法民，兵彊。故曰:以良民 治，必亂至削;以姦民治，必治至彊。SJS II.5: 36. 58. 民之情也治，其事也亂。SJS II.5: 37. 59. The chapter further discusses the importance of the government’s attentiveness to public opinion, an issue which is briefly—and enigmatically—outlined in the “Eliminating the strong” chapter. See SJS II.5: 40 and discussion of this passage in Lewis 1990: 93 and in Pines 2009: 206-207. 60. 刑生力，力生彊，彊生威，威生德，德生於刑。SJS II.5: 38. 61. See Kominami 1992; Pines 2002: 126-128 and q.v. for further references. 62. The punctuation of this phrase and its meaning are hotly contested. I follow Gao Heng’s glosses, especially in reading 疑 as 止. 63. 事有羞，多姦寡;賞無失，多姦疑。敵失必利，兵至彊威。事無羞，利用兵，久處利勢，必 王。故「兵行敵之所不敢行，強;事興敵之所羞為，利。SJS V.20: 122-123. 64. Gao Heng 1974: 157-158. 65. 六蝨:曰禮樂，曰詩書，曰修善，曰孝弟，曰誠信，曰貞廉，曰仁義，曰非兵，曰羞戰。國 有十二者，上無使農戰，必貧至削。十二者成群，此謂君之治不其臣，官之治不其民，此謂 六蝨勝其政也。SJS III.13: 80. 66. The last sentence appears to be corrupt, and so possibly is the end of the previous one. I accept Jiang Lihong’s punctuation and his substitution of 壹輔 with 輔壹 (Jiang suggests adding the word 教, as in chapter 3 of the Book of Lord Shang, but I am not convinced; yi 壹 is frequently employed by Shang Yang as noun and not as an adjective; the One as the synonym of proper policy). For 仁者，心之續也, I accept Gao Heng’s substitute of 續 with 裕 (Gao Heng 1974: 109); but I also strongly suspect that this sentence is an old gloss that was inadvertently incorporated into the main text. 67. 聖君知物之要，故其治民有至要，故執賞罰以壹輔（輔壹?）。仁者，心之續 （裕?）也。聖君之治人也，必得其心，故能用力。力生彊，彊生威，威生德，德生於力。聖 君獨有之，故能述仁義於天下。SJS III.13: 82. 68. For a detailed analysis of this chapter see Pines and Shelach 2005; Pines 2012.

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69. 故曰:仁者能仁於人，而不能使人仁;義者能愛於人，而不能使人愛。是以知仁義之不足以 治天下也。…所謂義者，為人臣忠，為人子孝， 少長有禮，男女有別，非其義也。餓不苟食， 死不苟生: 此乃有法之常也。聖王者，不貴義而貴法──法必明，令必行，則已矣。SJS, IV.18: 113. 70. For a critical, even if basically positive, assessment of Shang Yang by Han Feizi, see Han Feizi, “Ding fa” XVII.43: 957-965. 71. For a sample of debates on this topic, see Lewis 1999; Schaberg 2001; Boltz 2005; Kern 2005. 72. The earliest indisputable example of a large text that was prepared as a multi-chapter “book” is, arguably the Lüshi chunqiu (for the composition of which see Knoblock and Riegel 2000: 27-46). Yet it is possibly that Xunzi (ca 310-230 BCE) was among the first to deliberately disseminate his ideas in writing; Paul Goldin astutely observes that the chapters in the current text, compiled by Liu Xiang (d. 8 BCE) “fit so seamlessly that Xunzi could have only imagined his work as a coherent œuvre. Xunzi… represented a new breed of thinker, one who aimed, through writing, to influence diverse classes of readers across the land, most of whom he would never meet” (Goldin 2011a: 69). 73. 今境內之民皆言治，藏商、管之法者家有之。Han Feizi, “Wu du” XIX.49: 1111. 74. For some speculations about the earliest commentaries attached to the Master texts in the Warring States period, see, e.g., Pang Pu 2000.

ABSTRACTS

The Book of Lord Shang, supposedly composed by Shang Yang (d. 338 BCE) and his disciples, is one of the most controversial texts of the Warring States period. Aside from engagement in what may be defined as “normal” polemics with ideological opponents, the authors at times adopt a radically alienating rhetoric, assaulting ideas and values which were overwhelmingly cherished by members of the educated elite. This rhetoric is fully visible in two chapters (3 and 4), which apparently belong to the early layer of the book. There, the authors deride fundamental moral values; call for establishing a regime in which “scoundrels rule the good people”; and advocate military victory by performing “whatever the enemy is ashamed of.” These pronouncements may explain the strongly negative reaction that the Book of Lord Shang and its putative author, Shang Yang, generated among intellectuals from the Warring States period, throughout the imperial era and well into our time. In my article I argue that while the rhetoric adopted in the two early chapters of the Book of Lord Shang was alienating for most readers, it could have targeted those members of the intellectual elite who were attracted by the text’s novelty and freedom from conventions. I further show how this harsh rhetoric was moderated in the later layers of the Book of Lord Shang and conclude that analyzing the changing rhetorical patterns in the text may help us to understand better its nature, composition, and the periodization of individual chapters.

Le Livre du Seigneur Shang, attribué à Shang Yang (?-338 av. J.-C.) et ses disciples, est l’un des textes les plus controversés de l’époque des Royaumes Combattants. De façon concomitante à leur implication dans ce qui peut être qualifié de polémique « normale » avec leurs opposants, les auteurs adoptent parfois une rhétorique de provocation radicale en s’en prenant à des idées et des valeurs adoptées par l’immense majorité des membres de l’élite lettrée. Une telle rhétorique est pleinement manifeste dans les chapitres 3 et 4, qui semblent appartenir à la strate la plus

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ancienne de l’ouvrage. Les auteurs y tournent en dérision les valeurs morales fondamentales et en appellent à l’établissement d’un régime dans lequel « des crapules dirigent le bon peuple » ; afin de s’assurer une victoire militaire, ils prônent la mise en œuvre de « tout ce dont l’ennemi aurait honte ». De telles déclarations peuvent rendre compte de la réaction très négative que le Livre du Seigneur Shang et son auteur supposé, Shang Yang, suscitèrent parmi les intellectuels tout au long de l’histoire chinoise, depuis la période des Royaumes Combattants jusqu’à nos jours. Dans cet article, je défends l’idée que si la rhétorique adoptée dans les deux chapitres les plus anciens du Livre du Seigneur Shang pouvait apparaître en effet des plus provocantes aux yeux de la plupart des lecteurs, elle pourrait avoir eu pour destinataires certains membres de l’élite intellectuelle attirés par la nouveauté du texte et les libertés que prend ce dernier par rapport aux conventions. Je montre aussi combien cette rhétorique radicale se modère dans les strates postérieures du Livre du Seigneur Shang et je conclus que le changement de modèle rhétorique dans cet ouvrage nous aide à mieux comprendre la nature, la composition et la périodisation de chacun de ses chapitres.

尤銳 （耶路撒冷希伯來大學) 《商君書》被認為是商鞅（卒於公元前388年）及其弟子們所著的作品；它是戰國時代最具爭 議的文本之一。除了含有與其他思想家之間的常規性論辯之外，該書還採用了一種極端的“疏 離性”修辭，即猛攻擊士人普遍珍視的理念與價值觀。例如在該書早期的篇章（第三〈農戰〉 篇、第四〈去彊〉篇）中，作者嘲笑“仁”、“廉”、“孝”等根本的道德觀，又主張“以姦民治善 民”及“事興敵所羞為”等。這類言辭解釋了為什麼直至今日知識精英對商鞅及其理論仍持有消 極態度。 筆者認為該書的“疏離性”修辭乃作者刻意之作。其意圖是在讓許多讀者產生疏遠感的同時，以 書中表達出的對傳統觀念的擺脫、以及新穎視角與自由理念來吸引知識精英的一部分人。此 外，筆者還將展現該書作者們是如何在書中較晚篇章中緩和自己的進宣言的。通過分析書中 修辭手法的變化，有助於我們更好地瞭解《商君書》一書的性質、構成與各篇章的寫作年 代。

AUTHOR

YURI PINES

Yuri Pines is the Michael W. Lipson Chair in Chinese Studies, at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, and a visiting professor at Nankai University, Tianjin. His major publications include Foundations of Confucian Thought: Intellectual Life in the Chunqiu Period, 722-453 BCE; Envisioning Eternal Empire: Chinese Political Thought of the Warring States Era (both: Hawai‘i University Press, 2002 and 2009), and The Everlasting Empire: Traditional Chinese Political Culture and Its Enduring Legacy (Princeton University Press, 2012).

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“Waiting for the Sages of Later Generations”: Is there a Rhetoric of Treason in the Shiji? « En attendant les Sages à venir… » : à propos d’une rhétorique de la trahison dans les Mémoires historiques (Shiji) de Sima Qian “俟世聖人君子”：試論《史記》中的影射性修辭

Dorothee Schaab-Hanke

Introduction

1 While allusions per se are, of course, legion in the text of the Shiji (“The Scribe’s Record”), a comprehensive historiographical work finalized around 86 BCE,1 the case example to be adduced here seems to be of particular interest in the context of the focus on “rhetoric as a political tool.” As will be argued, the use of this allusion reveals much about the attitude of the Shiji’s two authors, or at least of one of them, towards Emperor Wu (r. 141-87), the emperor under which Sima Tan (?-110) and his son, Sima Qian (ca 145-ca 86),2 served successively in the position of “Director the Grand Scribe” (taishi ling).3

2 All five passages where that allusion occurs have in common that they refer to one specific passage of the Gongyang zhuan, one of the three earliest transmitted texts commenting or, to put it more precisely, interpreting the “Spring and Autumn” Annals (Chunqiu), a terse chronicle of the state of Lu, spanning the years from 722 to 481, the so-called Spring and Autumn Period.4 In that passage Confucius is reported to have lost hope that a sage ruler might appear during his own lifetime, shortly after a unicorn had been caught. As a reaction to this, he decided to devote his work, the Chunqiu, in which the moral rules governing the relations between the states of that period are laid down, to sages and superior men of later generations.5 Very similarly, the Shiji author in those five passages of his text addresses the sages and superior men of later generations,

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expressing his hope that they might make use of the work he had compiled and left for posterity.6

3 As I will argue, each of the five passages in which the historiographer thus alludes to the Gongyang zhuan adds one facet to an overall critical assessment of Emperor Wu (r. 141-87).7 And what is more, it will be argued that the temporal aspect characteristic of both the Gongyang zhuan prototype and the historiographer’s allusion to it implies that the critical attitude displayed was in both cases not merely a warning, but rather a final condemnation—small wonder that someone who expressed such criticism easily incurred the risk of being charged with having committed lèse majesté, in other words, high treason.8

4 In a first step, the relevant passage of the Gongyang zhuan will be examined and compared with the five related passages in the Shiji text; then, the historiographer’s personal remarks containing the allusions to the Gongyang zhuan will be analyzed within the context of the given chapters; the third step will be to illustrate how the allusion to the Gongyang zhuan is used here as a tool to pass a final judgment on Emperor Wu rather than to simply warn him; closely related to this is the fourth step, in which the question of Emperor Wu’s sagacity is discussed in the Shiji; and, last but not least, the question of “the historiographer’s” identity will be raised.

1. The relevant passage in the Gongyang zhuan and the five related passages in the Shiji

5 The passage in the Gongyang zhuan which is the focus of our interest here appears in the very last section of the transmitted text. Commenting on the Chunqiu entry related to the 14th year of Duke Ai of the state of Lu (481) which records that a unicorn had been caught during a hunt somewhere to the west of the Lu capital, Qufu, the author of the Gongyang zhuan asks why this record was made in the Chunqiu. Upon hearing of the capture of the unicorn, Confucius reportedly “rolled up his sleeves and wiped off his tears” and lamented that his way had come to an end. Then, the author of the Gongyang zhuan reflects on the question why the “superior man” (Confucius) compiled the Chunqiu. Was it because he was of the opinion that in a world full of chaos and decline, there was no better way to manage the crisis than by applying the rules of the Chunqiu? Or was it simply because the Master himself took delight in the way in which Yao recognized Shun?9 While in his interpretation the author of the Gongyang zhuan seems to hesitate about what may have been the primary motivating force for Confucius to compile the Chunqiu, in his final statement he turns his attention away from the age in which Confucius lived toward a point in time somewhere in the future when sages and superior men would live and to whom Confucius addressed his work on “Spring and Autumn” (zhi Chunqiu). The book ends with the words: Indeed, he (= Confucius) applied the moral rules of the “Spring and Autumn (Annals)” to wait for sages of later (generations); it was for superior men that (this work) was made, and this is also something that he took delight in.10 Apart from the Gongyang zhuan, both the Zuozhuan and the Guliang zhuan also comment on this event. While the Zuozhuan mentions the incident only briefly, explaining that the driver of a carriage had discovered the animal and, fearing it could be inauspicious, brought it to Confucius who identified it as a unicorn, the Guliang zhuan interprets it as an auspicious animal. The author of the Gongyang zhuan not only devotes the most

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attention to the capture of the unicorn, but he is also the only one to reflect upon the relation between the appearance of the unicorn and its possible impact on Confucius and his work.11

6 Let us now take a first look at the five passages in the Shiji that contain allusions to the above mentioned passage in the Gongyang zhuan and the way they are formulated. Listed according to the sequence of chapters in the Shiji these passages appear in chapters 12, 15, 18, 28 and 130 of the transmitted text. Each of these passages is part of the section introduced by the formula “His Lord the Grand Scribe says” (taishigong yue), the historiographer’s personal remarks, usually found at the end, but at times also at the beginning of a chapter.12

7 In two of these five passages, the allusion is formulated as follows: “If there will be superior men later on, they may make use of it for their examination.”13 This formula is only slightly varied in two further passages: “If there will be superior men later on, they may make use of this for their examination and peruse,” and: “If there will be superior men later on who want to add their own discussions accordingly, they may make use of this (material) for their examination.”14 The fifth passage contains the allusion that from its very wording comes closest to Confucius’ statement as it is recorded in the Gongyang zhuan. It is there that the historiographer says that the “Book of His Lord, the Grand Scribe” (taishigong shu) should “wait for the sages and superior men of later generations.”15

2. Closer analysis of the five Shiji passages in their context

8 After having examined the context of the Gongyang zhuan passage and having compared the wording of that passage with the related passages in the Shiji, a closer look will be taken at the overall context of each of these five Shiji passages, following the order in which these passages occur in that work.

2.1. Tracing the “first signs of transgression” in the early state of Qin

9 Shiji 15, the “Table by Years of the Six States,” can be roughly summarized as treating the historical events between the year 475 and the year 207, from the time when the state of Qin was founded, until the final downfall of the short-lived Qin dynasty, in all 270 years.16

10 In the table, we have strictly speaking eight partners listed in the grid, beginning with Zhou in the upper horizontal row, followed by Qin in the second row, and Wei, Han, Zhao, Chu, Yan, and Qi in the next rows; however, as the title “Six States” already indicates, both Zhou and Qin are not reckoned among the others, since Zhou was the— increasingly weak—center, while Qin was the newcomer, whose development in relation to the other states of that period is spotlighted in this chapter.

11 In some respects, the content of the table is a synopsis of chapters 5 and 6 of the Shiji. In the annals section the history of Qin is bipartite, the first part tracing the history of the state of Qin in its interactions with the other regional states and the second part dealing with Qin after its unification of the empire until the downfall of the Qin

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dynasty. The table in chapter 15, however, shows all the important information on the political history of these times in chronological order. The table thus perfectly mirrors how the center of power shifted in the course of these years: The weakening of Zhou is indicated by the fact that after the year in which Zhou King Nan died (indicated by the Zhonghua editors as the year 256) there are no more entries in the upper row,17 and from the year 246 on, the year in which Prince Zheng, King of Qin, came to the throne, there is no row reserved for Zhou. Instead, Qin has taken its place.18 From 220 on, the table changes even more radically. There are no more horizontal rows from this point on, but only one vertical table which comprises all major events relating to the united empire of Qin.19

12 The content of the historiographer’s personal remarks right at the beginning of the chapter can be roughly summarized as giving a brief survey of the route taken by the state of Qin from its first appearance as a “small and remote” state toward a powerful state which, after having swallowed up one state after the other, finally succeeded in establishing its rule over the whole empire.20 While basing his account primarily on the records of the state of Qin itself, the Shiji author laments that he was forced to do so because the Qin had destroyed the annals of all the other states.21

13 His account deals with how the state of Qin first appeared in history, traces the development of this state, and describes how Qin eventually swallowed up one state after the other, until by 221, after unifying the empire under one central rule, the Qin were able to announce their own dynasty, which he continues to outline through the short period of this empire until its fall in 207. This is how the historiographer’s personal remarks end: Thus, basing myself on the records of Qin, following in the footsteps of the Chunqiu, beginning with King Yuan of Zhou, I have made a table of the events in the time of the Six States, comprising altogether 270 years; and I have written down all that I have heard concerning the first signs of prosperity and decay.22 If there will be superior men in future generations, they may make use of this (material) for their examination and research.23 The historiographer’s personal attitude towards the Qin state’s rise to power in this chapter is rather ambiguous. On the one hand he seems to have been quite impressed by the way the Qin managed to change with the times and thus find strategies not only for survival but for becoming the fittest of the Warring States period. While he does not seem convinced that the Qin had special advantages —be they strategic or geographic, he assumes that Qin must have been favored with Heaven’s blessing. On the other hand, in the author’s account throughout this chapter there is a critical undertone, namely that the Qin always tended towards violence and usurpation, so that a “superior man would be frightened.”24 Thus, in my opinion, the historiographer’s overall attitude towards the Qin is rather a critical one.

14 Right from the beginning, the Shiji author attributes to them a certain trait of arrogance in usurping privileges which would have been the prerogative of the Son of Heaven, then still represented by the Zhou. The Qin conducted sacrifices, which were not appropriate to their status, and by conceding these to the Qin, the Zhou’s increasing weakness became more and more apparent. This is what the historiographer denotes as the “first signs of transgression” which thus became noticeable.25 Very similarly, by referring to “first signs of prosperity and decay” (xing shuai zhi duan), the historiographer, not without a critical undertone, describes how the early Qin rulers

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had first achieved their unexpectedly rapid success in unifying the empire and how the rulers of the unified empire then, even more quickly, brought about their own ruin.

15 There is thus little doubt that the Shiji author takes the development of Qin, which was initially successful but soon doomed to fail, as the historical lesson which his readers— superior men of later ages—should learn and apply in later generations to their own circumstances. And the question to be raised here is whether the historiographer indirectly accuses the emperor of his own time, Emperor Wu, of showing similar traits of arrogance and violence in expanding his empire and assuring his recognition as the ruler of “All under Heaven.”26

2.2. Criticizing Emperor Wu for his abolishment of so many fiefs

16 The content of Shiji 18, “Table by Years of Marquisates Conferred on Meritorious Followers of Gaozu,”27 is more easily understood if one takes a glimpse at the content of the preceding chapter and of the two following it. While chap. 17 is devoted to all nobles (hou) who had been made kings since the rise of the Han, chap. 19 concentrates on the creation of nobilities28 during the reigns of the Emperors Hui to Jing, (i.e., from 194 to 141), while chap. 20 is devoted to the nobilities newly created from the reign of Emperor Wu on (i.e., beginning with the year 140).

17 The horizontal axis of the table contained in chap. 18 lists the names of the areas that had been bestowed on these meritorious ministers during the reign of the dynasty founder Liu Bang, posthumously Gaozu. The columns on its vertical axis indicate the name of the first holder, the reason why he had been bestowed, followed by the reign years of all emperors down to Emperor Wu.

18 In his personal remarks, again found at the beginning of the chapter, the historiographer sets out to list five different types of merits for which officials were bestowed with marquisates in ancient times, and he emphasizes the overriding importance of the preservation of the fiefs over generations to their owners.

19 He then turns his attention to the more than one hundred of the dynasty founder’s followers to whom Liu Bang bestowed fiefs in reward for their merits during the rise of the new dynasty. He describes how these domains grew both in power and wealth, in accordance with their population growth, and that over the generations the descendants of these marquises became more and more arrogant.

20 As a consequence, the historiographer continues, by the beginning of the era of Taichu [Grand Inception], only five of the descendants of these marquises were still able to preserve their fiefs.29 As for the rest, he continues, most of them were deprived of their fiefs because they had violated the law and thus lost their lives, and the nobilities were thus abolished. Certainly, the historiographer adds, the laws of the empire by this time had become somewhat stricter than earlier, but others say that they did not really strive to accommodate the restrictions of the times.

21 The historiographer concludes with the words: Living in the present age, one’s intentions should be directed to the ways of old, in order to have a mirror for oneself, but the ages are still not wholly comparable. The emperors and kings all differ as regards the moral rules (one has to apply) and vary as regards the duties (one has to fulfil); thus, making “merit” one’s standard, how should one not intermingle these? If one takes a look at the reasons that brought them honor and those that brought

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them shame, one will see that there is also a whole forest of merits and deficiencies in our present age—how would one have heard about them in former times! Therefore, I have meticulously traced the matters from their beginnings to their ends, listed what has been recorded of them; as for those matters that could not thoroughly be traced, I noted down what was documented and left out what is up to doubt. If there will be superior men of later (generations) who want to add their own discussions accordingly, they may make use of this material for their examination.30

22 But what is the lesson that “superior men of later (generations)” should learn from this chapter? It seems that there are mainly two aspects: firstly, that during the reign of Emperor Wu, many of those fiefs that had been established under Gaozu were conspicuously abolished; and secondly, that during Emperor Wu’s reign the rules regarding what was meritorious and what was not became so complicated that it was increasingly difficult for the marquises to preserve the domains that they had inherited from their ancestors. Both aspects will be examined by taking a closer look at the table itself.

23 Tracing the number of nobilities abolished during the reigns of the Han emperors as indicated in the table, one can indeed observe that the domains abolished under Emperor Wu by far exceed the closures during the reigns of the emperors preceding him. Of all the 143 nobilities bestowed by Emperor Gaozu on meritorious officials, only five had been abolished during his own reign, two further under the reign of Emperor Hui, nine during the reign of Empress Lü, twenty one under Emperor Wen, thirty-four under Emperor Jing, and seventy under Emperor Wu. Since all of the seventy nobilities abolished during the reign of Emperor Wu, sixty-five are recorded for the period between the beginning of his reign and the end of the Yuanfeng period (110-105), and only five further in the time from the beginning of the Taichu period until the end of his reign (104-87), the table data corroborate the historiographer’s remark, made in his preface to the table, that by the beginning of the Taichu period, only five out of the more than one hundred nobilities were still preserved.31

24 As for what the historiographer calls “a whole forest of merits and deficiencies in our present age”32 in his personal remarks, the table entries also provide the reader with the reasons why the meritorious men enfeoffed by Gaozu or their descendants had lost their domains.

25 The reasons indicated in the table can be roughly classified as falling into three categories: firstly, that the nobility holder had died without having a son or other successor to his family line; secondly, that the nobility holder in compensation for his nobility received another fief or title; and thirdly, that the holder of a nobility was deprived of his domain due to his being charged with some crime.

26 Among these three categories, the second—the nobility holder received other fief or title—is the smallest (only four cases among the 141 closures); as regards the first reason—the nobility holder died without a successor—there are also few cases (altogether twenty-six); very much in contrast, the third reason indicated in the table entries—nobility lost due to the nobility holder being charged with crime—prevails by far (111 cases). If one compares the numbers indicated for the reigns of Han rulers, it can be observed that the number of domains abolished during the reign of Emperor Wu due to the nobility holder being charged with a crime exceeds that of all previous Han rulers taken together, namely altogether sixty-four cases.33

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27 Of all 111 cases in which the nobility holder was charged with a crime, in thirty three cases the historiographer did not specify the reason for the charge. In seventy-eight cases, however, the reason is specified. During the time of Emperor Wu, of the sixty- four domains that were closed due to their holders being charged with a crime, no crime is specified for only eight of the sixty-four cases where domains were closed due to their holders being charged with a crime, whereas in fifty-six cases they were specified. And here as well, there is a significant difference between the time before and after the beginning of the era of Taichu: of all fifty-six cases in which a charge for a specified crime was made, fifty-one can be dated before the beginning of the era of Taichu, i.e. before the year 104, and only five in the time after; and in none of the eight cases in which an unspecified charge was made was this later than 104.

28 The data shown in the table thus clearly translate what the historiographer must have meant by that “forest of merits and deficiencies.” It is a metaphor for a situation in which the standards of what was right and wrong must have become so complicated or even arbitrary that almost none of the descendants of those men who had once received these domains for their merits proved deserving enough to preserve them under Emperor Wu.

29 What is more, during the time from the beginning of Emperor Wu’s reign until the end of the Yuanfeng period, i.e. the years between 140 and 105, there is one year in which a conspicuously large number of fiefs, namely seventeen out of altogether fifty-one closures, are recorded in the table as abolished, namely the year 112. Apart from two cases, all the others—in all fifteen persons—were charged with misbehavior in the context of the “Liquor Gold Statute.” This statute, which had probably been introduced by Han Emperor Wen, stipulated that the nobles—who were exempt from taxes—were requested to assist at the celebration of the annual ceremony of Imperial liquor. The amount of gold to be delivered was to be proportionate to the size of the nobles’domains.34 Indeed in 112, an order was issued for an inspection of the gold that the nobles had presented to the throne. The result of this inspection was that in many cases the nobles had not presented adequate gold, either in quality or in quantity, as required by the size of their domains. Many nobles were thus deprived of their nobility in the very same year.35

30 Viewed in the light of the Shiji author’s remarks, it seems that the many different reasons given for persons being deprived of their fiefs during Emperor Wu’s reign, and especially those who lost their fiefs on the basis of the Imperial liquor ceremony, exemplify what the historiographer laments in his preface. He also seems to suggest that all these apparently unprecedented reasons were, in the first place, merely a pretext for the emperor to abolish these fiefs.36 Very similarly, Michael Loewe interpreted the reason why Emperor Wu abolished so many of the fiefs that the dynasty founder, Gaozu, once had created, saying, It seems unlikely that this major change was due simply to the reasons that were alleged. Possibly the step was taken as a deliberate measure to eliminate the influence of some of the well-established families of the day. Possibly it may be construed as punishment for failure to respond to a call for volunteers to join the campaigns against rebels from Nan Yue or from among the Qiang peoples.37 It is certainly plausible to assume that Emperor Wu’s major interest was to eliminate the influence of what Loewe calls “the well-established families of the day.” But perhaps one should even consider a possible connection between the steps taken by this emperor towards elimination of more and more of these regional powers and his

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own steady progression towards a more centralized and bureaucratic state. Against this political background, a detail indicated in one of the table columns mentioned above seems to deserve special attention: Different from the reign years of all the other emperors, the historiographer has divided the entries in the column relating to Emperor Wu, into two parts, the first part comprising the first 36 years (i.e. from the beginning of Jianyuan, 140, to the end of Yuanfeng, 105), and the second part comprising the latter 28 years of his reign (i.e. from the First Year of Taichu, 104, to the Second Year of Houyuan, 87).38 Thus it even seems that the historiographer intended to turn his reader’s attention to the fact that Emperor Wu abolished the largest numbers of fiefs before the year 104.

31 Since the very name of the era Taichu—“Grand Inception”—is closely linked with the installation of a grand new calendar, to be inaugurated soon after Emperor Wu had successfully conducted the Feng and Shan Sacrifices on Mount Tai, it does not seem too farfetched, in my view, to assume that the closure of so many fiefs in the time immediately preceding this decisive event was meant as an integral part of Emperor Wu’s overall striving for a more centralized rule ultimately emulating that of the Yellow Thearch (Huangdi). And, what is more, it seems that the historiographer intended to point out this political background to indicate to his reader the violent and sometimes arbitrary character of this emperor’s actions.

2.3. Assessing Emperor Wu’s “Performance” on Mount Tai

32 The historiographer’s allusion to Gongyang zhuan in chap. 28, the “Monograph on the Feng and Shan Sacrifices,” is a peculiar case, since not only the historiographer’s personal remark in which the allusion is contained but almost the whole of the chapter content has a doublet in chap. 12, entitled “Basic Annals of (Emperor) Wu the Filial.”39

33 The main content of this doublet is a description of the steps that Emperor Wu undertook, mainly upon the advice of certain specialists, for performing the sacrifices on Mount Tai as well as a record of the result of these sacrifices. Here is what the Shiji author says in his personal remark which is also part of the doublet and thus found at the end of both chapters: I accompanied the emperor when he journeyed about to sacrifice to Heaven and Earth, the other deities, and the famous mountains and rivers, and when he went to perform the Feng and Shan. (I) entered the Temple of Long Life and assisted at the sacrifices when the deity spoke, and (I) thus had an opportunity to study and examine the intention40 of the men of techniques and the sacrificial officials. After that (I) retired in order to discuss successively how from ancient times services were rendered to the spirits and ghosts, setting forth in doing so both the outside and the inside of these (matters). If there will be superior men in future generations, they may make use of this material for their examination. As for the details of sacrificial plates and utensils, the types of jades and silks offered, or the exact ritual to be followed in presenting them—these may be left to the officials who handle such matters.41 But what did the Shiji author mean by mentioning the “outside” and the “inside” of affairs that he intended to set forth in this chapter? It is important to know that the text begins with a discussion about rulers who from antiquity on either did not proceed to conduct the holy sacrifices on Mount Tai although they would have been worthy to do so, or they proceeded to carry out the sacrifices but were not successful either due to lack of virtue or of merit. From these words it becomes apparent that any ruler who

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planned to conduct these sacrifices took a certain risk, namely that of possibly not being the right candidate to do so and that of being evaluated accordingly by specialists who knew all the details of the sacrifices.

34 What follows in the text is a historical survey of rulers who either proceeded with the sacrifices or, for whatever reasons, did not do so. Of these, there are two rulers to whom most space is devoted in the account, namely the First Emperor of Qin and Emperor Wu of the Han.42

35 As for the First Emperor of Qin, it has been pointed out by many that his proceeding to Mount Tai, which is decribed in Shiji chap. 6 as having been motivated primarily by his desire to obtain immortality, was certainly not successful. This is what the record tells us when it says that on his way down from Mount Tai he encountered heavy rain and had to rest under a tree.43

36 As for Emperor Wu then, the direct comparison shows that—at least at first sight—this emperor, in contrast to Qin Shi Huang was seemingly successful. It is even emphasized in the record that there was no rain or thunder when he was on his way to the top of the mountain. He performed the sacrifices and “it seemed” that there were even positive reactions on the part of Heaven.

37 The question of biao li, or the difference between the outward and the inward behavior is raised precisely in the context of the account of how the emperor was persuaded to take the preparatory measures necessary to conduct the sacrifices on Mount Tai. Very similar to the way the Shiji author informs his readers how the Qin Emperor had been persuaded to put the sacrifices into practice, we learn how Gongsun Qing, a “man of techniques” (fangshi) who was said to have discovered a tripod in Fenyin also claimed to have received an oral prophecy and who told Emperor Wu about the prospect of obtaining immortality after having made a successful sacrifice on top of Mount Tai. Upon this, Emperor Wu is reported by the Shiji author to have exclaimed enthusiastically: Alas, indeed, if I could only become like the Yellow Thearch, I would regard quitting my wife and children as being no more than casting off one’s slippers!44 On the one hand this passage clearly illustrates how some of these “men of techniques” such as Gongsun Qing enticed the emperor with the prospect of immortality and thereby managed to manipulate him; and on the other hand the historiographer, through his report of these stories, debunks his own emperor for so easily being manipulated by Gongsun Qing and others like him.45

38 In this context, two more key terms used in the historiographer’s personal remark deserve our attention, namely yi, “intentions,” in contrast to yan, “words.” While yi is found in chap. 28, it is replaced by yan in chap. 12.46 It thus seems as if the annals rnote the official record, whereas in chap. 28 stress is laid upon the critical examination of the circumstance and, above all, of the underlying intent. By pointing out the intentions (yi) beneath Gongsun Qing’s words (yan), the historiographer again indicates Emperor Wu’s egocentrism and greed. On the other hand, it is perhaps not too farfetched to consider the fact that more than ninety percent of the annals of Emperor Wu are filled with the account of these sacrifices. This should be regarded as quite a distorted and exaggerated treatment of an event, which was certainly important but hardly the only important matter that was worth recording for the long reign of Emperor Wu. Moreover, the inclusion of this event in the annals might even be interpreted as a monument to Wudi’s ultimate failure.

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39 In summary, both chap. 28 and its near doublet, chap. 12, appear to be criticism directed at Emperor Wu. They reproach him for arrogance and disrespect in his attitude towards the deities and ghosts, and with having proceeded too quickly and too violently to the performance of the sacrifices, with a primary personal interest in achieving immortality, very much like the “bad model” of the First Emperor of Qin before him. Thus it seems that, in spite of what was formally being recorded as a “success,” at closer examination of the underlying intentions, by using the techniques of comparing the “outside” with the “inside” (biao li), in the historiographer’s mind Emperor Wu finally turns out not to be the long awaited sage of the Han.

2.4. Storing the work away and devoting it to sages of later ages

40 Last but not least, let us take a closer look at the passage contained in chap. 130 of the Shiji, the autobiographical one.47 As emphasized in the beginning of this essay, the wording of this last passage comes closest to its prototype in the Gongyang zhuan.48 Remarkably, the passage is not only part of the “His Lord the Grand Scribe says” section but it is also placed at the end of the rhymed preface related to chap. 130. Here is the passage in the context of the sentences preceding it: [This work, which] comprises 130 chapters and consists of 526,500 characters, is the book of His Lord the Grand Scribe. It was compiled in order to repair omissions and amplify the Six Disciplines. It completes the work of one school tradition, by supplementing the various interpretations of the Six Classics and putting into order the miscellaneous sayings of the Hundred Schools. (I) have placed one copy in the Famous Mountain49 and another in the capital, so that it may await the sages and superior men of a future generation.50 Several aspects of this passage deserve more attention. Apart from being so parallel in its wording to the Gongyang zhuan, it is also conspicuously parallel with regard to its placement in the work. As mentioned above, the passage in the Gongyang zhuan is placed close to the end of the work, and it refers to Confucius who, after the unicorn had been caught, knowing that during his lifetimes no sage ruler was still expected to come, “applied the moral rules of the Spring and Autumn (Annals) to wait for sages of later (generations).”

41 Similarly, the Shiji passage is placed almost at the end of the Shiji, followed only by one more sentence in which an arc is again traced from the time of the Yellow Thearch (Huangdi) down to the era of Taichu, pointing towards the exact number of chapters, namely altogether 130, which this work comprises.51 It thus seems that the implication underlying the allusion to the Gongyang zhuan intended by the historiographer is on the one hand that his work, the Shiji, should somehow be compared or even equated with the Chunqiu, and, what is more, the historiographer himself in consequence seems to take on the role of Confucius.52

42 This is all the more interesting, since in the sentences preceding the passage quoted above, the historiographer diligently enumerates the numbers of the chapters belonging to each category in the Shiji, beginning with the twelve chapters of the section “Annals” (benji), and ending with the seventy chapters subsumed under the category “Biographies” (liezhuan). It almost seems that by enumerating the chapters in this fashion the historiographer wants to safeguard against later additions to, or obliterations from his original work without their being easily detected.53 As Jan Assmann has observed, the desire to fix the exact wording of a book for a future

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generation is typical of cultures which have lost part of their rituals and identity and for whom the compilation of canons thus becomes an essential element to preserve cultural memory. This is what Assmann has called the “canon formula.”54

43 Last but not least, by pointing out that two copies of the work have been finalized, one to be placed in the “Famous Mountain” (mingshan) and another in the capital—which probably means that one copy should be deposited in the scribe’s archive and the other in the house of the Sima clan in Chang’an—the historiographer probably intended to safeguard at least one copy of his work to be preserved for future worthy readers who would draw their conclusions from it. Again it is not farfetched to assume that all this reflects a critical assessment of his present ruler, Emperor Wu.

2.5. Facets of the historiographer’s criticism—a brief synopsis

44 It has been argued at the beginning of this essay that each of the five passages of the Shiji text in which the historiographer alludes to the Gongyang zhuan adds one facet to an overall critical assessment of Emperor Wu.55 It is now time to reconsider the facets that we have been able to trace so far and to draw some preliminary conclusions from the previous analysis.

45 To begin with chap. 15, although there is no explicit criticism in the historiographer’s introductory words, there is little doubt that by pointing at Qin, as elsewhere in the Shiji, he implicitly scolded Han. His remarks about the “first signs of prosperity and decay” in his introduction, and even more the “first signs of transgression” he perceives in the early development of the state of Qin on its way to power under a unified rule may certainly also be applied to Emperor Wu and his rule.

46 The main lesson to be drawn from Chap. 18 seems to be how violently Emperor Wu abolished almost the half of all fiefs that had been installed either under Gaozu or one of his successors. As has been suggested above, these measures should probably be viewed against the background of Emperor Wu’s intended performance of the sacred Feng and Shan Sacrifices on Mount Tai and the installation of the new calendar. It has been suggested that Emperor Wu thus intended to emulate the Yellow Thearch (Huangdi). But of course, less remote though at the same time less successful, the First Emperor, too, is certainly taken here as a model, and this decisive step taken by Emperor Wu, if compared with the time when Liu Bang first established the Han dynasty, reminds one strongly of the passage in Shiji 6, the “Annals of the First August Emperor,” where in a dialogue with the Qin Emperor his chancellor Li Si vehemently advises him not to bestow any hereditary fiefs upon officials.56

47 As for the near doublet contained in chap. 28 and 12 of the Shiji, the historical parallel drawn by the historiographer is even more obvious. While the First Emperor’s proceeding to Taishan is described in chap. 6 unmistakably as unsuccessful, at first sight Emperor Wu’s attempt seems to have been on the whole successful.57 However, as we have seen above, the historiographer’s subtle rhetoric suggests to an attentive reader that in the context of these sacrifices there was so much wrong or even “fake” that the record at closer reading appears to portray the sacrifices on Mount Tai as unsuccessful. Again, it is the historical example of Qin and its First Emperor which the historiographer uses to criticize Emperor Wu.

48 Last but not least, the historiographer’s reference in chap. 130 to sages and superior men of later generations to whom the work is devoted, in combination with the remark

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that two copies of the work will be made, one of them to be hidden in the “Famous Mountain,” should probably not be interpreted as specific criticism of his emperor. Rather, this final remark seems to be the consequence of all the facets pointed out in the other passages, namely that the lesson to be drawn from all this is not meant to be a pedagogical lesson for a living monarch but rather for one who was not born yet, or for the supporter of such a potential sage ruler in a future age.

49 In summary, the various facets of the historiographer’s criticism identified in the passages discussed above all seem to refer to the preparatory steps Emperor Wu took while he was preparing to conduct the sacrifices on Mount Tai. In fact, some of these measures, as e.g. his decision to gradually curb the influence of the nobilities, remind one to some degree of those already taken by his predecessors, beginning with Liu Bang, later Gaozu, who amended his initial project to honor all his loyal followers with a fiefdom or even a kingdom, by proclaiming that henceforth only members of his own clan, Liu, should be made kings.58 But whereas Liu Bang’s later policy seems to have been a small corrective to his general turn towards a feudal system, in contrast to Qin Shi Huang’s wholesale replacement of the earlier fief system in favor of a new centralized system, Emperor Wu, roughly one hundred years after the founding of the Han, almost seems to be following Qin Shi Huang in bringing about a paradigmatic shift of the government system, abolishing most of the fiefs created by the dynasty founder and replacing them by an increasing number of officials serving in a hierarchically structured central government. Viewed in this context, the abolition of fiefs and especially so shortly before the emperor’s planned “Grand Inception” could well be interpreted as part of Emperor Wu’s new politico-ideological agenda in which both the Yellow Thearch (Huangdi), as the ideal ruler of remote antiquity, and the First Emperor, who was less remote in time albeit more an “anti-hero,” both played an important part.59 Thus, by recording how many of the fiefs established under the dynasty founder had been abolished during the reign of Emperor Wu, the historiographer indirectly points to that decisive step taken by his contemporary ruler.

50 But whatever the historiographer’s general ideological stance towards Emperor Wu’s endeavors to achieve a more centralized state system may have been, an important detail concerning the various objects of his criticism that has been mentioned repeatedly is that it was not so much directed against Emperor Wu’s actions per se but rather against the way he went about achieving these things. For example, as we saw above, in his account of the dialogue between Gongsun Qing and Emperor Wu the Shiji author emphasizes that the magician finally managed to persuade Emperor Wu to conduct the Feng and Shan Sacrifices with the prospect that by doing so the emperor would gain immortality. By subtly depicting both the underlying intention of the flatterer Gongsun Qing and that of the egocentric and greedy emperor the historiographer uses rhetoric reminiscent of a modern psychologist.

51 Even more subtle is the historiographer’s critical assessment in the abovementioned doublet in chap. 28 and 12. His remark that he “had opportunity to study and examine the intention of the “men of techniques (fangshi) and the sacrificial officials (ciguan), the fact that the word for “intentions” (yi) was replaced by that for “words” (yan), in the doublet in chap. 12 suggests that the historiographer intends to reveal to an attentive reader a contradiction between what these men had said (to the emperor, namely that Heaven had reacted positively and Wudi’s performance on Mount Tai was thus successful) and their true intention (to flatter the emperor in order to avoid his

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irritation and to bring benefit primarily for themselves). Of course, by thus analyzing the true motivations behind the deeds of these specialists, the historiographer indirectly also criticized his emperor once again for being so easily misled, thus striking at his vanity and greed.

52 In all the above mentioned cases it seems that the historiographer gives more weight to attitude or intention than to the deed itself. To give priority to intention rather than to the deed, however, is precisely one of the basic tenets of the Gongyang school.60 Perhaps the most prominent example of a historical figure condemned by the author or compiler of the Gongyang zhuan for a murder he clearly did not commit is Zhao Dun, a high minister of Duke Ling of Jin. According to the Gongyang zhuan, Zhao was morally responsible for the murder because he had not only tried to flee from his state after his ruler was killed, but did not even punish the killer after he had returned to his state.61

3. The temporal cesura that turns criticism into “treason”

53 So far, this study has been confined to analyzing the various facets of the historiographer’s critical assessment of Emperor Wu. But should the criticism passed by the historiographer here simply be understood as a warning, in the hope that the emperor might still change his attitude, or is it rather a judgment passed after a process of evaluation, with the result that a ruler finally turned out to not to be the sage awaited for so long? 62 It will be argued here that what the historiographer does by addressing later sages and superior men, is the latter, namely the historiographer’s final judgment that the emperor was ultimately no sage ruler.

54 Let us turn once again to our protoype in the Gongyang zhuan. In abstract terms, the appearance of the unicorn in the West in the 14th year of Duke Ai of Lu was for Confucius the signal for a temporal cesura. It seems that until this point in time he was still hoping that a sage ruler would appear during his lifetime. But after he was told that a unicorn had been caught somewhere to the West (of his birthplace Lu), the situation completely changed. The difference was that, for whatever reasons, the master was now certain his fate was that no sage ruler would appear during his lifetime. Therefore he concluded that he should dedicate his great project, a historical record in which he preserved all the right behavior required for the rule of a sage, to superior men of a later age.

55 Similarly, when the historiographer addresses superior men of later ages, he turns what might be regarded as a simple warning to a ruler for pedagogical purposes into a piece of severe criticism. For this passage informs others that the ruler governing during the time the historiographer was writing in the final analysis turned out to be no sage ruler.

56 Thus it is precisely the temporal cesura implied here in the Gongyang zhuan which, in its combination with the various facets of the historiographer’s critical assessment of his own emperor, turns the rhetorical tool of allusion used by the historiographer into a type of dangerous political dynamite. Small wonder that by using such “treasonous” rhetoric, the Shiji author all too easily incurred the risk of being charged with lèse- majesté.

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57 As for the precise point in time which marks the watershed between a still cherished hope and a hope lost, several remarks in the Shiji text suggest that it was not the year in which the sacrifices on Mount Tai took place, namely 110, but rather the year in which the era of Taichu began, namely 104, which had been envisaged by those specialists who were entrusted with calculating the date when the new cycle in the succession of the Yellow Thearch would begin. Since this year was probably also the decisive year in which Emperor Wu, on the basis of these calculations, should have obtained immortality, it was not so difficult for the specialists to determine that at least this second part of the experiment was definitely not successful.63

4. Inconsistencies in the author’s attitude towards Emperor Wu

58 If one tries to created a picture of how in his account the historiographer assessed Han Wudi, the impression that especially in this regard the historiographer’s mirror is, as Durrant has put it in his famous work, “a quite distorted and cloudy one,” is indeed quite fitting.64 The more one reads this comprehensive work the less one knows for certain whether Emperor Wu is perceived there as the expected sage ruler who has only to be finally approved by Heaven, or whether he is not; the picture is inconsistent; it even seems contradictory at times.

59 The mirror, however, might become less cloudy if one takes into consideration that we might have to reckon with at least two “mirrors” instead of one. As I have argued elsewhere, there is good reason to assume that there are two significantly different attitudes that can be traced in the Shiji text.65 One may be described as quite positive, one that is open-minded to what will happen but at the same time seems to expect that the time when grand events will take place is close; one might even characterize this attitude as imbued by an eschatological hope. The other attitude is less positive; it is generally skeptical, at times even cynical, and records things in a much more distant and sober way.

60 These two attitudes are, as has been argued above, quite irreconcilable. In fact, it almost seems that the historiographer, with quite a different end in mind, is struggling with a story begun by someone else. While he would like to continue the story, he can only do so by reaching a quite different conclusion than the earlier writer intended.

5. Some final suggestions regarding the “traitor’s” identity

61 So far, the question of authorship has been avoided in this essay. However, in this last section it will be argued that in the rhetoric of allusion contained in the five passages examined here one can clearly distinguish the voice of one of the two Sima. Those who are accustomed to presuming that Sima Qian was the main author of the Shiji may not find such an assignment noteworthy. However, those who consider the possibility of a dual authorship of the Shiji text may perhaps be interested to apply the implications of the rhetoric of allusion discussed above to the question of how to tell Sima Tan’s voice from that of his son Sima Qian.

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62 In what follows it will be argued that the attitude that has been described above as quite positive or even imbued by an eschatological hope is characteristic of Sima Tan, while the less positive, generally skeptical, at times even cynical attitude is the one that characterizes Sima Qian. Since I have discussed elsewhere in some detail the eschatological trait in the overall ideological frame of the Shiji,66 I will confine myself to adduce only some examples here which show that the person to whom this attitude may safely be ascribed is Sima Tan.

63 In chap. 130, the autobiographical and final chapter of the Shiji, there are several passages which may be adduced as examples for the eschatological attitude which can be clearly assigned to Sima Tan. For example, in the famous deathbed scene in which Sima Qian refers to words that he had heard from his father, Sima Tan. Sima Tan laments bitterly over the fact that now, in the very year that Emperor Wu would proceed to the sacrifices on Mount Tai, he would not be able to be in the emperor’s entourage. All the more emphatically, he urges his son Qian to continue and finalize what he had intended to write, saying: Now the House of Han has arisen and all the world is united under one rule. I have been a Grand Scribe and yet I have failed to set forth a record of the enlightened ruler(s), the worthy nobles, the faithful ministers and the gentlemen who were ready to die for duty. I am fearful that the historical materials will be neglected and lost. You must remember and think of this!67 Slightly earlier in the text, Sima Qian reports his father pondering over the “more than four hundred years that have elapsed since the capture of the unicorn,” which again suggests that his father was eagerly waiting for the result of the sacrifices that he and his son were preparing for the emperor.

64 In contrast to his father, Sima Qian witnessed the time after Emperor Wu conducted the sacred sacrifices on Mount Tai. He also lived long enough to see that his emperor had neither become a sage nor, as the emperor wished, gained immortality. As a result, Sima Qian held a skeptical attitude—perhaps after a time even a cynical one.

65 There is good reason to assume that all five passages under examination here for their allusion to the Gongyang zhuan have been authored by Sima Qian. That is, he is the one who made use of the rhetorical tool of allusion to make this final critical assessment of his emperor.

66 The first reason is that, very simply, only Sima Qian but not his father Tan lived long enough to experience the time after Emperor Wu had conducted the sacrifices on Mount Tai. For this reason, both the record of these sacrifices as well as the historiographer’s personal remarks which are, as we saw, contained both in chap. 28 and its doublet in chap. 12, were necessarily written by him. The same simple argument concerns the allusion contained at the end of chap. 130, which apart from Sima Tan’s words (which are again transmitted to us only thanks to his son’s record) must have been written by Sima Qian.

67 Secondly, but closely related to the first argument, is that precisely because he was the one to experience the time after Emperor Wu’s performance on Mount Tai, it was Sima Qian who was faced with the problem to insert the results of what might be called “Emperor Wu’s risky experiment somewhere in his father’s and his “joint” venture, the Shiji.

68 My third and last argument in favor of Sima Qian as being the author of our five passages is that there is good reason to assume that he was more familiar with the

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teachings of the Gongyang school than his father Tan,68 especially in the form it was interpreted by the Han scholar Dong Zhongshu (195-115), who had been given an official teaching chair during the reign of Emperor Wu.

69 Probably the most spectacular passage in the Shiji in which this close familiarity of Sima Qian with the teachings of Dong Zhongshu becomes apparent is the famous conversation with his colleague, the calendar specialist Hu Sui, where Sima Qian explicitly refers to words that he had heard from the mouth of a certain “Master Dong,” who can safely be identified with Dong Zhongshu.69

70 To the suggestive question raised by Hu Sui, why in Sima Qian’s view Confucius decided to “compile the ‘Spring and Autumn’ (Annals),” Sima Qian responds: I have heard Master Dong say, “When Confucius was Chief Minister of Justice in Lu, the ways of the Zhou had declined and fallen into disuse. The feudal lords abused him and the high officials obstructed his plans. Confucius realized that his words were not being heeded, nor his doctrines put into practice. So he made a critical judgment of the rights and wrongs of a period of two hundred and forty-two years in order to provide a template of ritually correct behavior for All Under Heaven. He criticized the Son of Heaven, reprimanded the feudal lords, and condemned the high officials in order to make known the business of a true ruler and that was all.” 70 Since I have examined the relationship of this passage with the text contained in one chapter of the Chunqiu fanlu, “Luxuriant Dew of the Spring and Autumn (Annals),” a text whose authorship has been ascribed to the Han scholar Dong Zhongshu, in more detail elsewhere,71 let me only briefly highlight the main parallels and their context here: That chapter begins with the question about why Confucius compiled the Spring and Autumn Annals. The response is that, on the one hand, it was in order to make a correct record of the Heavenly portenta, of the positions of kings and dukes and of the wishes of the people, and on the other hand, in order to illuminate what brings benefit and what brings loss, in order to help those who have the talent to be worthies to prosper and to wait for the sages of later (generations). And finally, that he based his reflections on past events and added to them “the heart of a (true) king.”72

71 The comparison of that Shiji passage with the above summarized passages from the chapter in the Chunqiu fanlu suggests that several important ideas which Sima Qian elucidates in his dialogue with Hu Sui are taken from the Gongyang zhuan, or at least, from teachings of Dong Zhongshu who for his part interpreted the Gongyang school and applied it on his own times. Firstly, the idea that the reason for Confucius to compile the Chunqiu was indeed that the world was in disorder and decay and that Confucius thereby conceived the work as a “template of ritually correct behavior for All Under Heaven” (tianxia yibiao), to provide a sage ruler who was expected to come sometime in the future. Secondly, the idea that the corrections made by Confucius even included the Son of Heaven, in other words, the one who would make a work which stands in the tradition of the Chunqiu would not only be allowed but even have the duty to criticize even one’s ruler. And thirdly, even though there is no parallel to the phrase “to add to (the past events) the heart of a (true) king” in the Shiji text, the author of the Chunqiu fanlu text in this passage quite clearly challenges his reader to examine critically the intention underlying a ruler’s deeds.73

72 From all this we may draw two important conclusions. The first is that Sima Qian, who was familiar with the teachings of Dong Zhongshu, may safely be identified as the one who made use of the rhetoric of allusion analysed in this essay. The second conclusion

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is that the request to record not only the deed itself but also the underlying intent and that the critical examination of this attitude should include even the Son of Heaven is, if not as old as the Gongyang zhuan itself, at least as old as the teachings of Dong Zhongshu interpreting the Gongyang zhuan. Such a request, however, almost inevitably provokes a dilemma, namely precisely the dilemma that becomes evident in the dialogue between Sima Qian and Hu Sui and in which the latter takes the role of an advocatus diaboli who diagnoses the fact that making a historical record following after Confucius is, at the same time, an indirect act of hitting at one’s emperor. This dilemma is what Sima Qian must have been keenly aware of when he proceeded to record the events following his father’s death, i.e. following Emperor Wu’s sacrifices on Mount Tai. But as the new “Grand Scribe” and with his father’s last words in mind he had no choice but to finish what his father had begun. Thus, rather than blaming him as the “traitor” among the two Sima, we should praise him for fulfilling his duties as an excellent scribe who recorded nothing but the “truth.”74

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SCHAAB-HANKE, Dorothee (2002a). “The Power of an Alleged Tradition: A Prophetic Message Flattering Han Emperor Wu and Its Relation to the Sima Clan” [first published in BMFEA, no. 74 (2002): 243-290], cited after the rev. version in Schaab-Hanke, Dorothee (2010): 293-346.

SCHAAB-HANKE, Dorothee (2002b). “Der Herrscher und sein Richter: Zur Bedeutung von biao 表 und li 裏 in Kapitel 28 des Shiji” [first published in Oriens Extremus, no. 43: 116-144], cited after the rev. version in: Schaab-Hanke, Dorothee (2010): 141-178.

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SCHAAB-HANKE, Dorothee (2003/2004). “Did Chu Shaosun Contribute to a Tradition of the Grand Scribe?” [first published in Oriens Extremus, no. 43: 11-26], cited after the rev. version in Schaab- Hanke, Dorothee (2010): 225-243.

SCHAAB-HANKE, Dorothee (2010a). “The Junzi in the Shiji and the Quest for Moral Authorities” In Schaab-Hanke, Dorothee (2010): 105-138.

SCHAAB-HANKE, Dorothee (2010b). Der Geschichtsschreiber als Exeget: Facetten der frühen chinesischen Historiographie. Deutsche Ostasienstudien, 10. Gossenberg, Ostasien Verlag.

Shiji 史記. By Sima Tan 司馬談 (?-110) and Sima Qian 司馬遷 (ca 145-ca 86). Annotated by Zhang Shoujie 張守節, Sima Zhen 司馬貞, and Pei Yin 裴駰. Beijing, Zhonghua, 1959.

WATSON, Burton (1958). Ssu-ma Ch’ien: Grand Historian of China. New York, Columbia University.

WATSON, Burton (1961a). Records of the Grand Historian: Han Dynasty I. New York, Columbia University.

WATSON, Burton (1961b). Records of the Grand Historian: Han Dynasty II. New York, Columbia University.

WATSON, Burton (1993). Records of the Grand Historian: Qin. New York, Columbia University.

ZHANG, Dake (2000). Shiji xinzhu. Beijing, Huawen.

Zuozhuan 左傳. ICS edition (1995). Chunqiu Zuozhuan zhuzi suoyin 春秋左傳逐字索引 = The Concordance to the Chunqiu Zuozhuan, ed. Chinese University of Hong Kong. Hongkong, Shangwu.

APPENDIXES

Glossary benji 本紀 biao li 表裏 Chunqiu 春秋 Chunqiu fanlu 春秋繁露 ciguan 祠官 Dong Zhongshu 董仲舒 fangshi 方士 feng shan 封禪 Gongyang zhuan 公羊傳 Guliang zhuan 穀梁傳 hou 候 Huangdi 黃帝 junzi yue 君子曰 liezhuan 列傳

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mingshan 名山 Qin Shi Huang 秦始皇 Shiji 史記 shufu 書府 Sima Qian 司馬遷 Sima Tan 司馬談 Taichu 太初 taishi gong yue 太史公曰 taishi ling 太史令 tianxia yibiao 天下儀表 Wu di 武帝 xing shuai zhi duan 興衰之端 yan 言 yi 意 Yuanfeng 元封 zhi Chunqiu 制春秋 zhoujin lü 酎金律

NOTES

1. All dates are BCE unless indicated otherwise. For the revised version of my paper, I am much indebted to the members of the editing team and the most helpful suggestions by Yuri Pines, Joachim Gentz, Michael Nylan, Steve Durrant, and two anonymous reviewers. 2. In spite of the suggested dual authorship of the Shiji I will, until the last section of this essay, merely speak of “the author” or “the historiographer,” assuming that it is always the voice of one of them which is speaking to us at a time. In the last section, however, it will be argued that in the examples adduced here the voice of either Sima Tan 司馬談 or Sima Qian 司馬遷 may be distinguished quite clearly. 3. Since the duties of a taishi ling 太史令 covered the realm of astronomy as well as that of astrology, it is not easy to translate satisfactorily. Michael Nylan (1998-1999: 203) proposes to render taishi 太史 as “senior archivist,” but since an archivist’s role seems to be merely one aspect of the many duties of a taishi I prefer to stick to the more general term “Grand Scribe.” 4. Hereafter, references to the Gongyang zhuan 公羊傳, as well as to the Guliang zhuan 穀梁傳 and Zuozhuan 左傳, will be made as to the ICS edition. 5. To my knowledge, there are few studies so far that have examined the impact of the Gongyang zhuan on the Shiji author in detail. Among Chinese Shiji specialists, attention on the Shiji as an exegetical work has increased within the last decade, the perhaps most pioneering being that of Chen Tongsheng (1995), who painstakingly traced the impact of all three exegetical commentaries of the Chunqiu on the Shiji. Among Western studies, Jurij L. Kroll (1976), in an essay on the Shiji as a literary work, has already pointed out that the Gongyang tradition was of major importance for the judgements passed by the author of the Shiji.

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6. It is important to add that all five passages in which this allusion occurs are part of the historiographer’s personal remarks, which are usually introduced by the formula “His Lord the Grand Scribe says” (taishigong yue). 7. Although the focus of this study is on the relations between the Shiji and the Gongyang zhuan, this is, of course, in no way meant to belittle the impact that the Zuozhuan had on large parts of the Shiji. For an insightful study of Shiji chap. 14 in which the table entries are interpreted as often being a synopsis of positions taken by the Zuozhuan, see Durrant (1992); see also Hardy (1993). For a discussion of the various exegetical positions taken by the Shiji author in the context of the comments introduced by “A superior man said” (junzi yue 君子曰), see Schaab-Hanke (2010a). 8. The choice of the term “rhetoric of treason” for the allusion under discussion here was inspired by the intriguing essay by Gary Arbuckle (1995) in which he illustrates how, by applying doctrines of the Gongyang school on the politics of his time, the Han scholar Dong Zhongshu, as well as scholars in his succession, was almost inevitably charged with high treason. 9. Many thanks to Yuri Pines who alerted me that this passage refers to the idea of Yao’s abdicating in favor of Shun (communication of 15.02.12). 10. Gongyang zhuan 12.14.1 (158/13-15): 制春秋之義，以俟聖。以君子之為，亦有樂乎此也。Cf. Gentz 2001: 89-92. 11. For the comments on Aigong 14.1 made in Zuozhuan, see B12.14.1/456/21-22; for those in Guliang zhuan, see 12.14.1/154/3-4. See also the comparison made by Gentz 2001: 288f. 12. For a closer study of the authority represented by the formula taishigong yue 太史公曰, see Li Wai-yee 1994. 13. Shiji 12.486 and 28.1404: 有君子，得以覽焉。 14. Shiji 15.687, 4: 有君子，以覽觀焉。Shiji 18.878, 10: 有君子，欲推而列之，得以覽焉。 15. Shiji 130.3319: 15-3320: 1: 為太史公書，〔…〕，俟世聖人君子。 16. Shiji 15.685-758 (“Liuguo nianbiao” 六國年表). 17. See Shiji 15.748: 2. 18. See Shiji 15.751: 3. 19. See Shiji 15.757: 7. 20. Zhang Dake 2000: 405, has counted altogether 196 armed conflicts between states in the time before the unification of the empire by the Qin. 21. Yuri Pines (2005/2006) certainly justly reproaches the Shiji for being a biased source in many respects. However, in my view, this is an example where the historiographer explicitly points out that the annals of Qin were his only major source, which he bemoans, and on the other hand the tables themselves show that the historiographer had devoted great energy to recording the events of each of the states of the Warring States period separately, in spite of or even against the grain of this certainly highly biased source, so that I think the historiographer in cases such as this deserves some respect. 22. The term duan 端, “beginning,” or, as rendered here, “first signs,” occurs conspicuously often in the Chunqiu fanlu 春秋繁露 (Luxuriant Dew of the Spring and Autumn [Annals]), a text ascribed to Dong Zhongshu who received an official chair under Emperor Wu. See, e.g., the phrase “cun wang zhi duan bu ke bu zhi ye” 存亡之端不可不知也 (“It is of utmost importance that one understands the first signs of [what brings about] continuity or perdition!”) in a section entitled “Mie guo” 滅 國 (Destroying a state). See Chunqiu fanlu (ICS ed.) 5.1/19/13. I owe this hint to the importance of that term for the Han interpretation of the Gongyang school to Joachim Gentz, communication of 07.07.2011. 23. Shiji 15.687, 3-4: 余於是因秦記，踵春秋之，起周元王，表六國時事，訖二世，凡二百七十 年，著諸所聞興壞之端。有君子，以覽觀焉。Cf. Chavannes 1898: 22-28; Watson 1958: 184ff. 24. Junzi ju yan 君子懼焉, see Shiji 15.685: 8.

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25. Qianduan xian yi 僭端見矣, see Shiji 15.685: 7. In rendering the term qian 僭 with “transgression” I follow the translation proposed by Yuri Pines 2005/2006: 12. 26. For an earlier study on the—conspicuously quite similar—portrayals of Emperor Wu of the Han and the First Qin Emperor, especially as regards their desire to attain immortality, see Durrant 1994. In a forthcoming essay, Hans van Ess also points to the close resemblance of the pictures of both emperors as they were drawn by the Shiji author. I am obliged to Yuri Pines for directing my attention to the latter essay. 27. Shiji 18.877-975 (“Gaozu gongchen houzhe nianbiao” 高祖功臣侯者年表). 28. In my use of the term hou 侯, “nobility” with regard to the fiefs bestowed on meritorious officials, I follow the terminology proposed by Michael Loewe (2004) in a section focused on “The Nobilites of the Western Han.” On p. 284, he writes, “Conferred by imperial decree, a nobility gave the recipient a title in the form of designating the area in which he was entitled and obliged to raise taxation and call up those of the inhabitants who were liable to render service, either in the armed forces or as conscript labourers.” 29. Shiji 18.878: 2. 30. Shiji 18.878, 8-10: 居今之世，志古之道，所以自鏡也，未必盡同。帝王者各殊禮而異務，要 以成功為統紀，豈可緄乎？觀所以得尊寵及所以廢辱，亦當世得失之林也，何必舊聞？於是 謹其終始，表其文，頗有所不盡本末；著其明，疑者闕之。有君子，欲推而列之，得以覽 焉。Cf. Chavannes 1898: 125; cf. Watson 1961a: 427ff. 31. According to the table, the names of these five nobilities were Yanghe, Dai, Quzhou, Pingyang and Guling. See also the Zhengyi commentary by Zhang Shoujie, Shiji 18.878: 7. 32. Dangshi de shi zhi lin 當世得失之林. See Shiji 15.878: 9. 33. The number given for Gaozu is 2, for Huidi 1, for Lühou 4, for Wendi 13, and for Jingdi 27, in all 47. 34. The Liquor Gold Statute, zhoujin lü 酎金律, or, more precisely, the Statute “on the Gold (presented at the Sacrifice of the Eighth Month) Fermented Liquor” was, according to Hulsewé (1955), 38, a statute that contained the rules concerning the compulsory contributions to be made by the nobility. As Dubs (1944), 126, explains, “nobles were exempt from taxes, but they were required to make an offering proportionate to the size of their estates in order to assist in defraying the expenses of the sacrifices to the imperial ancestors at the time of the offering of the specially fermented liquor in the eighth calendar month. Failure to offer the required amount was punished by dismissal from noble rank or degradation.” 35. According to the table entries in Shiji 18, in the year 112 the following nobilities among those that had been established by the dynasty founder Gaozu were closed because their owners were charged with irregularities related to their duties in the context of the Imperial liquor ceremony: Jiang, Liangzou, Xinyang, Zhifang, Aling, Chiqiu, Pinggao, Gao, Qing, Eshi, Luliang, Kaifeng, Linyuan, De, Tao. The only two owners of nobilities charged with other crimes were those of Zhi (charged with immoral behavior) and Lecheng (charged with murder and executed in public). The even much higher number of all 106 nobles who were deprived of their nobilities in 112 given by Loewe (2004: 294) must be based on the table entries of Hanshu 16 which also includes the nobilities newly established for merit under the Emperor Hui, Empress Lü, and Emperor Wen. 36. For the suggestion that the suspiciously high rate of abolished fiefs in the year 112, allegedly due to the nobles’negligence in responding to the statute, was probably merely a pretext for Emperor Wu to close the nobilities as a kind of revenge for the refusal of these nobles to support the emperor in his military expeditions, see also Emmerich 1991: 117. 37. Loewe 2004: 294. 38. Cf. Shiji 18.879: 1-6. 39. Apart from a small introductory section in chap. 12 that offers some biographical data on Han Emperor Wu, the text in chap. 28 (“Feng Shan shu” 封禪書) is an almost 100 percent doublet of chap. 12 (“Xiao Wu benji” 孝武本紀). It has been argued by some that the doublet in chap. 12 was

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added to the Shiji by a later hand, but as I have tried to show in a previous study, there is good reason to treat both chapters as a “double record” intentionally made by the Shiji author. See Schaab-Hanke 2002b. 40. Where Shiji 28.1404, 4. has yi 意, rendered as “intention,” the doublet in Shiji 12.486, 4 has yan 言, “words” instead. 41. Shiji 28.1404, 4-6: 太史公曰：余從巡祭天地諸神名山川而封禪焉。入壽宮侍祠神語，究觀方 士祠官之意，於是退而論自古以來用事於鬼神者，具見其表裏。有君子，得以覽焉。至若俎 豆珪幣之詳，獻酬之禮，則有司存焉。Cf. Shiji 12.486: 4-6. See Watson 1961b: 51f. 42. While the critical character of the text contained in Shiji 28 (and in Shiji 12) was wholly neglected in the study conducted by Mark Edward Lewis, Hans van Ess emphasizes that chap. 28 was written by Sima Qian with the intention of criticizing Emperor Wu, but he takes the textual parallel in chap. 12 as a later addition by someone else. See Lewis 1999: 50-80; van Ess 2002a; and also 2002b; the latter study is mainly focused on the relationship between Shiji 28 and Hanshu 25A. 43. Shiji 6.242: 9; cf. Watson 1993: 46. 44. Shiji 28.1394; Shiji 12.468: 嗟乎！吾誠得如黃帝，吾視去妻子如脫缢耳。See Schaab-Hanke 2002b: 167; 2002a: 305. 45. For an earlier study where I have examined more in detail how Emperor Wu was successively persuaded by what I have called “cosmologists” to proceed to the Feng and Shan Sacrifices, see Schaab-Hanke 2002a. 46. Cf. Shiji 28.1404: 4 (yi) versus Shiji 12.486: 4 (yan), see the translation above. 47. Shiji 130.3285-3321 (“Taishigong zixu” 太史公自序). 48. In his Suoyin commentary, Sima Zhen explicitly points out that it is the Gongyang zhuan to which the historiographer alludes here. See Shiji 130.3321: 9. 49. The “famous mountain” (mingshan 名山) is, according to the explanation given by Sima Zhen, an archive (shufu 書府). See Shiji 130.3321: 6. According to Wang Liqi, this term meant the official court library, as contrasted to the house of the scribe’s family in the capital. See Shiji zhuyi, 2791. In the opinion of others, e.g., Zhang Dake, the term might also point toward a private library, such as the scribe’s archive. See his Shiji xinzhu, 2175. 50. Shiji 130.3319: 14-3320, 1: 凡百三十篇，五十二萬六千五百字，為太史公書。序略，以拾遺 補蓺，成一家之言，厥協六經異傳，整齊百家雜語，藏之名山，副在京師，俟世聖人君子。 第七十。Cf. Watson 1958: 92. 51. Shiji 130.3321: 11. 52. For a previous essay on Sima Qian as the “second Confucius,” see Durrant 1995: 1-28. 53. What the Shiji author is a clear reminder of what we learn in Shiji 85 about the Lüshi chunqiu, with its eight lan, six lun, and twelve ji, in all more than 200,000 characters and which its compilator Lü Buwei exhibited at the market gates of Xianyang, announcing that if anyone were able to either add or remove one character of this text he would give him a thousand pieces of gold. See Shiji 85.251: 7-9. 54. See Assmann 1992: 105, where he defines a canon as “die Fortsetzung ritueller Kohärenz im Medium schriftlicher Überlieferung” (extension of ritual coherence by the medium of written transmission). 55. This is, of course, not to deny that there are many other passages in the Shiji that can likewise be adduced to point to the historiographer’s overall critical attitude. However, the hypothesis proposed here is that the Shiji author intentionally places his allusion to the Gongyang zhuan precisely in these five passages to alert his reader to be more attentive to some information given in the related chapters than he might otherwise have been. 56. See Shiji 6.238: 17-239: 5 (“Qin Shi Huang benji” 秦始皇本紀).

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57. Michael Puett has argued that, in the historiographer’s mind, only the first step of Emperor Wu’s grand project, his sacrificing on Mount Tai, was successful, while the next step, namely that of obtaining immortality, was not. See Puett (2001), esp. p. 202-204. 58. For the idea that an important aspect for Emperor Wu in abolishing the fiefs might have been a lesson drawn from the rebellion of the seven kings in 202, see Emmerich 1991: 116f; also see van Ess (forthcoming). 59. The role of Huangdi as the remote sage whom Emperor Wu seems to have emulated in his efforts to establish his new bureaucratic system has also been emphasized by Michael Puett 2001: 175. He writes that Emperor Wu was claiming that “the norm for succeeding dynasties to follow would not be enfeoffment but imperial centralization, and the organizing sage that such successors would try to emulate would be, Wudi hoped, himself. Empire was thus presented as the new norm, completely in accord with the divine and natural worlds.” 60. This is similar with what Jurij Kroll (1976) observed in his study on the impact of the Gongyang zhuan on the Shiji as a literary work and what he calls the Gongyang zhuan’s “Concept of Will.” 61. See Gongyang zhuan, Xuan 6.1; also referred to in Shiji 43.1782: 12; cf. Schaab-Hanke 2010a: 117f. 62. There has been much debate among Shiji specialists as to whether the historiographer’s criticism of Emperor Wu should be understood as a warning or rather as a final judgment. See, e.g., Hans van Ess (forthcoming), who argues that Sima Qian’s description of Qin Shi Huang’s unsuccessful attempt to proceed to Mount Tai was meant merely a warning addressed to Emperor Wu since, in his view, “nothing was obviously proven yet in Emperor Wu’s case at the time when Sima Qian was finishing his Shiji..” 63. Seen in this light, the doublet in chap. 12 which the Shiji author, as I have argued elsewhere, probably placed there intentionally, seems to show that Emperor Wu in the end turned out to be not the sage ruler of the Han that many had expected him to be. Perhaps Emperor Wu’s failure to obtain immortality was so central to the historiographer that all other events down to the end of his reign may have seemed to him not to be of any more importance. 64. See Durrant 1995: esp. his epilogue, 147. More precisely, Steve Durrant speaks of “Sima Qian’s mirror.” 65. For an earlier attempt at telling Tan from Qian on the basis of different exegetical attitudes, see Schaab-Hanke 2010a: 127-129. 66. For more details on the overall ideological frame of the Shiji as a basis trait that may be ascribed to Sima Tan as well as for more on the professional share of the probably three Sima in making preparations for Emperor Wu’s grand reforms, see Schaab-Hanke 2002b: 327-334, “The third of them—Sima Xiangru’s impact on Emperor Wu’s reforms.” 67. Shiji 130.3295, 12f: 今漢興，海內一統，明主賢君忠臣死義之士，余為太史而弗論載，廢天 下之史文，余甚懼焉，汝其念哉！Cf. Watson 1958: 49. 68. See, for example, the early identification of “Dong sheng” 董生 with Dong Zhongshu 董仲舒 made by Zhang Shoujie in his Zhengyi commentary, Shiji 1.47. 69. As for Sima Tan, he certainly knew and may also at times have made use of the Gongyang zhuan, as well as the Guliang zhuan as the third of the three main texts transmitting the ideas laid down in the Chunqiu text, but, as I have argued elsewhere in more detail, Sima Tan was in the first place a cosmologist, and in the second place an exegete who apparently gave preference to the Zuozhuan with its abundant material to make a good historical narrative with political ends. See Schaab-Hanke 2010a: 127-129 (“Sima Tan and Sima Qian—Two Distinct Exegetes?”). 70. Shiji 130. 3297, 8f: 余聞董生曰：『周道衰廢，孔為魯司寇，諸侯害之，大夫壅之。孔知言 之不用，道之不行也，是非二百四十二年之中，以為天下儀表，貶天子，退諸侯，討大夫， 以達王事而已矣。』Cf. Watson 1958: 50f. 71. See Schaab-Hanke 2010a: 122-126.

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72. Chunqiu fanlu, “Yuxu” 俞序, 6.4/24/17-18: 孔曰：『吾因其行事，而加乎王心焉，以為見之 空言，不如行事博深切明。』Cf. the translation by Gentz 2001: 501ff. It should be added that the authenticity of this chapter has been called into question by some, but the fact that the Shiji author quotes them as words he had heard from Dong Zhongshu might even be taken as an argument in favor of its authenticity. 73. There had been much debate on how this difficult passage of the Chunqiu fanlu should be rendered. See, e.g., the proposals by Li 1994: 354, and the discussion in Gentz 2001: 504, n. 18. 74. One further important point will, however, be added here, regarding the possibly farreaching political implication of that allusion to the Gongyang zhuan which we by now have been able safely to credit to Sima Qian rather than his father Tan. As has been mentioned in the beginning of this essay, in the context of our Gongyang zhuan passages to which Sima Qian alluded the author of the Gongyang zhuan is reflecting about the possible reasons why Confucius compiled the “Spring and Autumn” Annals, and he asks if “the Master himself took his delight in the way in which Yao recognized Shun.” The idea that precisely the theory of voluntary abdication of one ruler in favor of another mentioned here may have been a further central aspect of Dong Zhongshu’s teachings has been suggested by Gary Arbuckle. In his essay, he asks if Dong Zhongshu—very much different from the picture that common wisdom generally sketches of him as a kind of master ideologue supporting Emperor Wu in his ambitious plans to become a god- emperor himself—did in reality “perhaps look beyond the contemporary occupants of the throne to those who were destined to succeed them, believing he could predict the course of future history by the employment of some historical scheme?” See Arbuckle 1995: 586. Without providing a response to this he then turns to a Gongyang disciple in the second generation, Sui Hong, who “did indeed believe that the Han mandate had been terminated, a belief that led him to demand that Emperor Zhao (r. 87-74) abdicate in obedience to Heaven.” As for Sima Qian, there is, in my view, no evidence for any concrete ideas on his part that would suggest that Emperor Wu, too, should abdicate in favour of another ruler. However, it is important to note that when the later Zhaodi was still a child and Huo Guang who had been appointed by Emperor Wu to the position of a regent there was, as Arbuckle: 587, has also mentioned, “a good deal of evidence that a pedigree was being forged for him that ‘proved’ his descent from the Yellow Lord, and which would have justified his claiming the imperial throne as successor to the Han.” It is precisely this pedigree which has been added later by someone, probably Chu Shaosun, to chap. 20 of the Shiji. As I have argued in a previous study, Chu might have intended to alert the reader that Sima Qian’s son in law, Yang Chang, cherished the hope that Huo Guang would become Wudi’s successor. For the group around Huo Guang, see Schaab-Hanke 2003/2004: 227f, 239f. It thus seems that while there were no imminent political conclusions of the rhetorical tool of allusion used by Sima Qian, in the long run the allusion seems to have worked—at least in the heads of some—a bit like a ticking time bomb.

ABSTRACTS

This paper explores five passages in the Shiji in which the author addresses sages and superior men of later generations and encourages them to draw conclusions from the historical facts presented there. All five passages allude to one specific passage in the Gongyang zhuan, a text that transmits the teachings of Confucius relating to the “Spring and Autumn” Annals (Chunqiu). Under the entry relating to the 14th reign year of Duke Ai of Lu (481) in which the capture of a

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unicorn is recorded, the Gongyang commentary reports on Confucius’ reaction to this event: the arrival of this auspicious animal meant to him that the time had come to devote his work to sages and superior men of later generations. Closer examination of the five Shiji chapters in which the allusion to the Gongyang zhuan occurs reveals that they all discuss aspects related to the rule of a sage. These aspects are all—directly or indirectly—related to measures taken by Emperor Wu of the Han dynasty (r. 141-87), implying that this emperor can scarcely be regarded as a sage ruler. Importantly, in all five cases the intention behind this emperor’s deeds is given more weight than the deed itself. However, as will be argued, the historiographer’s critical assessment is more than merely a warning addressed to his emperor in the hope he might change his mind and become a sage ruler in the end. Rather, by using this allusion to the Gongyang zhuan the historiographer passes a final judgement on his own emperor, by devoting his work, very much like Confucius before him, only to the readers of a future generation. By doing so, the historiographer incurred the risk of being charged with high treason, but this did not prevent him from fulfilling the duty of an “excellent scribe” (liangshi), namely compiling a “true record” (shilu).

Cet article étudie cinq passages du Shiji dans lesquels l’auteur invite les sages et hommes de bien des générations futures à se référer aux données historiques qui y sont présentées. Ces cinq passages renvoient tous à un extrait spécifique du Gongyang zhuan, lequel expose l’enseignement dispensé par Confucius dans les Annales des Printemps et Automnes. Celles-ci font mention à la 14e année de règne du duc Ai de Lu de la capture d’une licorne, et le commentaire rapporte la réaction de Confucius à cet événement, qu’il aurait déchiffré comme un signe lui indiquant qu’il était désormais temps pour lui de se consacrer aux sages et aux hommes de bien des générations à venir. Un examen approfondi des cinq chapitres du Shiji dans lesquels se trouve une allusion au Gongyang zhuan montre que tous évoquent des éléments associés au règne d’un sage. Or, de tels éléments sont eux-mêmes liés, directement ou indirectement, aux mesures prises par l’empereur Wu de la dynastie des Han (qui régna de 141 à 87 av. J.-C.), suggérant ainsi que ce dernier ne peut guère être considéré comme un sage souverain. Il est remarquable que dans ces cinq cas, les intentions de l’empereur Wu revêtent plus d’importance que ses actes eux-mêmes. Pourtant, et c’est ce que l’article s’entend à démontrer, le point de vue critique de l’historiographe constitue plus qu’un simple avertissement formulé à l’empereur dans l’espoir de le voir changer et devenir en fin de compte un sage souverain. À travers ses allusions aux Gongyang zhuan, l’historiographe prononce un jugement définitif sur l’empereur en s’adressant en réalité, à l’instar de Confucius, aux lecteurs des générations futures. Ce faisant, il encourt l’accusation de haute trahison, sans pour autant que ce risque l’ait empêché de remplir son devoir de « scribe accompli » (liangshi), qui consistait à composer un récit véridique (shilu).

司馬遷在《史記》的“太史公曰”段落中五次提到期望世聖人君子藉由他所記錄的歷史事實發表 各自的論斷。這五處皆位於《春秋公羊傳》裡有關孔教導的記載：孔在得知魯哀公十四年“西 狩獲麟”之有 “吾道窮矣”之語，並自此致力於為“世聖人君子”撰寫編年史《春秋》。 本篇論文旨在對上述五篇引述“俟世聖人君子” 的相關章節進行細致的文本分析。作者分析表 明，凡太史公提及《公羊傳》之處，所論內容都與聖人統治的理想相關，而且又都直接或者 間接地關係到對漢武帝的衡量 ——太史公實際上暗示，這個皇帝基本上不能算作聖君。值得注 意的是，太史公更多地著墨於漢武帝行為背的目的，而非其行為本身。基於這樣的分析，本 文作者認為：太史公作為歷史書寫者流露出來的對漢武帝的評判，其目的不在於提供警示性 的諫言，以期其最終成為聖君，而在於傳達他本人對漢武帝的最終評價。正如孔在“吾道窮 矣”的心態下寫作《春秋》一樣，太史公要在其著作中將歷史事實紀錄下來以供世讀者評判。 從這個意義上說，太史公雖然冒著“欺君叛上”的風險，但仍在《史記》中采用了影射性的修辭 手段，以履行“良史”之責, 秉筆直書撰寫“實錄”。

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AUTHOR

DOROTHEE SCHAAB-HANKE Dorothee Schaab-Hanke was born in 1962; studied sinology at the University of Hamburg; Master degree (1989), PhD dissertation (1993) and habilitation (2004) in Hamburg; from 1996 to 2002 Assisting Professor in Hamburg; teaching experience at several universities in Germany and abroad; one of her major fields of research is the historiography of Han times and especially that of the Shiji.

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III. Stories and Slogans as Rhetorical Tool De l’exploitation rhétorique des slogans et historiettes

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Tilting Vessels and Collapsing Walls —On the Rhetorical Function of Anecdotes in Early Chinese Texts1 Vases qui basculent, murs qui s’effondrent — De la fonction rhétorique des anecdotes en Chine ancienne 欹器與壞城——論中國古代軼事文學的修辭功效

Paul van Els

Introduction

1 Texts from early China (roughly: the first half a millennium BCE) are teeming with anecdotes. They tell us what happened to a foolish farmer, an adulterous spouse, or other unnamed people, but more often they relate events involving actual historical persons, mentioned by name. Take, for instance, this anecdote about Duke Huan of Qi (7th c. BCE) and his wise wheelwright, as recorded in the book Master Zhuang (Zhuangzi): Duke Huan was reading a book in his hall when a wheelwright named Flat, who was chiseling a wheel in the courtyard below the hall, put aside his mallet and chisel, walked up to the duke and asked him: “That book you are reading, may I ask whose words it contains?” Duke Huan replied: “These are the words of sages.” “Are these sages still alive?” asked wheelwright Flat. The duke replied: “No, they passed away long ago.” Wheelwright Flat continued: “In that case the book you read contains nothing but the dregs of ancient men!” Duke Huan shouted: “How dare you, a mere workman, make light of the book I read? You had better come up with a satisfying explanation, or else I’ll have you executed!” Wheelwright Flat replied: “You know, I look at it from the perspective of my craft. When I chisel a wheel, if the blows of the mallet are too hard, the chisel bites in and won’t budge. But if they’re too gentle, it slides and won’t take hold. Neither too gentle nor too hard is a finesse that springs forth from my heart and resonates in my hands. There is a trick to it that cannot be expressed in words. I cannot illustrate to my sons, as they cannot learn it from me. So I’ve gone along for seventy years and at my age I’m still chiseling wheels. And

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because the ancient men are long gone, along with the things they could not transmit, the book you read contains nothing but their dregs!”2 This is a typical example of an early Chinese historical anecdote. Following Gossman, I define historical anecdotes as short, freestanding accounts—“true” or invented—of events in Chinese history.3 These accounts may be appreciated for their literary quality or enjoyed for their entertainment value, but often they also convey a moral or philosophical message. The wheelwright’s elaboration on chiseling wheels, for instance, may serve as an argument for the limitations of language in transmitting one’s innermost qualities. It is no surprise, then, that anecdotes are often found in argumentative writings, such as Master Zhuang, for they make it easier to understand, accept, and remember an argument.4

2 Some early Chinese argumentative writings found creative use for anecdotes, namely as illustrations of canonical quotations. These are quotations from authoritative sources such as the Odes (shi), which are age-old poems and songs, or the Old Master (Laozi), who is revered as the founding father of Daoism. Books that use anecdotes in this creative manner include Master Han Fei (Han Feizi), notably the chapter “Illustrating the Old Master” (Yu Lao); Han’s Illustrations of the Odes for Outsiders (Han shi wai zhuan; also referred to as Illustrations for Outsiders for short); and The Master of Huainan (Huainanzi), notably the chapter “Responding in Accordance with the Way” (Dao ying). The latter books are particularly interesting. These two works date from the same period (mid- second century BCE) in the Western Han dynasty (202 BCE-9 CE); they were both created by people in the highest echelons of society, who were well-acquainted with the emperor; and they use the same technique of combining anecdotes with canonical quotations. There is, however, one crucial difference. Whereas Han’s Illustrations of the Odes for Outsiders, as its title suggests, combines anecdotes with quotations from the Odes, The Master of Huainan combines them with sayings by the Old Master. In other words, two contemporaneous books apply the same technique, even using some of the same anecdotes, to different canonical sources. This merits an examination.

3 To be clear, I am not the first to note the link between the two books. Modern Chinese editions of The Master of Huainan often mention textual parallels with Illustrations for Outsiders in footnotes, and vice versa. Also, in her paper on anecdotal narrative and philosophical argumentation in The Master of Huainan, Queen briefly discusses the link with Illustrations for Outsiders.5 In this paper, I build on Queen’s analysis to further explore the intricate relationship between the two books. Based on select examples, I analyze how the anecdotes are made to work in their respective contexts. That is, how the anecdotes help in understanding the canonical quotations; how those quotations, conversely, determine the reader’s understanding of the anecdotes; and how the combination of the two serves as a powerful rhetorical device to promote one’s world- view in the competitive politico-philosophical arena of the Western Han dynasty.

Two Western Han books

4 Han’s Illustrations of the Odes for Outsiders is named after Han Ying (200?-120? BCE), the influential academician from the north-eastern state of Yan, who worked at the imperial court in Chang’an under Emperor Wen (r. 179-157 BCE). During the reign of Emperor Jing (r. 157-141 BCE), he served as the senior tutor to the emperor’s youngest son. Later, in discussions with the famous scholar Dong Zhongshu (179?-104? BCE), held

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in the presence of Emperor Wu (r. 140-87 BCE), he proved to be the superior debater. Han Ying wrote commentaries on the Changes (yi), but he was primarily known as one of the leading Odes interpreters of his days. His name is associated with one of the distinct Odes traditions in Han times. The school headed by Han Ying produced several commentarial and exegetical works on the Odes, one of them being Illustrations for Outsiders.6 It has been suggested that the word “outsiders” (wai) in the title indicates that the book was intended for a general audience.7 This is plausible, as long as we keep in mind that “general audience” does not mean “dummies.” Illustrations for Outsiders is no Odes for Dummies, because as we shall see further on in this paper, a solid understanding of the Odes is a prerequisite for appreciating Han Ying’s book. In its received form, the book presents over three hundred “anecdotes, moral disquisitions, prescriptive ethics and practical advice, each entry normally concluding with an appropriate quotation from the [Odes].”8 As a collection of illustrative examples of the Odes put to use, the main purpose of Illustrations for Outsiders appears to be pedagogical rather than exegetical.9 Hightower puts the composition of this “textbook” around 150 BCE, but Brooks maintains that it took over a decade, between 145 BCE to 130 BCE, for the book to be completed.10 In my view, these years are helpful as global indicators, not as firm cutoffs, because the evidence is circumstantial at best. Han Ying is generally seen as the author of the work, if only because it is scarcely conceivable someone would forge this heterogeneous collection.11 However, the received text is defective, and the degree in which it corresponds to the text created around 140 BCE (give or take a decade) is unclear.12

5 The Master of Huainan is written under the auspices of Liu An (179?-122 BCE), who headed the southern kingdom of Huainan. The king is known to have hosted at his court scholars who collected materials from older sources to compile this voluminous treatise. In 139 BCE, Liu An reportedly presented it to his teenage nephew, Emperor Wu, who had recently acceded to the imperial throne.13 Throughout history, the treatise was often labeled “heterogeneous” (za) because it draws on a wide range of sources, covers many topics, and displays various literary styles. However, as Le Blanc notes, one also “senses an indisputable stylistic and conceptual consistency running throughout the work.”14 Hence, recent decades witnessed a re-appraisal of The Master of Huainan. Without ignoring internal discrepancies, scholars nowadays emphasize the integral nature of Liu An’s work. While the text now comes in various different editions, evidence suggests continuous transmission from its completion in 139 BCE to the present.15 In other words, the received text probably corresponds to a considerable degree with the work Liu An proudly bestowed upon the emperor.16

6 Both Illustrations for Outsiders and The Master of Huainan took shape in a climate marked by heated political debate. History books recount struggles between those labeled “Yellow-Old” (huang-lao), who took their inspiration from the Yellow Emperor and the Old Master, and those labeled “Classicists” (ru).17 Their views differed widely, for instance on how to deal with foreign tribes, feudal kings, or rich merchant families and landowners.18 Several politicians of that period were reportedly tried or thrown into a pen to fight with pigs for having the “wrong” opinion.19 Even if overdramatized, such accounts signal fierce clashes between competitive views. It is scarcely believable that Han Ying and Liu An would have been unaware of the contemporary political climate. If they were aware, as I hold, their creative use of commonly shared anecdotes may be seen as a way for them to promote their worldview without coming across as offensive.

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7 Both Illustrations for Outsiders and The Master of Huainan are replete with anecdotes. Few, if any, of these anecdotes are original, that is, created by Han Ying or Liu An. Rather, they are borrowed from a wide range of earlier sources. An important source for Han Ying was Master Xun (Xunzi). One in every six sections in his Illustrations seems to derive from that book. Liu An was more inclined to Springs and Autumns of Mr. Lü (Lü shi chunqiu), as many sections in The Master of Huainan have parallels in that book.

8 Illustrations for Outsiders consists in its entirety of short passages, each coupled with an epitomizing tag drawn from the Odes. The Master of Huainan contains one chapter that does the same. That chapter, titled “Responding in Accordance with the Way,” consists of fifty-six anecdotes coupled with sayings by the Old Master. The two texts combine anecdotes and quotations in a similar way, and even share seven anecdotes:

Sections with similar anecdotes in Illustrations for Outsiders and chapter 12 of The Master of Huainan

Illustrations for Outsiders The Master of Huainan

3.21 = 12.32

3.30 = 12.55

5.6 = 12.18

6.25 = 12.24

7.10 = 12.19

7.12 = 12.33

10.23 = 12.13

9 Three shared anecdotes (marked in boldface) are selected for discussion in this paper. Their textual parallels display remarkable similarities and striking differences, as the following discussion shows.

The collapsing wall

10 The Odes, the main focus of Han Ying’s Illustrations for Outsiders, are poems and songs composed in the first part of the Zhou dynasty (roughly: 10th-7th c. BCE). They were popular in elite circles for many centuries, perhaps in part because they were thought to have been collected by none other than Master Kong (Kongzi, 551-479 BCE), better known as Confucius. Not all Odes are easily understandable. One Ode, for instance, sings the praises of King Xuan of Zhou (r. 827-781 BCE), who launched a military campaign against the rebellious region of Xu. The final stanza of the Ode describes what happened when the king and his troops finally reached Xu: The king’s intentions were true and sincere, and the region of Xu submitted at once. That the region of Xu at once complied, is an achievement of the Son of Heaven. All four quarters were at once brought to order,

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and the leaders of Xu appeared before the king. They would not again change their minds, and the king said: “Let us return.”20 The opening lines of this stanza suggest that the leaders of Xu instantly capitulated once they became aware of the king’s noble intentions. From a military-strategic viewpoint this is quite an achievement, as it normally takes more than being “true and sincere” (yun se) to force a surrender. Sure enough, the previous stanzas vividly describe how the king brought not only noble intentions but also a fearsome army, which may have played a role in Xu’s capitulation. This stanza, however, appears to attribute the surrender of Xu exclusively to the king’s moral disposition, not his military might.

11 Odes expert Han Ying may have received questions about this stanza, for he explains the opening lines in no less than three sections of Illustrations for Outsiders. In the first section (6.23), he argues that enlightened rulers practice “benevolence” (ren), establish “righteousness” (yi), offer sincere “instructions” (jiao), and deeply “care” (ai) for others, whereupon those others gladly serve them in return. In the next section (6.24), he suggests that all the people in the world readily associate themselves with rulers who attain the acme of “sincere virtue” (cheng de). In the third section (6.25), he illustrates the opening lines of the stanza as follows: Long ago, when Zhao Jianzi had passed away, the city of Zhongmou revolted before he was even buried.21 Five days after the funeral, his son Xiangzi raised an army to attack Zhongmou. Before the city was completely surrounded, a one-hundred-foot section of the city wall collapsed without apparent reason. Xiangzi then beat the gong to withdraw his troops. An officer disagreed: “When you were punishing the wrongdoings of Zhongmou, its city wall collapsed without apparent reason. This is a sign that Heaven supports your cause. Why, then, are you withdrawing your troops?” Xiangzi replied: “I have learned that Shuxiang once said this: ‘A superior man does not impose on those who are in luck, nor does he threaten those in distress.’22 Have them repair their wall, after which we will attack them.” The people of Zhongmou realized how just he was and begged to surrender, exclaiming: “How excellent, these words of Xiangzi!” ◊ As the Ode says: “The king’s intentions were true and sincere, and the region of Xu submitted at once.”23 This section consists of two parts—anecdote and quotation—separated by a diamond sign in the English translation. Han Ying links the potentially troublesome lines in the Ode to an anecdote about a similar event, that is, an event he apparently deems similar. The anecdote describes how Zhao Xiangzi (5th c. BCE) offered his opponents in a fair chance when he attacked the rebellious city of Zhongmou. He thereby showed his noble character, which prompted the inhabitants of Zhongmou to voluntarily surrender. The anecdote here serves to corroborate the idea that people who were originally keen on leaving their ruler, are likely to renew their allegiance once they realize how noble he actually is. The Ode expresses this idea in an enigmatic way that is liable to raise questions. The anecdote describes it in a more detailed and plausible way. Plausible not necessarily from a historical perspective, but from a literary perspective. In other words, regardless of whether or not the event in Zhongmou took place as described, as a story it is quite believable. After all, one easily relates to the inhabitants of Zhongmou: who would not want to surrender to a noble person? Hence, by linking the story of the collapsing wall to the quotation, Han Ying borrows the credibility of the anecdote to augment that of the Ode. This section (6.25), in combination with the two aforementioned sections (6.23 and 6.24), suggest that the Ode is right in attributing the surrender of Xu to the king’s moral disposition.

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12 The Odes are easily rivaled in popularity and opacity by the Old Master. Sayings ascribed to this elusive (now generally considered mythical) figure were popular from the earliest times, as evidenced by recently excavated manuscripts. Through the ages, his sayings inspired numerous commentaries, because many sayings are abstruse. Take, for instance, this passage: Curved, then preserved. Bent, then straightened. Hollow, then filled. Worn, then renewed. Few, then obtained. Plenty, then perplexed. That is why the sage by embracing the One remains a model for the world. He does not show off, and so he shines. He does not promote himself, and so he becomes illustrious. He does not boast of himself, so he achieves. He does not glorify himself, so he endures. He just does not strive, and so no one in the world can strive with him. When the ancients said: “curved, then preserved,” were these empty words?! Indeed, fully preserved he identifies with them.24 This is just one of many possible translations, as the passage poses significant interpretative challenges. For instance, what does it mean that the sage “just does not strive”? In The Master of Huainan this is illustrated as follows: When Zhao Jianzi had died, the city of Zhongmou shifted its allegiance to the state of Qi before he was even buried. Five days after his funeral, his son Xiangzi raised troops to attack Zhongmou. Before the city was completely encircled, a one- hundred-foot section of the city wall collapsed without apparent reason. Xiangzi then beat the gong to withdraw his troops. An officer disagreed: “When you were punishing the wrongdoings of Zhongmou, its city wall collapsed without apparent reason. This is a sign that Heaven supports us. Why, then, abandon the attack?” Xiangzi replied: “I have learned that Shuxiang once said:‘A superior man does not impose on those who are in luck, nor does he pressure those in distress.’ Let them repair their walls. Once the walls have been repaired, we will attack them.” When the people of Zhongmou realized how just he was, they begged to surrender. ◊ As the Old Master says: “He just does not strive, and so no one in the world can strive with him.”25 By linking the enigmatic words of the Old Master to the anecdote of the collapsing wall, this section in The Master of Huainan presents Xiangzi as a sage who does not strive. If Xiangzi were in a striving mode and had eagerly taken advantage of the wall’s collapse, he may have won Zhongmou’s territory but not necessarily the sympathy of its inhabitants. Instead, by making it abundantly clear—in deed as well as in word—that he was in no hurry to seize Zhongmou, Zhongmou gratefully allowed itself to be seized by him. Without taking any purposive action, Xiangzi achieved what he had set out to achieve. With Zhongmou placated and a significant boost in his “approval ratings,” no one in the world could compete with him, or so this section suggests.

13 The two sections in Illustrations for Outsiders and The Master of Huainan are deceptively simple in their setup. One anecdote. One quotation. That is all. Yet beneath this simple setup hides a complex web of assumptions, interpretations, and manipulations.

14 One major assumption in both texts is that the anecdote is “true.” That is, neither text questions the historicity of the event. This is particularly interesting in Han Ying’s account, which contains an obvious anachronism. When the inhabitants of Zhongmou rejoice about Xiangzi’s speech, they refer to this man—who was very much alive at the

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time!—by his posthumous name. Historicity may have mattered to the users of anecdotes, Schaberg notes, “but as a complement to rhetorical aims rather than as a goal in its own right. The details of events often drifted and changed as an anecdote was retold over the centuries, and there is little to suggest that discrepancies of this kind troubled Warring States and early Han writers.”26 The way in which the anecdote of the collapsing wall is presented here, without any introduction or explanation, indeed suggests that its historicity was accepted in the milieu of Han Ying and Liu An. They seem to expect that their readers accept, or would readily accept, the anecdote as true. In a way, Han Ying and Liu An even helped to increase the perceived historicity of the anecdote. When people of high status (Han Ying, Liu An) combine the anecdote with a canonical source (Odes, Old Master) and place the resulting combination in a book with numerous similar examples, the anecdote automatically becomes part of a large web of assumed truths.

15 The simple collocation of an anecdote and a quotation through mutual influence results in a specific reading of both. For starters, the anecdote illustrates the quotation in a way that may differ from other interpretations.

16 Liu An illustrates the Old Master’s saying “He just does not strive” with an anecdote showing what “not striving” means in a military-strategic context. The person who goes by the name of Gentleman of the Riverside (Heshang gong) takes a different approach. In his commentary on The Old Master, he merely points out that not one person, whatever their status, is a match for someone who does not strive. Wang Bi (226-249), another famous commentator of the Old Master’s sayings, does not comment on the sentence at all. Hence, Liu An may not offer a spectacular new interpretation of the Old Master’s saying, but the anecdote does force upon it a unique reading.

17 Han Ying’s interpretation of “the king’s intentions were true and sincere, and the region of Xu submitted at once” echoes a reading found in Master Xun. That text, however, embeds the quotation of the Odes in a passage on trustworthiness (xin). It argues that tallies (fujie) or contracts (qiquan), as means of guaranteeing trust and good faith, are abstract and not heart-felt. Rulers had better implement ritual and propriety, promote the worthy and employ the capable, and have no heart set on profit. They will then be trusted by the people, who submit to them without having to be subjugated first.27 Han Ying’s version essentially claims the same, but without the tallies or contracts and without the specific advice on what the ruler ought to do.

18 Whereas the anecdote creates a unique reading of the quotation, the quotation conversely forces a specific interpretation onto the anecdote. Different quotations yield different interpretations of the anecdote. Those who follow Han Ying see the anecdote as an example of the importance of being true and sincere. Those who follow Liu An, on the importance of non-striving.

19 Han Ying and Liu An present the anecdote, the quotation, and their combination as unquestionably true. Still, the combination only works because both authors covertly manipulate the reader. Han Ying uses the anecdote to show that people yield to moral supremacy, not military might, but he conveniently ignores the fact that the ruler in the anecdote also brought an army. Liu An emphasizes the importance of non-striving, but glosses over the fact that the ruler in the anecdote did strive to quell Zhongmou. Hence, the anecdote and the quotation work only when certain details are overlooked. Let us now have a look at other examples to see how Han Ying and Liu An manipulated anecdotes and quotations to get their message across.

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The wise wheelwright

20 This paper started with an anecdote from Master Zhuang about a ruler and his wheelwright. The story also occurs in Illustrations for Outsiders: King Cheng of Chu was reading a book in the main hall of his palace, when a wheelwright named Flat, who was in the courtyard below, stepped up into the hall and asked him: “I’d like to know whose writings Your Majesty is reading.” King Cheng replied: “The writings of ancient sages.” Wheelwright Flat continued: “These are really nothing but the dregs of the ancient sage-kings! They are not the best of what they had to offer.” “What makes you say this?” asked King Cheng. Wheelwright Flat said: “Let me clarify it through my work as a wheelwright. Look, to make circles with a compass or squares with a carpenter’s square, now those are skills I can hand down to my sons and grandsons. But when it comes to joining three pieces of wood into one, this kind of artistry resonates from my heart and moves my limbs. It is something that cannot be successfully transmitted. That is to say that all that is transmitted, is really nothing but dregs.” ◊ Hence, the models of sage-kings Yao and Shun can be successfully examined, but we cannot attain the way in which they illuminated the hearts of their fellow human beings. ◊ As the Ode says: “The doings of High Heaven have neither sound nor smell.” ◊ So who can attain them?28 This section consists of four parts: anecdote, argument connective, quotation, argument connective, respectively. The anecdote is somewhat different from the one in Master Zhuang. In that book, the wheelwright converses with Duke Huan of Qi and their discussion is both lengthier and fierier. For instance, in Master Zhuang the ruler understandably flies into a rage after the wheelwright’s insulting remark about the dregs of the ancients, but in Illustrations for Outsiders he merely impassively asks “What makes you say this?” Given that people of lowly status often voice profound wisdom in Master Zhuang, the wheelwright anecdote probably originates in that book and Han Ying then borrowed it to illustrate a line from the Odes. If this scenario aptly describes the direction of borrowing, it remains unclear why Han Ying changed the ruler to King Cheng of Chu (7th c. BCE) or even why he chose this particular anecdote, as the link with the Ode is far from evident. After all, the anecdote does not mention High Heaven, let alone that it has no sound or smell. To understand the link, we may have to take a closer look at the Ode. The Ode referred to here describes how the founder of the Zhou dynasty, King Wen (11th c. BCE), through his splendid virtue acquired the Mandate of Heaven (tian ming), or the right to rule the world. The Ode also warns King Wen’s successors to emulate his example, for otherwise they may end up losing the Mandate. The closing stanza of the Ode reads: The Mandate is no easy accomplishment, so make sure it does not end with you! Let your good name shine all around, and verify it in the light of Heaven. The doings of High Heaven, have neither sound nor smell. Emulate King Wen, this will make the myriad regions have confidence in you.29 The Ode, supposedly written shortly after King Wen had passed away, explains that the Mandate of Heaven is not permanent. The rulers of the preceding era, the Shang dynasty, eventually lost the right to rule, and the descendants of King Wen may likewise at some point be out of Heaven’s favor. Only if they cultivate their virtue and

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emulate their exemplary ancestor, this stanza warns, will they be able to preserve the Mandate of Heaven.

21 The link between anecdote and Ode appears to be that both speak of younger generations learning from those who came before them, be they exemplary statesmen or masterful craftsmen. The link seems somewhat forced, given that the Ode encourages King Wen’s offspring to emulate his splendid example to preserve the dynasty, whereas the anecdote maintains that sage-kings and gifted artisans are inimitable. Later generations may read the writings of the sages or learn the techniques of a master carpenter, but the unique ways in which the gifted forebears put these writings and techniques into practice cannot be reproduced.

22 Han Ying must have been aware of the friction between anecdote and Ode, for he added what I would call “argument connectives.” Much like discourse connectives (such as “therefore,” “moreover,” or “however”), that link parts of a discourse and show their relationship, argument connectives link parts of an argument and show their relationship. The first connective is the sentence “Hence, the models… human beings.” This sentence agrees with the Ode that the models of sage-kings can be studied, but it also acknowledges the anecdote’s insight that ordinary human beings cannot attain the way in which they inspired others. In other words, Han Ying bridges the two by saying that someone’s words and deeds can be copied, but not the effect they have on other people. Even if two people say or do exactly the same, the effect will still be different. The second connective, in the last line of the section, uses the verb “to attain” (ji). It connects the line from the Ode to the previous connective, which uses the same verb, and hence to the anecdote, thereby creating a structurally consistent textual unit. As a whole, the section appears to say that people ought to emulate successful examples, but whether or not they attain the same successes cannot be predicted, for this is determined by High Heaven, whose workings are shrouded in mystery. The section may be structurally consistent, but it took Han Ying two argument connectives to achieve this. It seems that the number of argument connectives is inversely proportional to the clarity of the link between anecdote and Ode. The clearer the link, the fewer argument connectives are needed to make the section consistent.

23 Liu An also uses the wheelwright anecdote. In his version, which is analogous to the account in Master Zhuang, the story takes place at the court of Duke Huan: Duke Huan was reading a book in his hall when a wheelwright, who was chiseling a wheel in the courtyard below the hall, put aside his mallet and chisel, and asked him: “That book you are reading, who wrote it?” Duke Huan replied: “These are the writings of sages.” “Are these men still alive?” asked wheelwright Flat. The duke replied: “No, they are already dead.” Wheelwright Flat continued: “Then these are nothing but the dregs of the sages!” Red with anger, Duke Huan shouted: “How dare you, a mere workman, make light of the book that I read? You had better come up with a satisfying explanation, or else I’ll have you executed!” Wheelwright Flat replied: “Fine, I have an explanation. Let me try to explain it through my work of chiseling wheels. When I chisel a wheel, if the blows of the mallet are too hard, the chisel bites in and won’t budge. But if they’re too gentle, it slides and won’t take hold. Neither too gentle nor too hard is a finesse that springs forth from my heart and resonates in my hands. This kind of finesse I cannot teach to my sons, as they cannot learn it from me. So I’ve gone along for sixty years and at my age I’m still chiseling wheels. Now, as for what the sages said, they too kept what really mattered close to their hearts, leaving behind only dregs when in the end they died.” ◊ As the Old Master says: “Ways, if they can be used as a way, are not the constant Way. Names, if they can be used as a name, are not the constant Name.”30

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This passage consists of two parts, anecdote and quotation. There are no argument connectives between the two, perhaps because the link is more clear. The Old Master distinguishes between the constant Way (chang dao) and ordinary ways (dao). By parallel, the wheelwright anecdote distinguishes between the finesse of wheel-making and the teachable aspects of workmanship. Much like the constant Way is too profound to be used as an ordinary way or method, the finesse of wheel-making is too personal to be taught. Liu An’s interpretation appears to be consistent with readings of early commentators. For example, the Gentleman of the Riverside explains that “ways of canonical techniques and political instructions” are not “the Way of spontaneity and longevity.”

24 In Master Zhuang the wheelwright anecdote occurs amidst other short stories, which apparently have an intrinsic value both individually and as a whole. In Illustrations for Outsiders and The Master of Huainan it is additionally combined with a quotation from a canonical source. Han Ying and Liu An also agree on the basic message that the anecdote expresses: certain things are too profound to be known by ordinary humans. However, there is a clear difference between the two. Liu An is fortunate that language, particularly written language, is frowned upon as a transmitter of profound knowledge in both Master Zhuang (the probable source of the anecdote) and The Old Master (the source of the quotation). All Liu An had to do, was to find a combinable anecdote and quotation. Han Ying’s task was more complex, as he tries to combine an anecdote that dismisses the writings of ancient sages as dregs, with an Ode that encourages people to emulate a sage-king. Using argument connectives for clarity, he creates the message that while the genius of High Heaven and the ancient sage-kings may be inaccessible for mere mortals, they can (and should!) learn the models set by those sages. In sum, this example shows how one anecdote can be used to promote widely differing ideas.

The tilting vessel

25 One final example involves the so-called “tilting vessel” (yi qi), a curious object that leans at an angle when empty and turns over when filled with liquids. It finds its origins in agriculture, where “the use of the vessel in irrigation was driven by its ability to deliver a constant, low-flow stream of water, without the attention of the farmer.”31 Intrigued elites adopted the irrigation device for its symbolic meaning. Placed at the side of the ruler’s mat, it warned him against excess. The tilting vessel is therefore also known as “vessel on the right of the seat” (you zuo zhi qi) or “warning goblet” (you zhi).

26 One anecdote about the curious object occurs in several early Chinese texts, including Master Xun, Garden of Persuasions (Shui yuan), School Sayings of Confucius (Kongzi jiayu), Master Wen (Wenzi), as well as in the two texts under discussion in this paper. It tells how Confucius once spotted the vessel in a temple, demonstrated its workings to his disciples, and explained the wise lesson that can be drawn from the vessel. Here is how the anecdote occurs in Illustrations for Outsiders: Confucius once paid a visit to the ancestral temple of the Zhou, where they had a vessel that leaned at an angle. Confucius questioned the temple caretaker about it: “What is that vessel called?” The caretaker replied: “This, I believe, is the vessel that sat on the right.” Confucius said: “I have learned about the vessel on the right. If full, it turns over. If empty, it leans at an angle. If half full, it stands upright. Is this true?” “Indeed,” replied the caretaker. Confucius then had his disciple Zilu bring water to try it out. Full, it turned over. Half full, it stood upright. Empty, it

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leaned at an angle. Confucius heaved a sigh and said: “Ah, does it ever happen that complete fullness does not lead to overturning?” Zilu said: “May I ask if there is a way to maintain complete fullness?” Confucius said: “The way to control fullness is to repress and diminish it.” Zilu said: “Is there a way to diminish it?” Confucius said: “If your influence is broad and deep, you should preserve it with reverence. If your territory spreads far and wide, you should preserve it with frugality. If your earnings are ample and your rank high, you should preserve them with servility. If your people are many and your weapons strong, you should preserve them with timidity. If your perception is sharp and your knowledge deep, you should preserve them with stupidity. If your learning is broad and your memory strong, you should preserve them with austerity. Now this is what I mean by repressing and diminishing.” ◊ As the Ode says: “Tang was born at the right moment, and his sagely reverence daily advanced.”32 Readers in our day and age may be surprised to learn that Confucius was apparently allowed to enter the royal ancestral temple and even toy with a funerary object. Probably this did not bother readers two-thousand years ago, because the anecdote occurs in several texts without any disclaimer regarding its historicity. In other words, we may safely assume that people at the time believed that Confucius’ temple visit had taken place as described.

27 What is even more perplexing about this version of the anecdote is the line from the Odes following it. The anecdote does not mention Tang, his birth, or the daily advancement of his sagely reverence, so the link with the Ode is unclear. Why, then, did Han Ying combine this particular anecdote with this particular line in the Odes? The Ode in question portrays the beginning of the Shang dynasty. One stanza describes how the Divine Being (di) appointed Tang (17th c. BCE) to be the dynasty’s founder. The stanza reads: The Divine Being’s mandate they never disobeyed, and by the time of Tang they were on a par with it. Tang was born at the right moment, and his sagely reverence daily advanced. Brilliant was the influence of his character for long. The Highest Being was what he respected, and the Divine Being appointed him to be a model to the nine regions.33 This stanza presents numerous interpretative difficulties.34 The most difficult line appears to be the one about Tang’s birth, at least judging by Illustrations for Outsiders, which features this line in no less than seven sections.35 One of these sections we have just read. Here are two more sections: Long ago, Tian Zifang went out and saw an old horse on the road. Sighing compassionately, he was so touched by it that he asked his driver: “What horse is this?” His driver replied: “That horse was bred by the ducal house. Now it is worn out and no longer used. That is why they let it go.” Tian Zifang said: “To use up an animal’s strength when it is young and then discard it when it is old, that is what no humane person would do.” With a bolt of silk he bought the horse. When poor gentlemen heard about this, they all knew to whom their hearts should turn. ◊ As the Ode says: “Tang was born at the right moment, and his sagely reverence daily advanced.”36 When Duke Zhuang of Qi went out hunting, there was a mantis that raised its legs and was about to strike the wheel of the ducal chariot. The duke asked his driver: “What insect is this?” The driver replied: “Now this is a mantis, an insect that typically knows only to advance, not to retreat. Without assessing its strength, it runs in scorn towards its opponents.” Duke Zhuang said: “If it were human, it would be one of the world’s bravest warriors!” At this he turned the chariot to avoid it and

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the bravest warriors rallied to him. ◊ As the Ode says: “Tang was born at the right moment.”37 The two anecdotes portray men whose empathy extends even to such lowly creatures as a pertinacious mantis or a worn-out horse. Recognizing the value of these animals, they let them live.38 When people became aware of the extent of their humility and empathy, they rallied to the two men. In Illustrations for Outsiders their stories are linked to the puzzling line in the Odes about Tang’s birth. The link implicitly suggests that Tang possessed those very same qualities. While the two anecdotes have nothing to do with Tang, through a mere collocation with the line in the Odes they can be used to explain why Tang was the right man to attract the crowds necessary to found a new dynasty. It seems to me that the tilting vessel anecdote serves the same purpose. It suggests that Tang possessed the qualities mentioned by Confucius (reverence, frugality, servility, and so on) and thereby was able to “maintain complete fullness,” that is, maintaining control over his fledgling dynasty while preventing his power from flowing away like water from the vessel. In sum, when taken out of context, the statement about Tang’s timely birth may not be entirely unclear, and even the tilting vessel anecdote alone is not all that helpful. Only after reading several relevant sections in Illustrations for Outsiders does it become clear that Han Ying is trying to portray Tang as an example of unsurpassed modesty, humility, kindness, and other qualities, which drew crowds of followers and justifies his founding of the Shang dynasty.

28 The tilting vessel anecdote also occurs in The Master of Huainan. Liu An is fortunate that the Old Master has a saying about “fullness” (ying), which makes for an apposite link with the anecdote. The anecdote itself, however, does pose somewhat of a problem to Liu An, as we shall now see: Confucius once paid a visit to the ancestral temple of Duke Huan, where there was a vessel called the Warning Goblet. “How wonderful to have a chance to see this vessel!” he exclaimed. Turning his head, he called out: “Disciples, go fetch some water!” When the water came, Confucius poured it into the vessel. When the vessel was half full, it remained upright, but when filled completely, it turned over. Confucius’expression instantly changed, and he exclaimed: “How wonderful, this object that illustrates the meaning of holding on to fullness!” Zigong, standing at his master’s side, asked: “May I ask what ‘holding on to fullness’ means?” Confucius replied: “What increases will decrease.” Zigong asked: “What does that mean?” Confucius replied: “Once things prosper, they decline. Once joy reaches a climax, it turns into sorrow. Once the sun reaches its zenith, it starts to set. Once the moon reaches its fullness, it starts to wane. That is why perspicacity and wisdom should be preserved with stupidity; erudition and eloquence should be preserved with restraint; military strength and courage should be preserved with timidity; expansive wealth and high standing should be preserved with frugality; and influence that stretches throughout the world should be preserved with courtesy. These five qualities are the means by which the former kings held sway over the world without losing it. Whoever goes against these five qualities, will always be in danger.” ◊ As the Old Master says: “If you submit to this Way, you do not want fullness. You just don’t aim to be full, and so you endure all wear with no need for renewal.”39 Similar to other versions of the anecdote (except Han Ying’s), the action takes place in the ancestral temple of Duke Huan, the ruler of Confucius’ home state of Lu. Unlike other versions, however, Liu An mentions only two stages of the vessel: half full and full. Logically speaking, filling a vessel involves three stages: empty, full, and anything in between. One would therefore reasonably expect the story to include the empty- stage. Other versions indeed mention the empty vessel, so why is it absent in The

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Master of Huainan? One could argue, as always, that the text is corrupt, but there may be more at play. In The Master of Huainan, emptiness (xu) is a philosophical concept with highly positive connotations. As Meyer explains, The Master of Huainan values empty spaces because “they embody the state of the cosmos at its origin and so retain the potential power and dynamism of that seminal moment” and it prizes an empty mind because it “affords an experience of the Way that forms the original baseline of consciousness.”40 In my view, a text that sets great store by emptiness would never claim that emptiness means clinging to one side, as does the tilting vessel. It thus appears that the empty-stage is absent for a reason.41

29 When two versions of a story distinctly differ from one another (three-stage vs two- stage vessel), questions regarding the direction of borrowing naturally arise. Lau, who studied all known versions of the anecdote, sees the “Daoist” version (e.g. The Master of Huainan) as the original anecdote, which was borrowed into “Confucian” writings (e.g. Illustrations for Outsiders) and transformed to suit their purposes.42 Lau’s main argument is that Confucian versions promote techniques of maintaining complete fullness, whereas the vessel’s overflowing serves to illustrate that fullness cannot be maintained. Lau sees this as an important inconsistency in the Confucian version. I see it differently. In Illustrations for Outsiders, Confucius suggests that complete fullness leads to overturning, whereupon his disciple asks if there might be a way to maintain complete fullness. Confucius answers affirmatively and explains how complete fullness can be maintained. To me this is consistent. If anything, I would argue that the version of The Master of Huainan is inconsistent, by praising the extraordinary object but failing to mention its essential characteristic, namely that it leans to a side when empty. I therefore find it more likely that the story circulated in a “Confucian” context and was later adopted by Liu An and modified to suit his purposes.

30 Irrespective of the actual direction of borrowing, the tilting vessel anecdote is an insightful example of how “a story which belonged originally to a particular school can come to be adopted, with modifications, by another,” as Lau wisely concludes.43 Han Ying uses the story of the three-stage tilting vessel to show how one can “maintain complete fullness,” with sage-king Tang as a shining example of someone who achieved this. Liu An uses the two-stage tilting vessel to illustrate how things reverse once they reach their climax, which he then couples with the Old Master’s warning not to strive for fullness. Amusingly, by linking the story of Confucius’ temple visit to a saying by the Old Master, Liu An has the Confucian sage illustrating the Daoist principle of submitting to the Way. Master Zhuang would have been delighted to read this.

Conclusion

31 Han Ying and Liu An exert themselves to create substantial bodies of meaningful combinations of anecdotes and quotations. Han Ying furnishes quotations with one or several anecdotes and adds argument connectives to clarify the link between the two. Liu An creatively adjusts anecdotes to suit his needs, as we have seen in the case of the tilting vessel. Why would they put in all this work to make the combinations of anecdotes and quotations work?

32 I would argue that the combinations, if done properly, serve as a powerful rhetorical device, to persuade audiences of the superiority of one’s worldview. While deceptively simple, the combinations work in several directions and on several levels.

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33 In one direction, anecdotes illustrate quotations from authoritative sources. When an Ode declares that the region of Xu surrendered after realizing the noble intentions of their opponent, Han Ying illustrates this with the account of a similar historical event to show that this kind of surrender is indeed possible. When the Old Master claims that one should not strive for fullness, Liu An illustrates this with the story of a peculiar vessel that empties out when filled to the brim. Illustrations for Outsiders and The Master of Huainan may not be commentaries in the strict sense, but their illustrations of canonical quotations do result in unique readings of the Odes and the Old Master, readings that differ from those of other interpreters. With these specific readings, Han Ying and Liu An implicitly suggest that they are the ones to be consulted by those who wish to learn about the Odes or the Old Master.

34 In the reverse direction, the quotations serve as the moral that can be drawn from historical anecdotes. Those who take advice from Han Ying are told that the events following the collapsed wall epitomize the importance of being true and sincere. Those who follow Liu An, however, learn that those very same events illustrate the principle of not striving. Similarly, to Han Ying the wheelwright anecdote shows that the workings of High Heaven are shrouded in mystery and that people ought to emulate their successful forebears, whereas to Liu An it shows that the ways people follow are not the constant Way. The anecdotes, as Hightower and other scholars have observed, were probably part of the public domain and could be used in compilations of widely divergent aims and purposes.44 In finding the most fitting quotation, Han Ying and Liu An implicitly suggest that the Odes or the Old Master, respectively, are most fitting to understand the historical setting described in the anecdote. In other words, they appropriate the anecdotes for the canonical source of their preference.

35 The combination of anecdote and quotation also works on a higher level, due to the sheer volume of combinations. The preceding sections discussed a mere three examples, which may not be all that impressive, but Illustrations for Outsiders and The Master of Huainan contain dozens and dozens of similar examples. The profusion of anecdotes presents a range of historical events so extensive that they cover a large part of human experience. In other words, for many events in the lives of humans, there exists a somewhat related anecdote. By linking the anecdotes to quotations from canonical sources, Han Ying and Liu An suggest that the Odes or the Old Master may serve as a guide for any possible situation. That is, they suggest that the Odes and the Old Master contain all the wisdom to face any type of situation. Liu An makes this explicit in the final chapter of The Master of Huainan, which describes the reason behind each chapter. For chapter 12, it says: “Responding in Accordance with the Way” selects from what remains of bygone events, and surveys what lasts from ancient times. It examines reversals of fortune and misfortune and verifies consistency with the methods of the Old Master and Master Zhuang, so as to combine these into strategic advantage in matters of gain and loss.45 According to this “mission statement,” Liu An and his team made a careful selection of historical events, examined their outcome, and verified them according to the methods of the Old Master and Master Zhuang.46 For example, in the case of the collapsing wall the outcome was fortunate for Xiangzi, who won Zhongmou without a fight. This, according to Liu An, is consistent with the Old Master’s theory that no one can strive with those who themselves do not strive. The ultimate goal of the chapter, according to

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the mission statement, is to create strategic advantage in matters of gain and loss. The term “strategic advantage” (shi), as Ames translates it, is often used in military- strategic writings.47 This complex term involves the idea that reality is an intricate system of circumstances that constantly shift between two extremes (hot-cold, high- low, win-lose, and so on). Those who grasp the underlying principles are able to predict future circumstances and position themselves accordingly, thus having strategic advantage over adversaries. In Liu An’s usage, the historical anecdotes are the circumstances and the methods of the Old Master and Master Zhuang are the underlying principles required to predict and influence future circumstances. Illustrations for Outsiders may not include a similar mission statement, but it does use similar mechanisms. We may therefore assume that Han Ying’s purpose was similar to that of Liu An, except for his choice of canonical source.

36 On a final level, the combination of anecdotes and quotations shows not only the aptness of the respective canonical sources, but also of those who aptly made the combinations. In Illustrations for Outsiders and The Master of Huainan, Han Ying and Liu An display their erudite knowledge of history and literature, and their craftsmanship in combining the two. To put it differently, they present themselves as beacons of wisdom. We can take The Master of Huainan as an example, because the creation of this book is best known. Kern describes The Master of Huainan as the first “big book” of Han times, and its overall composition for, and presentation at, the imperial court of Emperor Wu must be seen as a forceful intervention into the politics and culture at the imperial court. Its textual unification of wide- ranging, diverse, and in fact mutually unrelated essays was the most magnificent summa of sagely advice for a young and ambitious emperor who found himself ruling over an only recently unified, and still highly precarious, empire.48 If The Master of Huainan was intended to be the most magnificent summa of sagely advice, then the person responsible for this work, Liu An, is the ultimate sagely advisor. As Kern writes, Liu An created The Master of Huainan to impress the young and ambitious Emperor Wu. His mastery of anecdotes and quotations displays his knowledge of historical events and canonical texts, and he uses these combinations to persuade his malleable nephew that he, Liu An, is to be consulted by those who wish to attain strategic advantage in matters of gain and loss. Mentioning the audience (in this case Emperor Wu) is important, because the masterful combination of anecdotes and quotations not only shows the superiority of the text in which they appear or the person who created this text, but also of the reader who recognizes and appreciates these connections. Hence, the combination of anecdotes and quotations brings together history and literature and results in a shared experience that involves texts, creators, and readers.

37 To conclude, many early Chinese historical anecdotes occur in more than one text, which suggests that they were part of the public domain in a literate culture that set much store by these brief accounts of historical events. In and of themselves, the anecdotes were apparently considered true and uncontroversial, which makes them useful for widely divergent aims and purposes, especially in times when voicing the “wrong” opinion could mean one’s life. Those who masterfully combine anecdotes with apposite quotations from canonical sources, turn these innocuous historical accounts into a powerful rhetorical device that helps to persuade others of the superiority of their worldview.

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APPENDIXES

Glossary ai 愛 Ban Gu 班固 Chang’an 長安 chang dao 常道 cheng de 誠德 chong 沖 dao 道 dao ying 道應 di 帝 Dong Zhongshu 董仲舒 Duke Huan of Qi 齊桓公 Emperor Jing of the Han dynasty 漢景帝 Emperor Wen of the Han dynasty 漢文帝 Emperor Wu of the Han dynasty 漢武帝 fujie 符節 Han Feizi 韓非子 Han gu 韓故 Han nei zhuan 韓內傳 Han shi wai zhuan 韓詩外傳 Han shu 漢書 Han shuo 韓說 Han wai zhuan 韓外傳 Han Ying 韓嬰 Heshang gong 河上公 Huainan 淮南 Huainanzi 淮南 huang-lao 黃老 ji 及 jiao 教 Jin 晉 juan 卷

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King Cheng of Chu 楚成王 King Wen of the Zhou dynasty 周文王 King Xuan of the Zhou dynasty 周宣王 Kongzi 孔 Kongzi jiayu 孔家語 Laozi 老子 Liu An 劉安 Lü shi chunqiu 呂氏春秋 qiquan 契券 ren 仁 ru 儒 Shang dynasty 商 shi 詩 shi 勢 Shui yuan 說苑 Tang 湯 tian ming 天命 wai 外 Wang Bi 王弼 Wenzi 文子 xin 信 Xu 徐 xu 虛 Xunzi 荀子 Yan 燕 Yang Shuda 楊樹達 yi 易 yi 義 ying 盈 yi qi 欹器 you zhi 宥卮 you zuo zhi qi 宥座之器

Yu Lao 喻老 yun se 允塞

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za 雜 Zhao 趙 Zhao Jianzi 趙簡子 Zhao Xiangzi 趙襄子 zheng 正 zhong 中 Zhongmou 中牟 Zhou dynasty 周 Zhuangzi 莊子

NOTES

1. This paper was written under the financial support of an Innovational Research Incentives Scheme grant from the Netherlands Organization for Scientific Research (NWO), for which I hereby express my gratitude. I am also grateful to Romain Graziani, Rens Krijgsman, Burchard Mansvelt Beck, Yuri Pines, and the reviewers of Extrême-Orient, Extrême-Occident for their helpful questions and suggestions. The paper is interspersed with passages from Chinese texts in English translation. All translations are my own, but I owe a debt of gratitude to earlier translators of these texts (mentioned in the notes). 2. Guo 2000: 278-279. Cf. Watson 1968: 152-153. 3. Gossman 2003: 143. 4. Writings ascribed to Master Zhuang and other thinkers are often labeled “philosophical.” In view of the controversial issue as to whether or not Chinese philosophy exists, as described by Defoort (2001) and others, I prefer to call them argumentative writings instead. 5. Queen 2008: 207-208. 6. Ban Gu (1962: 1703, 1708, 3613-3614) mentions Han’s Persuasions (Han shuo), Han’s Stories (Han gu), Han’s Illustrations for Insiders (Han nei zhuan), and Han’s Illustrations for Outsiders (Han wai zhuan). The first two of these works are no longer extant. The last two works, scholars suspect, may have been combined into one, because the Han dynasty imperial library catalogue lists them as consisting of four and six “rolls of silk” (juan), respectively, and the received text of Han’s Illustrations of the Odes for Outsiders counts ten chapters. Yang Shuda, James Hightower, and Bruce Brooks offer different explanations of how the two books were combined. For a discussion, see Brooks (1994: 4-11), who also suggests that Han’s Illustration for Insiders was created for those within the palace, more specifically for the emperor’s youngest son, and Han’s Illustrations for Outsiders for a wider audience. 7. Brooks 1994: 4-11. 8. Hightower 1993: 125. 9. Hightower 1948: 243, 263; Brooks 1994: 7. 10. Hightower 1993: 126; Brooks 1994: 11. 11. Hightower 1993: 126. 12. For more on Illustrations for Outsiders, see Hightower’s works (listed in the Bibliography). 13. Ban Gu 1962: 2145. 14. Le Blanc 1993: 189. 15. Le Blanc 1985: 53-69; Roth 1992: 55-78.

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16. For more on The Master of Huainan, see, for instance, the studies and translations by Ames, Le Blanc, Major, Roth, Vankeerberghen, and Wallacker (listed in the Bibliography). 17. Van Els 2003. 18. Van Ess 1993. 19. Sima Qian 1959: 1384, 3122-3123; Watson 1993: 24, 364. 20. Ruan 1982: 577. Cf. Legge 1876: 559; Waley 1996: 283. 21. Zhao Jianzi is the posthumous name of a head of the ministerial Zhao lineage within the state of Jin. While formally a minister of Jin, he was the de-facto ruler of the autonomous Zhao polity. Zhao Xiangzi is the posthumous name of his son. 22. Shuxiang was a worthy minister of the preceding generation. 23. Xu 1980: 231-233. Cf. Hightower 1952: 217-218. 24. Zhu 2000: 91-94. Cf. Chan 1963: 139; Lau 1963: 27; La Fargue 1992: 10. 25. Gao 1996: 197-198. Cf. Major et al. 2010: 457. The quotation is from chapter 22 in The Old Master. 26. Schaberg 2011: 398. 27. Knoblock 1990: 176-178. 28. Xu 1980: 174-175. Cf. Hightower 1952: 166-167. 29. Ruan 1982: 505. Cf. Legge 1876: 431; Waley 1996: 228. 30. Gao 1996: 196. Cf. Major et al. 2010: 453. The quotation is from chapter 1 in The Old Master. 31. Fried 2007: 163. Fried’s paper offers an insightful discussion of the vessel’s various uses, with illustrations of the object. 32. Xu 1980: 114-115. Cf. Hightower 1952: 111-113; Knoblock 1994: 244. 33. Ruan 1982: 626. Cf. Legge 1876: 640; Waley 1996: 321. 34. See, for instance, Legge 1876: 640, footnotes. 35. The seven sections are: 3.30, 3.31, 3.32, 8.30, 8.31, 8.32, and 8.33. 36. Xu 1980: 303. Cf. Hightower 1952: 287. 37. Xu 1980: 303-304. Cf. Hightower 1952: 288. 38. Early Chinese texts contain similar stories about Tang. For instance, one anecdote tells how Tang prevented a hunter from using a prayer that would make him catch all birds and instead taught him a prayer that would make him catch only the birds he needed, leaving other birds to live free. When it became known that Tang’s kindness extends even to the wildfowl, people changed over their loyalty to him. The anecdote of Tang and the birds occurs in Springs and Autumns of Mr. Lü (10/5.2) and The Master of Huainan (18). The latter mentions the three anecdotes of Tian Zifang, Duke Zhuang of Qi, and Tang together in one passage! That the first two anecdotes occur in the same succession in Illustrations for Outsiders leads Hightower (1952: 288, note 1) to suggest that Han Ying made use of The Master of Huainan. If that is the case, one wonders why Han Ying did not use the anecdote of Tang and the birds, which would be ideal to illustrate the line “Tang was born at the right moment” from the Ode. 39. Gao 1996: 209-210. Cf. Major et al. 2010: 480-481. The quotation is from chapter 15 in The Old Master. 40. Meyer 2010: 906-907. 41. There is a way to read the text as including the empty-stage. The sentence that I translate as “half full, it remained upright” is rendered by Lau (1966: 24) as “when it was empty it was in position.” Based on parallels in other texts, Lau sees zhong “middle, half full” as a loan for chong “empty” and he translates zheng as “in position.” The latter is a clever way of masking the fact that the empty vessel tilted. In other words, whether the vessel was upright when half full (my interpretation) or in position when empty (Lau’s interpretation), Liu An clearly cannot bear to mention that the vessel clung to one side when empty. This characteristic feature of the vessel is obviously incongruent with Liu An’s worldview. 42. Lau 1966. 43. Lau 1966: 31.

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44. Hightower 1948: 242. 45. Gao 1996: 371. Cf. Major et al. 2010: 854. 46. Mainly the Old Master, as only one anecdote in the chapter ends with a quotation from Master Zhuang. 47. Ames (1983) offers a detailed explanation of the term’s usage in The Art of Warfare. 48. Kern 2008.

ABSTRACTS

Early Chinese argumentative texts are full of historical anecdotes. These short accounts of events in Chinese history enhance the appeal of the text, but they also have an important rhetorical function in helping the reader understand, accept, and remember the arguments propounded in the text. In this paper I examine the rhetorical function of historical anecdotes in two argumentative texts of the Western Han dynasty (202 BCE-9 CE): Han’s Illustrations of the Odes for Outsiders and The Master of Huainan. These two texts found creative use for anecdotes, namely as illustrations of quotations from canonical sources. Through case studies of several combinations of anecdotes and quotations, I argue that the combinations serve to present the creators of these texts as beacons of knowledge with profound understanding of historical events and canonical literature, and with the necessary skills to fruitfully combine the two.

Les textes philosophiques de la Chine ancienne fourmillent d’anecdotes. Ces brefs récits d’événements historiques marquants n’ont pas seulement vocation à parer un texte d’un attrait supplémentaire, ils revêtent une fonction rhétorique de première importance, dans la mesure où ils aident le lecteur à comprendre, accepter et se remémorer les arguments mis en avant par ledit texte. Dans cet article, j’examine ce type de rhétorique dans deux textes des Han occidentaux (202 av. J.-C.-9 ap. J.-C.) : Les Illustrations Han des Odes à l’adresse des non-initiés (Hanshi waizhuan) et les Écrits du Maître de Huainan (Huainanzi). Ces deux textes font un usage original de l’anecdote, notamment afin d’illustrer des citations de sources canoniques. En m’appuyant sur l’étude de plusieurs types de combinaisons d’anecdotes et de citations, j’avance l’idée que de telles associations visent à présenter les auteurs de ces textes comme des guides du savoir, possédant une intelligence authentique autant des événements historiques que des textes canoniques, et dotés du talent nécessaire pour combiner les deux avec succès.

中國早期的論辯著作中總是充滿了各種各樣的歷史軼事。這些小故事增加了文本的吸引力， 然而它們更具有重要的修辭作用，即幫助讀者理解、接受並記住文中的觀點。本文討論了西 漢時期（公元前202年-公元9年）的兩部著作——《韓詩外傳》和《淮南》中歷史軼事的修辭作 用。它們創造性地使用歷史小故事來解釋其引用的經典文本。把一些歷史軼事與其所闡釋的 經典段落結合起來分析便可以看到，這種結合能夠反映出論文書寫人對當時知識的掌握，對 歷史事件與經典文學的深入了解，以及他們得以融合以上兩種文本的必要技能。

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AUTHOR

PAUL VAN ELS Paul van Els is associate professor of China Studies at Leiden University. His area of specialization is early Chinese thought, which includes thinkers, texts, and traditions from the Warring States period to the Han dynasty (roughly the first five centuries BCE). More information is available at www.paulvanels.nl.

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“People as Root” (min ben) Rhetoric in the New Writings by Jia Yi (200-168) La rhétorique de la « Primauté du peuple » (min ben) dans les Nouveaux Écrits de Jia Yi (200-168) “民本”：論賈誼（前200年-前168年）《新書》之修辭

Elisa Sabattini

AUTHOR'S NOTE

This paper was first presented at the conference “Rhetoric as a Political Tool in Early China,” Jerusalem, May 2011. I want to thank the conference participants, especially Romain Graziani and Yuri Pines, as well as Carine Defoort, Maurizio Scarpari and the two Extrême-Orient, Extrême-Occident reviewers, for their incisive comments and remarks on earlier drafts of this paper.

The origins of the question

1 The ancient Chinese expression min ben sixiang, usually translated as “the idea of the people as root,”2 experienced a revival in China starting from the early twentieth century, when it was introduced into the debate on democracy, and later into that on human rights, as a useful tool in the context of a modern political discourse.3 Seeking democratic seeds4 in past Chinese political thought, modern-day reformers and revolutionaries reinterpreted the idea of good government derived from “the people as root” (min ben) concept. The common interpretation of this expression, which usually has a positive connotation, is that it concerns the ruler’s responsibility for the people’s welfare and satisfaction. However, even though the belief that the people are the country’s underpinnings is part of pre-imperial and imperial thought, it was only in the

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early twentieth century that Chinese scholars raised “people as root” to the status of key concept in the country’s early political thinking.5 Even today, many scholars analyse the ideas of the “people as root” and “government for the people” in the context of the idea of popular sovereignty.6 Contemporary scholars also affirm that the existence of the notion of “people as root” might even testify to the existence of a sort of embryonic or potential democracy in ancient China.7 It is important to underline that the modern use of the term “democracy” is anachronistic and misleading not only because political and social conditions have changed since ancient Greece, but also because scholars tend to apply the modern and contemporary Western meaning to ancient China.

2 The debate is very lively even today, both in the West and in the East, and one of the results is that the “people as the root” of the country is considered one of the key concepts in Chinese political culture if not the most important.8 However, most scholars of ancient Chinese political thought are reluctant to endorse these equations.9 I aim to show that the notion of min ben can easily become a rhetorical device and a catchphrase used by persuaders from the past. The improper use of min ben today distracts from the varied and interesting nuances of its meanings, especially in early Han (206 BCE-9 CE) political rhetoric. With few exceptions neither the late Qing (1644-1911) revision of the notion of the “people as root” nor the contemporary analysis consider the work of Jia Yi (200-168 BCE).10

3 I will refrain from joining the discussion on “Confucian democracy,” and I will focus on the rhetorical expression of min ben in the “Great Command, Part I” (Da zheng shang) and “Great Command, Part II” (Da zheng xia) chapters of the New Writings (Xin shu)11 ascribed to Jia Yi, enfant prodige active at the court of Emperor Wen (r. 179-157 BCE). The conclusion shows that in the New Writings the appeal to “the people”12 was due to its “emotive connotation”13 rather than signifying a concrete set of people-oriented policies. It is my contention that the rhetorical strategy of changing the context or details, thus introducing a new “emotive meaning,” can be applied to the use of the term “people” as proposed by Jia Yi, viewing it as an instrument he uses to reassess the young Han imperial interests. The end result of these reflections is the rebuttal of the view that in some sense “the people” can be considered as prefiguring democratic ideals.

Rhetoric and its strategy

4 In ancient China, the period of the Warring States (453-221 BCE) led to a highly rhetorical form of argumentation that was practised by political counsellors and strategic advisors.14 Freedom of argument was commonplace and persuasion was thus a popular rhetorical pursuit. This period, which is considered to be the golden age for the production of written materials, was characterised by free expression and critical thinking. Right after the unification of the various states under the Qin empire (221-207 BCE), this situation, characterised by interstate diplomacy, no longer existed. From the former Han empire onwards, rhetoric as persuasion and argumentation was part of the reflections made by political counsellors’ on state policies and of the remonstrations made by ministers to their emperors. After the first decades of the Han empire, “intellectuals”15 were transformed from independent thinkers into state bureaucrats. It is in the early Han that intellectuals began to elevate the emperor above

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the rest of humanity.16 The power of the emperor directly affected the rhetorical style, so rhetoric was often an art of “criticism by indirection.”17 In addition, rhetoric as the art of “criticism by indirection” used by many official writings argues or praises with the intention of influencing the audience. We might surmise that those trying to persuade the emperor had to tread carefully: rhetoric could become a dangerous game or a death trap.

5 Jia Yi was a young erudite politically and intellectually active at the beginning of the Han dynasty. He was both the heir of pre-imperial discussion and one of the main figures in the rhetorical argumentation of the early imperial period. According to the Record of the Grand Historian (Shiji) and History of the Han (Hanshu), Jia Yi was an expert of the Odes (Shi) and Documents (Shu).18 The History of the Han also notes that his speciality was the Commentary of Zuo ( Zuozhuan)19 and classifies Jia Yi’s works under the ru (classicists, erroneously translated as “Confucians”) umbrella.20 Thus, later scholars usually labelled his thought as “Confucian,” and mainly related it to that of Mengzi (ca 379-304 BCE). However, the Record of the Grand Historian also registers that Jia Yi fully understood the ideas of Shen Buhai (d. 337 BCE) and Shang Yang (d. 338 BCE).21 Jia Yi’s political phraseology, which was close to the thought of Xunzi and also to that of statesmen like Shang Yang, Shen Buhai, Han Feizi (d. 233 BCE),22 must be considered under this heterogeneous light.23 This is not a contradiction, but rather shows that is impossible to apply strict criteria for attributing a text from the early Han to a certain tradition.

6 Although Jia Yi inherits the Warring States rhetorical formulation and wording, he is part of the political discussion of the Former Han and thus his political goal differs from the pre-imperial one: before imperial unification the main concern was how to pacify and unify the states under one government, while during the early decades of the imperial era the question was how to retain imperial power. In the New Writings, both the longevity of the dynasty and the centralisation of political power are crucial topics: the Han imperial house was only a few decades old and questions of political stability and legitimacy of the Empire were given priority.24 The centre of Jia Yi’s political thought and system is the ruler, and his discourse concerns the emperor’s political actions. The political nature of the New Writings lends itself to a focus on the rhetoric of the texts. However, studies on Jia Yi’s rhetoric usually focus on his fu poems, a genre characterised by its display of epideictic discourse25 and whose purpose was to advise, or on his discursive genres such as lun (discourse) chapters. Nevertheless, in Jia Yi the art of persuasion addresses political and psychological problems not merely through this prose-poetry genre or his lun, but it is intrinsically part of his phraseology. Giving emotive expression to words is part of Jia Yi’s declamatory style. His discourse is redolent of that canonical literature, full of allusions and archaism, which would be developed in later political literature. His prose adopts an impersonal style, whose goal is critique and correction.

7 Another cardinal principle of Jia Yi’s political technique is the emphasis on selecting good officials and assistants for the state to be ordered and secured. The emperor’s responsibilities include precisely this task of attracting and promoting competent aides and officials in order to gain their loyalty: loyal officials and assistants may be able to dominate and control the multitude. The idea that capable and virtuous people should be employed rather than the ruler’s relatives, first appears in the political discussion of the Springs and Autumns (770-453 BCE) period; it is fully developed during the Warring

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States period and inherited by the early Han. During the Warring States, the “elevating the worthy” (shang xian) debate was linked to the social mobility that led to the end of the pedigree-based social order and to a profound change in the ruling elite.26 The state of Qin contributed to social mobility by introducing new principles of promotion based on military merits and high tax yields.27 This social mobility reached its peak with the first rebellion against the Qin led by the farmhand Chen She (d. 208 BCE) and the later accession to the throne of Liu Bang (alias Gaozu, r. 202-195 BCE), the first Han emperor, who was born in humble circumstances but nevertheless successfully ascended the throne. Not long after, during the early decades of the Han dynasty, the idea of “elevating the worthy” still was a key problem: the court was dominated by those who had risen to influence through military merits and not intellectual ones28: Liu Bang ascended the throne after a civil war and needed a dependable political environment, so he awarded his followers with territories, and during his rule fiefs were given to collateral relatives. The end result was that for the first decades, the Han empire was not directly administered by the central government. Economic and political problems arising from this administrative and political situation led Jia Yi to recommend abolition of the fiefs29: political power had to be centralised in order to be controlled.

8 The early Han court milieu was characterised not only by the struggle of scholars wishing to improve their position within the new order, but also by the tension between scholars and leading military veterans who supported the ascension of Liu Bang. During the time of Jia Yi, the tension increased: Emperor Wen ascended the throne thanks to a sort of coup d’État led by Liu Bang’s old retainers. 30 These military followers, who led the overthrow of the Empress Lü’s clan31 and placed Emperor Wen on the throne, were still very influential. Jia Yi was part of this scenario and aimed to persuade the Emperor to attract and promote competent ministers. Although in previous times scholars were more generally opposed to hereditary transmission in the name of “elevating the worthy,” I believe that Jia Yi merged the two: in order to achieve political stability, the Empire needed to make clear rules both on succession to the throne and on the selection of ministers and aides. Establishing the crown prince early,32 on one hand, could prevent another coup d’État and maintain the control of succession; on the other, counsellors had to be selected because they were worthy and loyal,33 and had to take part in the heir’s education. I think that Jia Yi’s idea comes from necessity—and a career objective—not only from paternalistic observation.

9 Jia Yi’s political phraseology is strongly influenced by this court conflict: he uses the expression “people as root” in a negative and cynical manner, alerting the emperor to the possible danger posed by the people—the grassroots of the empire—and suggests controlling the masses. Moreover, I believe that the rhetorical formula of min ben, which is constantly reiterated in the text, is used to contrast people to scholars and convince the Emperor to “elevate the worthy” from a civil and intellectual point of view. The need to clarify the rules of court competition based on civil meritocracy is urgent: the government cannot be influenced by its grassroots, rather it has to control them in order to prevent any revolts.

10 In the “Great Command, Part I” and “Great Command, Part II,” the idea of the “people as root” is based on the debates of good government and military success. The overthrow of the Qin was still a vivid memory and for this reason Jia Yi focuses on the vital influence the people have in determining stability or instability of the ruler, also in battle. Indeed, according to Jia Yi, the role of the people and their motivation in

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times of war are both fundamental in ensuring a stable position for the ruler. The term “people” for Jia Yi becomes part of political phraseology and it carries a distinctly political connotation. Jia Yi offers another interpretation of the “people”: they are an unstable mass to be controlled and kept in order.

11 In contrast with previous texts underlining the idea of “cherishing the people” (ai min) and “benefiting the people” (li min), the New Writings stress the danger which the people themselves represent: the people are many while the ruler is one man.34 The formula “people as root” becomes a persuasive definition used by Jia Yi with the purpose of changing the direction of the emperor’s interest from the people-oriented policy to the ruler-oriented one. Therefore, in the New Writings the term “people” addresses emotive impact.

Domesticating the people

12 According to the traditional reading of the “people as root” concept, the key to genuine leadership is the manifestation of virtues that benefit the people. The origins of the notion of good government deriving from “people as root,” normally first associated with the Commentary of Zuo,35 is usually related to the philosophy of Confucius (Kongzi, 551-479 BCE) and Mengzi. The idea of the people as the root, or foundation, of political stability is also related to the concept of the Mandate of Heaven (tian ming), an idea probably generated in Zhou times to justify their overthrow of the Shang, but later acritically applied to any historical period in China. Nevertheless, it cannot be overlooked that the idea that popular rebellion is justified in terms of Heaven’s Mandate is of marginal relevance during the Qin and early Han period.36 Moreover, Jia Yi clearly states that the fall of the reign is the consequence of the ruler’s faults and does not depend on Heaven’s Writ.

13 Contrary to the common interpretation of the “people as root,” in Envisioning Eternal Empire. Chinese Political Thought of the Warring States Era, Yuri Pines shows that the idea of the people as the most important component of the polity is not exclusive to Mengzi, but reflects a common thread found throughout Zhou-period thinkers.37 Pines writes that the belief in the exceptional political importance of “the people” is traceable to the earliest layers of the Chinese political tradition.38 To guarantee political and social stability, the ruler has to protect the people (bao min) and benefit them, which amounts to cherishing the root of the state.

14 Jia Yi was probably the first to develop the Chinese expression min ben in a systematic manner in his New Writings, where the notion of the “people as root” is clearly developed in the chapters “Great Command, Part I” and “Great Command, Part II.” Scholarly interpretation generally considers the notion developed in this text in the light of Mengzi’s thought. For instance, Wang Xingguo links Jia Yi’s idea of min ben to Mengzi’s notion of “government by benevolence” (ren zheng).39 From a first reading of the New Writings, we might catch a glimpse of this connection: Among virtues, nothing is higher than universally cherishing the people, and in policy nothing is higher than universally benefiting the people. Therefore, in policy nothing is more important than truthfulness, and in governing nothing is more important than benevolence.40 However, when we pick over Jia Yi’s thought, this statement responds more to a rhetorical use of social virtue rather than to a real people-oriented idea. Virtues

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become techniques for governing the masses, because they are acceptable moral precepts which function as means of persuasion. This approach to virtues is much closer to statesmen like Shang Yang and Han Feizi than to classicists like Mengzi. For instance, Han Feizi, who follows Shang Yang, states that “Profit is what [the sage] uses for winning over the people.”41

15 Even so, according to Wang Xingguo’s analysis of Jia Yi’s min ben, the power of the people stems from their weight of numbers and position as the basis of material production.42 Nevertheless, Jia Yi never argues that the ruler’s authority comes from the people.43 To rule with benevolence is a tool used by the ruler in order to prevent uprisings from the base of the state. On the contrary, according to Mengzi, “benevolence is the distinguished characteristic of man” (ren ye zhe ren ye)44 and practice of a benevolent government is the key to making people happy: When the ruler practices a benevolent government, the people will feel related to their superiors and will die for their leaders.45 Mengzi’s notion of “ruling by benevolence” is expressed throughout his text. Moreover he says that “the people are most important; the altars of soil and grain come next; the ruler is the least,”46 meaning that while the people will exist eternally, the ruler is replaceable. For this reason, the ruler needs to win the people’s support in order to keep his position stable. How to gain the trust of the people? Mengzi is very clear and claims that the ruler has to “attain the people’s heart”: Jie and Zhou [xin] lost the throne through losing the people. To lose the people means to lose their hearts. There is a way to attain the throne: if you attain the people, you attain the throne. There is a way to attain the people: if you attain their hearts, you attain the people. There is a way to attain the people’s hearts: collect for them what they desire and do not do what they despise. The people turn to benevolence as water flows downwards or as animals head for the wilds.47 According to Mengzi, the way to keep the throne safe is to “attain the people’s heart”: if the ruler cherishes the people and satisfies their desires, there is no way the people will be disloyal to him. If they are loyal, the ruler can use them. In Mengzi’s view, being benevolent to the people is the key to keeping the political power.48 Mengzi persuades his audience to respect the people’s needs in order to keep them loyal. In his political phraseology, the relationship between the ruler and the people is encouraging and positive. Nevertheless, the idea of “cherishing the people” and recognising their merits rather than using punishments to keep the position of the ruler stable is not a prerogative of Confucius49 or Mengzi. Also Mozi (ca 460−390 BCE) is clearly against the pedigree-based order, and in his writings urges for meritocratic principles for choosing the leaders. Mozi shares the idea both of “cherishing the people” and the one of the ruler’s influence over them. In Mozi’s political theory, the idea of “inclusive care” (jian ai),50 usually opposed to the “Confucian” view of hierarchical love that begins with one’s relatives, is the basis of good government. Disorder in society is caused by egoism; only caring for each other can recover the state. To care for others is thus the cure, and the good ruler, who is benevolent and right, has to set the example.

16 The ideas of “cherishing the people” and “benefiting the people” are also found in the New Writings, but they become a technique the emperor can use to motivate the people and then govern them. Jia Yi’s idea of the “people”51 is not a positive one: the people are the “unstable” foundations of the state.52 In his political thought, the theme of giving importance to the welfare of the people has a political motivation: manipulating

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the human propensity for self-interest.53 Let us consider how Jia Yi describes the people: “People” as a term means “blur.” “Seed” as a term means “blind.” […] Therefore I say that “people are seeds.” The meaning immediately follows from the name. People have talents making them either competent or inept. Both the competent and the inept are present among them. Thus, you get competent people among them, but the inept are [also] hidden among them. The ability to perform a job will be assessed by the people, and loyal ministers will be exemplary to them. The people are an accumulation of foolishness. So, although the people are foolish, wise rulers select officials among them, and they necessarily make the people follow them.54 By redefining the crucial term “people,” Jia Yi warns the emperor to beware of the masses. The importance of fear as a political emotion is clearly expressed in his thinking: “the people are a blur” and they are an “accumulation of foolishness.”55 Jia Yi does not use positive terms to describe the “people”: they are a sort of shapeless entity that comprises both the wise and the wicked. His purpose in referring to the people in these negative terms is to alert the emperor to the instability of the “people”: they are unworthy and unreliable, and must be ordered and controlled. The emotive stress on fear reiterated in these paragraphs aims at warning the audience about the potential danger the people represent. Jia Yi’s language of wariness and fear, which aims to stress the ruler’s political responsibilities, is much closer to Han Feizi’s and other statesmen rather than “Confucian” benevolence. According to Jia Yi, people are like dogs: “cherishing the people” means taming them. Therefore I say that punishments cannot be a means of endearing the people and indifference cannot be a means of courting good advisers. For this reason, attempting to endear the people by means of punishments is like trying to domesticate a dog by means of a whip: even after a long time, you will not get close to it. Attempting to court good advisers by means of indifference is like attracting a bird by means of a bow: even after a long time, you will not catch it. As for advisers, if the [ruler] does not respect them, then he will not attract them to him. As for the people, if the [ruler] does not cherish them, then they will not honour him. Thus it is only with respect and deference, loyalty and trustworthiness that you can obtain good advisors and expect the people to honour you. This has not changed from ancient times to the present. Just as swamps have water,56 states cannot be without soldiers. But if the ruler is unskilled in seeking soldiers, there is no way that soldiers can be obtained. If officials have no ability to control the people, there is no way that the people can be controlled. When the ruler is wise, officials are talented; when officials are talented, people are controlled.57 In the passage quoted above, using punishment to endear the people is compared to inability in finding retainers.58 The people are like dogs: they must be domesticated. Punishing the people is like taking a whip to a dog. This is not the right way to control them, because sooner or later they will rebel against it. In order to control the masses, which are an accumulation of foolishness, the emperor has to cherish them while officials have to control them. Similarly, indifference towards good retainers is not the proper way to keep them loyal.59

17 The Han were born from the remains of the Qin dynasty whose debacle was brought about by the rebellion of the commoners, and Jia Yi wants to prevent such situations and his ideas about people are close to Xunzi’s. The chapter “On the Regulations of a King” (Wang zhi) of the Xunzi contains the well-known observation: If a horse is frightened by the carriage, then the superior man cannot ride safely; if the common people are frightened by the government, then the superior man

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cannot safely occupy his ruling position. If the horse is frightened of the carriage, the best thing to do is to quiet it; if the common people are frightened of the government, the best thing to do is to treat them with generosity. Select men who are worthy and good for government office, promote those who are kind and respectful, encourage filial piety and fraternity, look after orphans and widows and assist the poor, and then the common people will feel safe, then the superior man may safely occupy his position [as ruler]. The tradition says: “The lord is the boat; the commoners are the water. Water supports the boat and water overturns the boat.” This explains my meaning. Therefore, if one who rules over people desires stability, there is no alternative to governing wisely and cherishing the people.60 According to Xunzi, “cherishing the people” is an instrument for government, not its purpose. Quoting a traditional saying, Xunzi is keen to highlight that the power of the people can overthrow the ruler: in terms of power given by numbers, it is an unequal match. Moreover, the use of the term “commoners” (shu) emphasises the sheer mass of ordinary people compared with the single sovereign. The might of many is stronger than the resolve of few. This hardly seems a vision of ungrudging co-operation and appears rather to strike a note of warning. While on one hand Xunzi agrees with Mengzi on governing by cherishing and caring for the people, on the other he reveals mainly the potential danger posed by people. Enriching the people and governing them by exercising a benevolent policy is the key to keeping power: If a ruler reduces land taxes on fields for both agricultural products and natural resources, establishes a standardised tariff to be imposed on those crossing the border and selling commodities in the market places, reduces the number of merchants and traders, refrains from moving his subjects to [heavy construction works] and from robbing the peasants of agricultural labour in their busy seasons, his country will become rich. This may indeed be called “enriching the people through the exercising of a policy.”61 Xunzi’s argumentation warns the ruler of the danger of the people’s discontent: rebellion and destruction can be the natural response to a government based on tyranny. Xunzi’s reflection on the potential danger of a massive number of people is prophetic of the rebellions that led to the downfall of the Qin dynasty. A few years later, Jia Yi recognises the power of the people and shares not only Xunzi’s insight, but also the idea of Han Feizi, old student of Xunzi, of using the people for the ruler’s interests. I think that the sentiments of Jia Yi cannot be considered pro-people. His rhetoric and political phraseology apparently belong to the discussion of people- oriented thought and share the concern of mass poverty. However, his political thought is more ruler-oriented. “Cherishing the people” is an instrument in the hands of the ruler. Jia Yi uses moral principles for manipulating the natural human devotion to self-interest in referring to the idea of protecting and loving the people from a “Confucian-Mohist” point of view. This opportunistic resort to moral values suggests the “emotive force” of the people-oriented discourse. In this sense, we can see injections of the thinking of Shang Yang: the people need to be ruled in order to avoid anarchy and violence. Harsh laws are necessary to attain political and social stability.62 Shang Yang says that if the basis is not solid, people are like beasts and the basis of the people is the law.63 Similarly, Jia Yi states that: “benevolence, duty, affection, and magnanimity are the blades of the lord of men. Power, force, law, and regulations are the adze and axe of the lord of men.”64 “Confucian” virtues are just techniques to maintain power not only for the emperor, but indirectly also for those scholars who are employed at court. Understanding the needs of the people is a mere political instrument.

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The people as root

18 According to Jia Yi, although the people are a “blur,”65 there are some who are wise. The task of the enlightened ruler is to select those who are wise and promote them as officials and ministers so they act as intermediaries between the people and the emperor. To have political support, the emperor should select those who are praised by the people so even the incompetents will trust them, because they feel them to be close. The idea to search for officials among the people and promote them is not novel in Chinese political thought and it is not peculiar of classicists: on the contrary many thinkers from the Warring States period share the awareness of finding competent assistants.

19 According to Jia Yi, the “people” are a shapeless entity, nevertheless officials should be selected according to the people’s wishes in order to govern them. This idea is close to the one of “utilize the masses” (yong zhong), which allows the ruler to marshal the physical and intellectual resource of the state in order to maintain stability. As a result of doing so, the ruler acquires power and vision, essential for leading the country. Extremely vile though the people are, yet you have to allow them to choose officials from amongst themselves, and they will certainly choose those whom they love. Therefore, if ten people cherish and hold allegiance to [someone], then he is the official for those ten people. If one hundred people cherish and hold allegiance to [someone], then he is the official for one hundred people. If a thousand people cherish and hold allegiance to [someone], then he is the official for a thousand people. If ten thousand cherish and hold allegiance to [someone], then he is the official for ten thousand. Then the officials for ten thousand select high ministers from their number.66 Jia Yi explains that the people, with all their limitations, are many in number and the emperor has no choice but to choose his officials from among them, selecting those who are put forward by the people themselves. The argument remains within the discourse of grasping the people’s sentiments and not of activism from below. Jia Yi persuades the audience to listen to the people and not to dissatisfy them in order to receive their loyalty as a response. He does not promulgate nor hope for activism from below, but expresses the importance of selecting officials loved by the people to make them feel secure and, in turn, control them. The people are numerous and the emperor’s task is to make them feel secure, thus there is clearly recognition of the potential of the masses to subvert the empire. The people do not have political authority, but they are far more numerous than the ruler’s aides and thus more effective in case of rebellion. Using the many, however is a great treasure for the ruler. Since the stability of the state is ultimately dependent upon the will of the people, the good ruler has to win over the people and rely upon their support.67

20 In the “Great Command, Part I,” Jia Yi reiterates that in government the people are the root of everything: I heard that in political affairs the people are the root of everything. The state views them as a root; the ruler views them as a root; officials view them as a root. For this reason, the state takes the people as the [root] of being secure or endangered; the ruler takes the people as [the root] of awe or humiliation; officials takes the people as [the root] of being noble or base. This is what is meant by “The people are the root of everything.” I heard that in political affairs, there is no case where the people do not function as the determinant. The state views them as the determinant; the ruler views them as

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the determinant; the officials view them as the determinant. For this reason, the state’s preservation or ruin depends on the people; the ruler’s blindness or clear- sightedness depend on the people; the officials’worthiness or ineptitude depend on the people. This is what is meant by “There is no case where the people are not the determinant.” I heard that in political affairs, there is no case where the people do not function as the achievement. Similarly, the state views the people as the achievement; the ruler views the people as the achievement; the officials view the people as the achievement. The state’s prosperity or destruction depends on the people; ruler’s strength or weakness depends on the people; officials’ability or the lack thereof depend on the people. This is what is meant by “There is no case where the people do not function as the achievement.” I heard that in political affairs, there is no case where the people do not function as the strength. Thus, the state views [the people] as the strength; the ruler views the people as the strength; the officials view the people as the strength. For this reason, victory in a battle depends on the people’s desire for the victory. The success of the attack depends on the people’s desire for success. The ruler’s safety depends on the people’s desire for his safety. If this is the case, when you lead the people in a defensive action, but the people do not wish to defend, then nobody will be able to use [them] in the defence. Similarly, if you lead the people in an attack, but this is not the people’s wish, then nobody will be able to use [them] in the attack. Therefore, if you lead the people in battle, but the people do not intend to succeed, then nobody will be able to use [them] for the victory.68 In this long passage quoted above, Jia Yi persuades the audience of the importance of the people’s will. By repetition of terms, symmetrical lines and definition, Jia Yi aims to release the emotional force of words. In Jia Yi’s rhetorical sequence, the justification for the argument precedes it: people are described in terms of root (ben), determinant (ming), achievement (gong), and strength (li). Definitions occur throughout the passage and the last instance constitutes the conclusion69; the text starts from the people as “root” and ends with the people as “strength.” The final emphasis on strength focuses on the vital role of the people during a war. The success of the battle, the safety of ruler and state, all hinge on the people’s motivation. Jia Yi persuades the emperor of the importance of the people’s role with a series of symmetrical sentences focused on the origins of the people’s strength. The outcome if the people show determination in defence of their sovereign and the state is described a step at a time. This is the full meaning of the people as the root, the determinant, the achievement, and the strength of the state, the ruler and his officials. There is no way to succeed in war unless the people share in the effort. The people are the root of the state because success in war and the safety of the ruler depend on them: the people’s motivation is crucial. Political power and stability are dependent upon the multitude.

21 The ambivalence represented by the people mitigates and combines the idea of the people as a danger—coming from political ideas of statesmen like Han Feizi—with that of the people as foundation of the state—inherited from classicists like Mengzi. Again, Jia Yi underlines that the people have to be motivated to defend the country, only then the ruler will retain power – an apt precept considering that the Han dynasty was freshly established and owed its position to military victory.70 The political landscape had changed and power was centred on the ruler. The people’s role in support of this central authority and the bond they felt with the emperor were fundamental. Jia Yi concludes this argument as follows: Therefore, when people support their superiors, [in battle] they willingly move closer to the enemy and advance without flinching; the enemy will certainly fear

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[them] and from this point onward the battle will be won. For this reason, calamity and good fortune [in war] do not depend on Heaven; they necessarily depend on the soldiers and the people. Take heed, take heed! The people’s will is crucial. Take heed, take heed!71 In this paragraph, Jia Yi distances himself from the concept of Heaven’s Mandate: success or defeat in battle do not hang on Heaven’s blessing or curse, but on the people themselves. According to Jia Yi, the ruler himself is responsible for the people’s lack of motivation. It is vital for him to have the right attitude towards the people: If your virtuous conduct is excellent, you will have good fortune; if your conduct is morally bad, you will have misfortune. Therefore, it is not thanks to merits from Heaven that one receives good fortune; likewise, those who suffer calamities should not blame Heaven. Good fortune and misfortune depend on one’s own actions. Knowing virtuous conduct but not following it is “unwise.” You will certainly court natural disaster, if you indulge in morally bad conduct and do not change it. Heaven’s blessings are constant and are bestowed on people who are virtuous; Heaven’s calamities are constant and are bestowed on those who rob the people of their seasons. Therefore, however base these people may be, they cannot be disregarded; however stupid these people may be, they cannot be cheated. For this reason, from antiquity to the present, [in battle] the one who becomes a mortal enemy of the people, sooner or later the people will surely overcome him.72 Jia Yi admonishes the emperor saying that fortune and misfortune do not come from heaven, but they are the natural response to good and bad conduct respectively. Regardless how dull-witted they are, the people respond to their sovereign’s good or bad conduct. If the state enjoys good fortune, the people are happy; on the other hand, when misfortune strikes, the masses may rebel and in such cases they will always be victorious. Again, that is to say, in benefiting his people the ruler is benefiting himself. This idea is not novel, however Jia Yi emphasises the unreliability of the people in order to insist on the importance of fear as a political emotion. The power of the people in terms of strength is a political emotion that aims at convincing the emperor to motivate and to fear the masses and attain their loyalty. From this point of view, the people have power: Thus the people are plenty in strength and should not be resisted.73 […] When the ruler is virtuous, the officials will also certainly be virtuous. When officials are virtuous, the people will also certainly be virtuous. For the same reason, it is the fault of the officials when people are morally bad; and it is the ruler’s weakness that causes officials to be immoral. Take heed, take heed! […] When the ruler is morally good in this respect, then the people have no difficulty in being morally good, they are just like the shape and the image of his shadow. If the ruler is morally bad with the people, he simply destroys the agreement. If the people are all bad with him, they are just like the sound of his echoes.74 The masses respond like echoes to the ruler’s decisions and behaviour: if they do not respect the moral laws, one has only to check the ruler’s attitude. Again the rhetorical techniques of repetition and fluid definition recur to guide the reader to the final step in the reasoning: the ruler’s moral conduct is the model for his people. This reiteration on moral values is an opportunistic discourse: moral values are a technique for safeguarding political power. Considering moral values as political instruments belongs to the rhetoric and to the strategy of those statesmen like Shang Yang and Han Feizi. For instance Han Feizi states that “the things which [the people] like and dislike are controlled by the ruler. […] When the ruler manipulates the people’s likes and dislikes

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in order to command their strength, there is no reason for him to fail in his undertakings.”75 The appeal for virtue is a technique in the hands of the ruler.

22 The redefinition of the notion of the “people as root” plays on the emotive meaning of the term “people.” According to the argument developed in the “Great Command, Part I,” the people are a formless entity and an “accumulation of foolishness,” basically a loose cannon on the ship of the state. Jia Yi develops a paternalistic and elitist argument, but at the same time he is very well aware of the people’s power. Jia Yi’s strong emphasis on the role of the people stresses the ruler/subject reciprocity. Jia Yi views the people as the “root” of political affairs, focusing on the vital influence they have on the stability of the government and, most importantly, on victory in battle. In ensuring the stable position of the ruler, the role of the people and their motivation are fundamental not only in times of war, but also in times of peace. The people still are an unstable mass to be controlled and kept in order.

23 The argument of the “people as root” focuses on the techniques used to control and marshal the people to win the battle and secure stable government, with the final point concerning the officials. Jia Yi explains the importance of the people as follows: The people are the root of regional lords, teaching is the root of policy, moral conduct is the root of teaching. If you have moral conduct, then you have teaching; if you have teaching, then your policy will be ordered; if your policy is ordered, then the people will be diligent; if you have diligent people, then and only then will the state be prosperous and thriving.76 Jia Yi’s political rhetoric connects fundamental concepts to set up a sequence from “the people as the root of regional lords” to a “prosperous and thriving state.” However, his justification of controlling the people through moral conduct insinuates the “emotive force” of the idea of the “people as root.” Social virtues aim to use the people’s strength. In a time when the court was dominated by those who had risen to influence through military action, Jia Yi resorted to the use of fear as a political emotion in order to restrain the social mobility of the “people,” the unreliable grassroots support for the government.

Conclusion

24 The common interpretation of Jia Yi’s idea of min ben in terms of Mengzi’s thought needs more careful analysis. While Mengzi underlines the importance of adopting a policy of magnanimity and munificence towards the people in order to have their support, Jia Yi warns of the potential threat they represent: in his view, the people are basically dangerous. Indulging the people is a way of controlling them; it is instrumental for success in war and the stability of the ruler. For Jia Yi, “cherishing the people” and “benefiting the people” are techniques used by the best of rulers.77 Jia Yi wants to consolidate imperial power, and this is why he emphasises the need to control the unreliable root of the state. Failure to control on the ground leads to unstable government and the collapse of the dynasty. Jia Yi’s reasoning regarding the “people as the root” of policy is based on persuasion through the redefinition of terms. The ultimate goal is to convince the ruler of the threat the people—the grassroots of the empire—can represent. Jia Yi elaborates different Warring State’s ideas, often contradictory, and accommodate them in order to smooth out the authoritarian and repressive nature of Han institutions, which the Han dynasty was soon to put into practice.

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25 Finally, modern ideas of democracy and human rights are far from the ancient Chinese meaning of “the people as root,” and the importance of the people in the political scenario must be considered in a different way. Such is the emotive content packed into this expression that it is still used for effect today and although it does not apply to true people-oriented politics, it does offer a convenient formula that can be adapted to serve the needs of intellectuals and policies of any period. Even so, while it is true that in modern times the term “people” has usually strongly positive overtones, in Jia Yi’s day it conjured up visions of an uncontrollable rabble, which only a short time before had joined forces and brought down the Qin dynasty. In view of the numbers involved, it is hardly surprising the term was loaded with negative associations.

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APPENDIXES

Glossary ai min 愛民

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ben 本 Chao Cuo 晁錯 Chen She 陳涉 Da zheng shang 大政上 Da zheng xia 大政下 fu 賦 Gaozu 高祖 gong 功 guoti 國體 guozheng 國政 Han (dynasty) 漢 Han Feizi 韓非子 Hanshu 漢書 He Guanzi 鶡冠子 Huainanzi 淮南 Huang-Lao 黃老 Jia Yi 賈誼 Jiazi 賈子 Kongzi 孔 jian ai 兼愛 li 力 li min 利民 Liu Bang 劉邦 Lü (Empress) 呂 Lüshi chunqiu 呂氏春秋 lun 論 Lun heng 論衡 Mawangdui 馬王堆 Mengzi 孟 min 民 min ben 民本 minben sixiang 民本思想 minben zhuyi 民本主義 ming 命

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minquan 民權 minzhu 民主 Mozi 墨 Qin (dynasty) 秦 Qing (dynasty)清 renquan 人權 ren zheng 仁政 ru 儒 Shang (dynasty) 商 Shang jun shu 商君書 shang xian 上賢 Shang Yang 商鞅 Shen Buhai 申不害 shi 士 shi 詩 shibao 時報 Shiji 史記 shi min 士民 Shu 書 shu 庶 Shui yuan 說苑 taijiao 胎教 tian ming 天命 wangzhi 王制 Wen (Emperor) 文 Wenzi 文子 Xiangzi 襄子 Xin shu 新書 Xunzi 荀子 yong zhong 用眾 Yu Rang 豫讓 Yuzi 鬻子 Zhanguo ce 戰國策 Zhi Bo 知伯

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Zhou (dynasty) 周 zhu 主 Zuo zhuan 左傳

NOTES

2. In modern times, many Chinese expressions and neologisms are related to min ben, for instance minben zhuyi meaning “democracy.” This connection with the modern idea of democracy has led to a misunderstanding of the original use of the min ben concept. 3. There is extensive literature on the controversial Confucianism and democracy debate. See, for example, Xu Fuguan [1953] 1988; Mou Zongsan 1961; Jin Yaoji (= Ambrose Y.C. King) [1964] 1993; Fukuyama 1995: 20-33; Bloom 1998: 10; Ching 1998: 67-82; Judge 1998: 193-208; Hall and Ames 1999; Zhao Suisheng 2000; Tan Sor-Hoon 2003; Yang Qingqiu 2005. On related topics, Billioud and Thoraval 2009. On the notion of “the people as root” (min ben) in Chinese intellectual history: You Huanmin 1991; Xia Yong 2004: 4-32; Zhang Fentian 2009. See also Liang Qichao 1996. 4. It is interesting to underline that Liang Qichao’s use of min ben was translated as “democratic ideas” by Chen in the translation of his History of Chinese Political Thought during the Early Tsin Periods. Liang Qichao 1930: 150-152. 5. Pines 2009: 187. See also Zhang Fentian 2009: 1. In the late Qing period, journalists from the Shanghai Daily Shibao (The Eastern Times) discussing the topic of “right thinking,” equated China’s “ancient constitutionalism,” or the classical theory of the “people as root,” with modern Western constitutionalism. See Judge 1998: 193-194. Judge says that the Shibao journalists did not write extensively or explicitly about human rights (renquan) per se. They “advocated the assertion of minquan which they related to the principles of the ‘Declaration of the Rights of Man’ and the urgent need to develop constitutional rights in China.” Judge 1998: 193. These journalists were trained in Western social and political theory but they also studied Chinese classical texts, and were not alienated from the Chinese cultural tradition. They injected traditional precepts with Western ideas based on constitutional principles. According to Joan Judge, the result was tension rather than fusion, and there were many contradictions between the inherited ideal of harmony between ruler and ruled, and the promotion of a new form of public policy. See Judge 1998: 193-194. This approach was a response both to the failure of late Qing policies and to the invasion of the country by Western powers who introduced their social and political theories. 6. Some scholars go so far in their mental and linguistic acrobatics as to associate one of the Chinese translations of “democracy,” minzhu or minquan, with the notion of min ben, skipping the logical step in their reasoning that would make the equation plausible. For instance, Viren Murthy claims that “The Chinese term for democracy, minzhu, is a combination of two characters: min meaning people, and zhu, meaning rule or ruler. Although this is a modern term, a related word, min ben, ‘people as root,’ existed since at least the Han dynasty and the idea was ascribed to Confucius [Kongzi] (551-479 BC), developed and refined by Mencius [Mengzi] (372-289 BC).” Murthy 2000: 33. Joan Judge also states that “their [Shibao journalists] understanding of minquan as a synthesis between the age-old min ben ethos of the unification of ruler and ruled, and new foreign-inspired ideas of democracy (minzhu) based on constitutional principles, gave rise to a new form of political dualism which would serve to maintain the state structure (guoti) while formalizing and rationalizing its operation (guozheng).” Judge 1998: 198. 7. See, for example, Murthy 2000. Tan Sor-hoon 2003: 132-156. Gung-Hsing Wang even maintains that Mencius was “the first scholar in China who instilled the democratic spirit into our humanistic thought.” In the work edited by Zhao Suisheng, Enbao Wang and Regina F. Titunik, much is made of the democratic value of the concept of min ben and a section is even entitled

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“Mencius’s Notion of Democracy.” Moreover, Wang and Titunik interpret Sun Yat-sen’s political philosophy expressed in the concept of san min zhuyi (the three principles of the people— nationalism, democracy and people’s livelihood) in terms of “continuation and development of the traditional political philosophy of min ben.” Wang and Titunik 2000: 80. Although in their analysis of the uses of the min ben concept in Chinese thought from ancient texts to the modern period, Wang and Titunik go so far as to assert that, “the concept of min ben may be understood in several interrelated respects: the centrality of the people in politics, the equality of the people as regards their potential to be chosen by Heaven to rule, the importance of the popular legitimation of leaders and the validity of withdrawing that approval through rebellion” (2000: 80), they conclude by admitting: “In conclusion, though min ben is a theory that emphasizes the importance of the people in a state, this does not entirely equate with a theory of governance that champions participation and governmental decision making by the people. […] Thus the view, according to which min ben anticipates modern democracy, is erroneous in certain respects. Yet though these two theories of government diverge, there are some points of convergence of which we also take note.” (2000: 84) Others have seen the notion of min ben as bearing the imprint of meritocratic thought and it is often linked to traditional Confucian theories, although it lacks one core element of liberal democracy—a concept of procedural rules applying to the executive arm of government, underpinned by a concept of the role of the legislature. See Fröhlich 2008. 8. Pines 2009: 187. See Xia Yong 2004: 4-32; see also Zhang Fentian 2009: 13. 9. See, for example, Zhang Fentian 2009. 10. For example Murthy 2000, focuses on Jia Yi. However, in my paper I dispute his analysis. Sanft has devoted the first chapter of his PhD dissertation to the idea of people in the New Writings. See Sanft 2005a. For Jia Yi’s biography, see Shiji 84 and Hanshu 48. See also Emmerich 2007. According to his biography, Jia Yi, born in Luoyang, became famous in his home commandery for his talent in composition and his skill in reciting the Shi and Shu. Jia Yi was also a specialist of the Zuozhuan. At that time, the administrator of Jia Yi’s commandery was Honourable Wu. He heard of Jia Yi’s abilities and promoted him to a position in his entourage. Honourable Wu was a student of Li Si (d. 208 BCE), the famous Qin minister. Li Si himself had been a student of Xunzi (ca 313-238 BCE). These connections allow us to allocate Jia Yi, who was in favour with Honourable Wu, within the Warring States’intellectual heritage. When Emperor Wen ascended the throne in 179 BCE, he heard of Honourable Wu because his administration was at peace and his commandery was the best in the realm. Wu became commandant of justice and once at court he recommended Jia Yi’s learning to the emperor, who as a result appointed Jia Yi to the position of court savant. 11. In this paper I use the Jiazi Xin shu jiao shi 1974. Hereafter, I will refer to the text as Jiazi. As for the claim the New Writings is a forgery, I have confidence in a number of studies proving that the contents of the text can be attributed to Jia Yi; see, for example, Svarverud 1998. Luo Shaodan 2002 and 2003: 270-299. For a study on the Xin shu, see Sanft 2005a. As for the texts contained in this œuvre, some of them were memoirs or records written by Jia Yi and addressed to Emperor Wen (alias Liu Heng, r. 179-157 BCE). The title of this compilation, Xin shu, does not refer to the content of these texts, but simply denotes a new edition with annotations. See Cai Tingji 1984: 23-27. In this paper I translate the title as New Writings with the meaning of “New Edition of Jia Yi’s Writings.” In early Han, the practice of naming written works with “new edition” (xin shu) was common. 12. There is a vast body of literature on the meaning of min (people) in ancient China. For two recent studies, which differ from one another, see Gassman 2000 and Pines 2009: 190-191. 13. Carine Defoort introduced into sinology the concept of “emotive meaning” developed by Stevenson 1937: 18; 1938. See Defoort 1997 and 2003: 393-413. See also Schaberg 2001. 14. Kao [1986] 2003: 121. 15. On the term “intellectuals” in ancient China, see Cheng 1996.

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16. See Liu Zehua 1992: 72-73. 17. Kao [1986] 2003: 121. 18. Shiji 84: 2491. Hanshu 48: 2221. 19. Hanshu 88: 3620. 20. Hanshu 30: 1726. On the meaning of ru, see Zufferey 2003. 21. Shiji 130: 3319. The History of the Han modifies this passage and refers instead to Shen Buhai and Han Feizi. See Hanshu 62: 2723. 22. The New Writings share ideas also with The Pheasant Cap Master (He Guanzi) and the Wenzi, especially in the appeal for fear and caution before the ruler’s responsibilities. In addition, many ideas are similar to those theories developed in the text discovered at Mawangdui and known as the Silk Manuscript of Huang-Lao. On these texts, see Peerenboom 1993. On the similarities with Jia Yi, see also Sabattini 2009. 23. In pre-imperial China and in the early years of the imperial period, clear distinctions between so-called “schools” result in simplifications. 24. According to the Shiji, one of the urgent matters pressed on Emperor Wen by his ministers was to establish the crown prince early. Shiji 10: 419. It is possible that these ministers stressed the need to establish the heir because the hesitant attitude displayed formerly by Gaozu of Han in installing his successor had let power drift into the hands of the Empress Lü. These ministers were also interested in influencing Emperor Wen’s decisions since they played the chief role both in toppling the clan of Empress Lü and in the crowning of Emperor Wen himself. Jia Yi took part in this discussion and formulated his theory of foetus instructions (taijiao) of the heir and moral education of the crown prince. Education in utero and the moral training of the crown prince were both related to the selection of good tutors and imperial assistants. Jia Yi singled out foetus instruction as the earliest possible opportunity to mould the moral fibre of the crown prince. This emphasis on the crown prince is part of his political strategy and is related to the need for stability and the avoidance of political and social disasters. On the analysis of the idea of taijiao in Jia Yi, see Sabattini 2009. 25. See Knechtges 1976. The fu was the dominant poetic genre during the Han dynasty and it is variously translated “rhyme-prose,” “rhapsody,” “verse-essay,” “prose-poetry.” It originated from a type of chanting used by officials of the Zhou dynasty to present political plans at court; at the end of the Warring States period it evolved into a genre. The earliest received fu is the “Fu Chapter” of the Xunzi. Starting from the Han dynasty, the purpose of the fu was to present “criticism.” According to Lewis, rhapsody was an example of attaining mastery through written language. See Lewis 1999: 317-332. 26. The idea of promoting upright persons, which is first discussed by Confucius and his disciples, is beneficial for the upward mobility of the shi (literati, political persuaders). It is the “Elevating the Worthy” chapter of the Mozi, another major text from the Springs and Autumns period, that proposes a list of measures for attracting and promoting the worthy and good shi. This idea, and its internalisation, marked the end of the pedigree-based social order. On the rise of the shi, see Pines 2009: 115-135. 27. Pines 2009: 123. 28. Qian Mu 1978: 174-175. 29. The economic reason was that in the areas controlled by the court, much of the tax income went to holders of fiefs. Both Jia Yi and Chao Cuo (d. 154 BCE) note this problem. On this topic see Lewis 1999: 340-342. For Chao Cuo biography, see Shiji 101; Hanshu 49. 30. For Wendi’s biography, see Shiji 10. On the “coup d’État,” see Shiji 9: 399-411. 31. On the construction of the stereotype of Empress Lü as a cruel usurper, see Sabattini in press. On Empress Lü, see also van Ess 2006 and Schaab-Hanke 1999. 32. Shiji 10: 419.

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33. The idea of foetus education developed in the New Writings deals with this matter. See Sabattini 2009. 34. This concern is also part of Han Feizi’s reflection. See Han Feizi 16.5a. Cf. Creel 1974. 35. Liu Jiahe 1995 and Zheng Junhua 1983. 36. See Pines 2009: 217. See also Loewe 1994: 85-111. 37. Pines 2009: 187-197. Cf. Ames 1994: 154-164. 38. Pines 2009: 189. 39. Wang Xingguo 1992: 141-143. See also Cai Tingji 1984: 141-143. The expression ren zheng finds ten matches in the entire Mengzi and it is well developed. On the contrary, it never occurs in the New Writings. As for the term min (people) in the Mengzi, Gassman considers that the translation “people,” while it might work for the Han period, is too vague and inaccurate for the Eastern Zhou period. In the kinship-based social organization, min could not designate the ruling clan but only other clans and their members. 40. Jiazi, “Talks on Political Reforms, Part I” (“Xiu zheng yu shang 修政語上”): 1044. 41. 夫利者所以得民也。 Han Feizi, “Dishonest Officials” (“Gui shi 詭使”). 42. Wang Xingguo 1992: 124-126. Cf. Sanft 2005a: 35. 43. Sanft 2005a: 36. 44. 仁也者人也。Mengzi 7B. 45. Mengzi 1B. 46. 民為貴，社稷次之，君為輕。Mengzi 7B. 47. Mengzi 4A. 48. Mengzi 7A. 49. According to Lunyu 2.3. Confucius said: “If the people are led by laws, and the order sought is given to them by punishments, they will try to avoid the punishment, and have no sense of shame. If they are led by moral virtue, and the order sought is given to them by the rules of propriety, they will have the sense of shame, and moreover will become good.” 子曰：「道之以 政，齊之以刑，民免而無恥；道之以德，齊之以禮，有恥且格。」 50. Jian ai is variously translated as “universal love,” “impartial caring,” “inclusive care.” On this topic, see Defoort 2007. 51. In early Han dynasty, the “people” (min) generally identified four groups: scholars, farmers, artisans and merchants. See Ch’ü T’ung-tsu 1972: 101. Jia Yi refers to the “people” designating those commoners who were not scholars. This is shown by many instances where Jia Yi refers to the shi min (scholars and people). See also Sanft 2005a: 29. 52. See Sanft 2005a: 28-91. 53. This idea is similar to the thought of Shang Yang and Han Feizi. 54. Jiazi, “Great Command, Part II”: 1011-1013. 55. Jiazi, “Great Command, Part II”: 1011. 56. Emending shui 水 for mu 木. See Jiazi: 1005 (fn: 5). 57. Jiazi, “Great Command, Part II”: 1003. 58. On Jia Yi and punishments, see Sanft 2005b; Sanft 2005c. 59. In this regard, several passages of Jia Yi’s Xin shu take as their example Yu Rang, who sought revenge against Xiangzi, the killer of his sovereign Zhi Bo. Yu Rang becomes the model of the loyal retainer: he served other rulers first, but his talent and loyalty were not recognised. In contrast, Zhi Bo displayed great respect and support for him. In the Xin shu, Yu Rang is mentioned in the following chapters: “Jie ji” 級 (“Levels and grades”), “Huai nan” 淮難 (“Huai is difficult”), “Yu cheng” 諭誠 (“Explaining earnest”). Yu Rang is a well-known example in Chinese texts. His story is mentioned in the Intrigues of the Warring States (Zhanguo ce 戰國策), Han Feizi, Record of the Grand Historian, The Springs and Autumns of Mr Lü (Lüshi chunqiu 呂氏春秋), The Garden of Persuasion (Shui yuan 說苑), The Master of Huainan (Huainanzi 淮南), The Balanced Inquiries (Lun heng 論衡). On the story of getting shi (retainers), see Pines 2002: 35-74.

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60. Xunzi 9: 152-153. The translation is by Watson and Sato, with my corrections. See Watson 1963: 36-37; Sato 2003: 261-262. 61. Xunzi 10: 179. The translation is by Watson and Sato, with my own minor corrections. Watson 1963: 38; Sato 2003: 264. 62. On Shang Yang’s people-oriented influence, see Pines 2009: 201-203. 63. 本不堅，則民如飛鳥走獸 (...) 民本，法也。Shang jun shu (The Book of Lord Shang), “Policies” (“Hua ce” 畫策). 64. 仁義恩厚者，此人主之芒刃也。權勢法制，此人主之斤斧也。 Jiazi, “On the Faults of Qin” (“Guo Qin lun” 過秦論): 213-214. On this paragraph see also Sanft 2005a: 36-37. 65. Jiazi, “Great Command, Part II”: 1011. 66. Jiazi, “Great Command, Part II”: 1013. This text is reproduced almost verbatim in the forged Yuzi 鬻子. 67. This approach is very similar with the one of the Spring and Autumn of Mr Lü, see for instance 4/9b. Cf. Ames 1994: 142-143. 68. Jiazi, “Great Command, Part II”: 981-983. 69. On the central position of redefinitions, especially in The Pheasant Cap Master, see Defoort 1997: 145-147. 70. See also Sanft 2006: 36. 71. Jiazi, “Great Command, Part I”: 982-984. 72. Jiazi, “Great Command, Part I”: 984-987. 73. Jiazi, “Great Command, Part I”: 995. 74. Jiazi, “Great Command, Part I”: 996-997. 75. 而好惡者，上之所制也 [...] 上掌好惡以御民力，事實不宜失矣。 Han Feizi, “On Ruling and the Assignment of Responsibilities” (Zhi fen 制分). 76. Jiazi, “Great Command, Part II”: 1015. 77. See also Sanft 2005a: 37.

ABSTRACTS

The ancient idea of the “people as root,” which experienced a revival in China starting from the early twentieth century, is usually related to the philosophy of Confucius (551-479 BCE) and Mengzi (ca 379-304 BCE). Contrary to the traditional reading, which perceives the manifestation of virtues that benefit the people as the key to genuine leadership, this paper aims to stress the rhetorical use of the expression “people as root” and mainly focuses on the “Great Command, Part I” and “Great Command, Part II” of the New Writings, a collection of texts ascribed to the Former Han empire (202 BCE-9 CE) scholar Jia Yi (200-168 BCE). Its appeal to “the people” is due to its “emotive connotation” rather than signifying a concrete set of people-oriented policies and the “people as root” easily became a rhetorical device. The “people as root” is part of the political phraseology of Jia Yi and is strongly influenced by statesmen such as Shang Yang (390-338 BCE), Shen Buhai (ca 400-337 BCE) and Han Feizi (ca 280-233 BCE). According to Jia Yi, the people—the grassroots of the empire—are potentially dangerous and must be controlled.

L’idée ancienne de « primauté du peuple » (min ben) a connu un renouveau en Chine depuis le début du XXe siècle ; elle est généralement associée à la philosophie de Confucius (551-479 av. J.- C.) et de Mencius (ca 379-304 av. J.-C.). Contrairement à la lecture traditionnelle de ce slogan qui y

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voit la manifestation de vertus favorables au peuple et la clé d’un mode de gouvernement authentique, cet article s’emploie à montrer l’usage rhétorique de cette expression en examinant le « Grand Commandement, sections 1 & 2 » des Nouveaux écrits, une collection de textes attribués au lettré Jia Yi (200-168 av. J.-C.) de la dynastie des Han antérieurs. L’appel au « peuple » relève plus du registre émotionnel qu’il ne reflète un ensemble de politiques en la faveur de ce dernier et l’expression « primauté du peuple » vire aisément au procédé rhétorique. La « primauté du peuple » fait en effet partie de la phraséologie de Jia Yi, largement influencé par ces hommes d’État qu’étaient Shang Yang (390-338 av. J.-C.), Shen Buhai (ca 400-337 av. J.-C.) et Han Feizi (ca 280-233 av. J.-C.). Pour Jia Yi, le peuple – les racines mêmes de l’empire – représente un danger potentiel qui doit être contrôlé.

古代的“民本”思想，自二十世紀伊始又屢被重提，通常我們將其歸入孔孟之道。一般認為這 一概念強調德行造福民眾乃是統治關鍵，本篇論文卻將著重討論西漢（公元前202年-公元9 年）學者賈誼所撰《新書》之《大政上》、《大政下》兩篇，進而強調“民本”的修辭應用。 對“民”的呼籲實出於這一詞語的感性內涵，它並非某一具體以民為本的政治舉措，故“民本”便 流為修辭策略了。賈誼政治措辭中的“民本”一詞深受一系列政治活動家的影響，如商鞅（終於 公元前338年），申不害（終於公元前337年）以及韓非子（終於公元前233年）。他認為，作 為國之基本的民眾具有潛在的危險性，應加以控制。

AUTHOR

ELISA SABATTINI

Elisa Sabattini is currently Assistant Professor of Chinese Studies at the University of Sassari (Italy). She was educated at the University of Venice and at INALCO in Paris. In 2007 she became a two-year post-doctoral fellow, funded by the Chiang Ching-kuo Foundation, in the Department of Sinology at the Catholic University of Leuven. Her research focuses on Chinese intellectual history, with particular attention to the Warring States and early Han periods. Major publication: Lu Jia. Nuovi argomenti (Venice, Cafoscarina, 2012).

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IV. Regards extérieurs

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Political Rhetoric in China and in Imperial Rome: the Persuader, the Ruler, the Audience De la rhétorique politique en Chine et dans la Rome impériale : l’orateur, le souverain, et le public

Alexander Yakobson

1 The most fundamental difference between political rhetoric in traditional China and in the Greco-Roman world—and specifically in Rome, with which I will deal here—is, as is rightly stressed by some of the contributors to this splendid volume, that in China political rhetoric is invariably addressed by a “persuader” to a single man—the autocratic ruler, and not to the public or to collective civic bodies. In Romain Graziani’s words, “This canonical political pattern must be understood within the broader context of the overarching paradigm of monarchism in Chinese political culture. The Chinese persuader is not strictly speaking a ‘rhētōr’, a public speaker defined by his command of the civic art of persuading”; “rhetoric in Chinese politics was never concerned with public address. By contrast, in ancient Rome, political rhetoric was focused on the manipulation of public opinion. A rhetor addressed a large audience,” that could number thousands when he addressed the people or hundreds when he spoke in the Senate.

2 Roman Republican rhetoric is thus difficult to compare with Chinese rhetoric, either before or during the unified Empire. Under the Emperors, however, Rome came to be governed by an autocratic ruler—something that had been always considered an anathema under the Republic. At first, under Augustus, there was some official reluctance to acknowledge the autocratic nature of the regime; but already under his successor Tiberius (not to speak of the third in line, Gaius Caligula), there could no longer be any ambiguity concerning the absolute power of the Emperor. The collective civic bodies of the old Republic were not abolished, but became fully subservient to the ruler’s will. The popular assemblies still had some, strictly limited, role under Augustus, but became purely formal occasions thereafter, till they disappeared

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altogether in the turmoil of the third-century civil wars. The Senate, too, was eventually destined, by the Late Empire, to be reduced to a forum for enthusiastic acclamations upon the receipt of Imperial decisions. But this development, although in accordance with the true spirit of the Imperial regime, was slow. For a long time after the establishment of the Emperors’ rule—what the Romans called the principate —the Senate was still a body of considerable importance as a forum where political questions —still, officially, the public affairs of the Roman people—were discussed. Under “good” Emperors, senators enjoyed some degree of freedom in their deliberations—provided that the question at hand was not really vital to the regime. But there was never any question of the Emperor’s will not prevailing whenever he insisted that it should prevail.

3 Since Augustus, major political decisions were made by the Emperor, after a consultation with a small group of “friends” and advisors; the Senate’s subsequent approval, when needed, was a foregone conclusion. The Roman political decision- making process was thus, essentially, no different from the traditional Chinese one, however different the formalities: the sole ruler decided. While one could still earn considerable distinction and prestige by eloquent discourse in the Senate (or in the public law-courts), the only political persuasion that mattered was an advisor’s ability to persuade the ruler.

4 For those in the educated elite of Roman society who were still influenced by Republican sentiments—even while recognizing that politically, there was no going back to the Republican system of government—any public rhetoric under the Emperors was but a pale shadow of the good old Republican art of oratory. Tacitus gives a voice to this sentiment in his Dialogus de Oratoribus (written perhaps ca 101-102 CE, under the “good” Emperor Trajan, when such a theme could be tackled more or less safely). He enquires how it is that whereas former ages were so prolific of great orators, men of genius and renown, our age is so forlorn and so destitute of the glory of eloquence that it scarce retains so much as the name of orator. That title we apply exclusively to the men of older time, while the good speakers of this day we call pleaders, advocates, counselors, anything rather than orators. (1)1 The answer is given by one of the speakers. It is—surely, at least half-ironic—praise of the Imperial autocracy and of the domestic peace brought by it; these leave no room for old-style oratory: Again, what stimulus to genius and what fire to the orator was furnished by incessant popular assemblies, by the privilege of attacking the most influential men… The great and famous eloquence of old is the nursling of the license which fools called freedom; it is the companion of sedition, the stimulant of an unruly people, a stranger to obedience and subjection, a defiant, reckless, presumptuous thing which does not show itself in a well-governed state. What orator have we ever heard of at Sparta or at Crete? A very strict discipline and very strict laws prevailed, tradition says, in both those states. Nor do we know of the existence of eloquence among the Macedonians or Persians, or in any people content with a settled government… So too our own state, while it went astray and wore out its strength in factious strife and discord, with neither peace in the forum, unity in the Senate, order in the courts, respect for merit, or seemly behaviour in the magistrates [saw the art of oratory flourish; now, however, under the peaceful rule of the Emperors], what need there of long speeches in the Senate, when the best men are soon of one mind, or of endless harangues to the people, when political questions are decided not by an ignorant multitude, but by one man of pre-eminent wisdom? (40-42)

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One man of pre-eminent wisdom (unus et sapientissimus) ruling the state—all my friends and colleagues from Chinese studies will surely feel comfortably at home hearing that. Still, two major differences remained between Chinese and Roman political rhetoric— both of them, obviously, remnants of the old civic culture that influenced all those involved, including the Emperors. The ruler himself practiced rhetoric in public—first and foremost before in the Senate, but occasionally also before the people; this rhetoric might, at least in style, be more “civic” than what can usually be expected from an absolute monarch. And the ruler’s assistants and advisors, trying to persuade him, are repeatedly described in the sources as employing a type of rhetoric that is likewise influenced by what still remained of traditional—i.e., Republican—sentiments and conventions. Sometimes they address the ruler in the Senate, but from time to time the same conventions seem to apply to what is reported from consultations between the Emperor and a narrow circle of his trusted advisors. There, too, these advisors are sometimes described as employing a “senatorial” type of eloquence that brings to mind what Queen Victoria is said to have once remarked about her heartily disliked Prime Minister Gladstone: “He talks to me as if he were addressing a public meeting.”

5 Admittedly, we do not have, for these consultations, anything like the official records of China, nor do we have the records of senatorial proceedings (though these were available to Tacitus and Suetonius). It is thus possible that some of the “civic” rhetorical features that appear in the sources that describe these consultations reflect, at least partly, the conventions and assumptions of Roman historians rather than what was actually said on those occasions. On the other hand, as we shall see, on the one occasion where we have both an account of an Imperial speech in the Senate by Tacitus and the actual record of what was said by the Emperor, the speech as delivered sounds even more “civic” that the historian’s account.

6 As for Imperial eloquence, Tacitus, remarkably, reproaches Nero for using a speechwriter: the eulogy delivered by him at the public funeral of his adoptive father, the Emperor Claudius, had been written by his teacher and political advisor, Seneca. It was noted, says the historian, that Nero was the first ruler to stand in need of borrowed eloquence. For the dictator Caesar had rivaled the greatest orators; and Augustus had the ready and fluent diction appropriate to a princeps (quae deceret principem). Tiberius was, in addition, a master of weighing words—powerful, moreover, in the expression of his views, or, if ambiguous, ambiguous by design. Even Gaius’ troubled brain did not affect his power of speech; and, when Claudius had prepared his harangues, he did not lack elegance. (Annales, 13.3.3)2 Caesar, of course, was a Republican politician turned dictator who continued, as dictator, to use what had been an indispensable tool for him when he still had to compete with others for political influence—the orator’s art. For Augustus, public eloquence was no longer, strictly speaking, a political necessity—still less so for his more openly absolutist successors. It was, however, a powerful cultural tradition to which these rulers felt themselves beholden. Their deference to this tradition signified that they still regarded themselves, in some significant sense, as elected officials (however all-powerful) of the Roman commonwealth; they had received—formally— their powers from the Senate and People of Rome, and accepted that some kind of interaction between them and the public at large, and especially with the Senate, was appropriate.

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7 The Emperor Marcus Aurelius received, ca 162 CE, this piece of advice on the importance of rhetoric to the ruler from his old teacher Fronto: For it falls to a Caesar to carry by persuasion necessary measures in the Senate, to address the people on many important matters in public meetings, to correct the inequities of the law, to dispatch letters throughout the world… All these must assuredly be done by speech and writing. Will you therefore not cultivate an art which you see must be of great use to you so often and in matters of such great moment? (Ad M. Antoninum de eloquentia 1 [Naber: 139] 5.)

8 The evidence for Emperors addressing the people that is available to us suggests that this was in fact a rather less regular occasion than Fronto indicates (though sometimes this could still happen in the Late Empire, when even Imperial appearances before the Senate had become exceptional: when Constantius made his visit to Rome in 357 CE, he “addressed the nobility in the Senate-house and the populace from the tribunal” [Ammianus 16.10.13]). “The routine addresses to the people to which Fronto seems to be referring are not clearly attested.”3 It is of course possible that numerous events of this kind failed to find their way into the sources available to us. But it is also possible that Fronto was influenced by Rome’s cultural and political traditions when presenting the Emperor as being in constant need of exercising the art of persuasion in public, before the Senate and (even) the people, as if he were still (merely) a Roman magistrate - not just learning rhetoric from Cicero’s writings but acting in a manner reminiscent of Cicero as a Republican politician.

9 Certainly, Fronto’s account gives a wholly exaggerated impression of the extent to which a Roman Emperor actually needed to persuade anyone in order to rule. It is, of course, not uncommon for autocratic rulers, in various cultures, to attach importance to winning the hearts and minds of their subjects—and especially of the elites. Rhetoric addressed (usually in writing) by a ruler to his subjects is by no means a uniquely Roman phenomenon. What is special about Imperial Rome is that the autocratic ruler might address his subjects (whether orally or in writing) in a way that implied that they were fellow-citizens rather than subjects. The Roman state was not really governed, in Marcus Aurelius’ days, by the Emperor “carrying by persuasion necessary measures in the Senate,” much less by “addressing the people on many important matters in public meetings,” as Fronto puts it. Both he and his pupil, the Emperor, knew, of course, that this was a highly idealized and anachronistic picture of Roman government. The letter is itself a piece of rhetoric, both aiming to persuade the ruler and reflecting cultural conventions shared by both sides. It is quite remarkable that these conventions still carried weight in the second part of the second century CE, long after any trace of a doubt as to the absolutist character of the Imperial rule, if it ever really existed, had disappeared. Absolute power may perhaps corrupt absolutely, or at least considerably (though Marcus Aurelius is hardly the most flagrant example of this rule), but this does not mean that an absolute ruler is not influenced by cultural conventions. This applies both to Rome and to China—much as the content of those conventions was different in each cases.

10 Under Augustus, the ruler’s insistence on adhering to the tradition of direct contact between Roman magistrates and the people produced an incident that is wholly unthinkable in any proper monarchy, under any of Augustus’ successors, as well as, one suspects, in Augustus’ own later years. In 22 BCE, when the city of Rome was suffering from famine, there was public demand for Augustus to assume the office of dictator in order to tackle the problem with greater efficiency:

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When the people did their best to force the dictatorship upon him, he knelt down, threw off his toga from his shoulder, and with bare breast begged them to desist. (Suetonius, Augustus, 52) The most amazing part of this story is that there were still some people in Rome who appear to have thought that dictatorship would add something to Augustus’ power. Unless the event was wholly staged (a suspicion that comes naturally to a cynical modern mind, but is perhaps misplaced in this case), this shows that at that point there was still some uncertainty (at any rate among the common people—the senators surely knew better) as to the true nature of Augustus’ power. If there was any such misunderstanding, it did not continue beyond the first years of the principate.

11 As for the kind of rhetoric that might be addressed to the ruler by his advisors, this is how Tacitus describes a debate that took place in 48 CE under Claudius, when a number of notables from Gallia Comata (the “long-haired,” un-Romanized part of Gaul conquered by Julius Caesar) who had already received Roman citizenship requested permission to start a senatorial career: Comments on the subject were numerous and diverse; and in the Emperor’s council (apud principem) the debate was conducted with animation on both sides: “Italy,” it was asserted, “was not yet so moribund that she was unable to supply a Senate to her own capital. The time had been when a Roman-born Senate was enough for peoples [Latin and Italians allies] whose blood was akin to their own; nor was the old Republic [when this happened] anything to be ashamed of. Why, even today men quoted the patterns of virtue and of glory which, under the old system, the Roman character had given the world! Was it too little that Venetians and Insurbians [people from the Cisalpine Gaul beyond the Po enfranchised by Julius Caesar] had taken the Senate-house by storm, unless they brought in an army of aliens to give it the look of a captured town? What honours would be left to the relics of their nobility, or the poor senator who came from Latium? All would be submerged by those opulent persons whose grandfathers and great-grandfathers had smitten our armies by steel and the strong hand, and had besieged the deified Julius [Caesar] at Alesia. But these were recent events. [The anonymous speaker then refers to the legendary conquest of Rome by the Gauls in 390 BCE.] Leave them by all means to enjoy the title of citizens; but the insignia of senators, the glories of the magistrates—these they must not vulgarize.” Unconvinced by these and similar arguments, the Emperor not only stated his objections there and then, but, after convening the Senate, addressed it as follows: “In my own ancestors, the eldest of whom, Clausus, a Sabine by extraction, was made simultaneously a citizen and the head of a patrician house, I find encouragement to employ the same policy in my administration, by transferring hither all true excellence, let it be found where it will. [He proceeds with a long list of Republican and Imperial precedents for the extension of Roman citizenship throughout Italy.] Is it to be regretted that the Balbi crossed over from Spain and families equally distinguished from Narbonese Gaul? Their descendants remain; nor do they yield to us in love for this native land (amore in hanc patriam). What else proved fatal to Lacedaemon and to Athens, in spite of their power of arms, but their policy of holding the conquered aloof as alien-born? But the sagacity of our own founder Romulus was such that several times he fought and enfranchised a people in the course of the same day! [Other daring innovations are cited as proof that the Roman state was traditionally unafraid to innovate; the Gauls, he then says, were indeed once our enemies, but so were once all the long-enfranchised peoples of Italy.] Now that customs, culture and the ties of marriage have blended them [the Gauls from Gallia Comata] with ourselves, let them bring among us their gold and their riches instead of retaining them beyond the pale! All, Conscript Fathers, that is now believed supremely old has been new… Our innovation, too, will be parcel of the past, and what today we defend by precedents will rank among precedents.”

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The Emperor’s speech was followed by a senatorial decree and the Aedui became the first to acquire senatorial rights in the capital: a concession to a long-standing treaty and to their position as the only Gallic community enjoying the title of brothers of the Roman people.” (Annales, 11.23-24) Both speeches, to and by the Emperor, as reported by Tacitus, are equally “public” in tone and argumentation. The advisors address the Emperor, in a sense, “as if they were addressing a public meeting,” and the Emperor addresses the Senate as if it were a genuine decision-making body. The Emperor’s advisors’ glorification of “the old Republic” was, of course, in no way subversive—the Republic was already “ancient history” by that time, not a politically sensitive issue. Still, what is said about it here seems better suited to a speech before a public forum than in an autocrat’s privy council; except that Roman Emperors themselves, who often shared—or pretended to share—the senatorial view of the world, might actually refer to “the old Republic” in a similar, theoretically-nostalgic way.4 These were, as educated Romans from higher orders knew, the good old days (at any rate before the Republic’s last, turbulent decades), even though all reasonable people understood there was no going back to them, because, under “modern” conditions, that could only mean the renewal of civil wars.

12 Similarly, Tacitus relates the arguments put forward by Nero’s advisors against his rash idea of doing way with indirect taxes “in consequence of repeated demands from the public”: “The tax-collecting companies were set up by consuls and plebeian tribunes while the liberty of the Roman people was still in all its vigor” (Annales, 13.50). Again, this might be a Tacitean cliché rather than one actually used by Nero’s advisors; on the other hand, Tacitus might perhaps be expected to portray the language of Nero’s advisors as even more, rather than less, servile than it could be expected to sound.

13 Going back to Claudius’ speech: exceptionally, we do have a record of what was actually said by the Emperor on this occasion: large parts of the speech were preserved on a bronze tablet found in Lyons. In it, Claudius “plays the senator” even more that in Tacitus’ version, pretending to be unsure of his ability to convince his colleagues, such as they ostensibly were (Augustus had first established the rule that the name of the princeps was put first in the list of senators). He even “reprimands” himself, in the middle of the speech, for abusing their patience by straying away from the topic at hand: I deplore the first thought of all men, which, I foresee, will stand in my path first and foremost, lest you shy away, as if from the introduction of some revolutionary innovation; rather, think instead how many changes have occurred in this state… from the very foundation of the city… But, you may say, is an Italian senator not better than a provincial one for all that? When I come to deal with this part of my censorship, I shall then show you by my actions what I feel on this matter. But not even provincials should be excluded, if they can ornament the Senate House after all… It is now time, Tiberius Caesar Germanicus, to reveal to the Conscript Fathers [the usual way to designate senators in a senatorial speech] where your speech is leading; for now you have come to the farthest borders of Gallia Narbonensis [mentioned in the previous passage]… It was with some timidity, Conscript Fathers, that I left the boundaries of provinces known and familiar to you, but I must now plead the case of Gallia Comata most strenuously…5 Claudius’ self-rebuke in the middle of his speech should perhaps be seen as reflecting his personal idiosyncrasies and his notoriously less-than-dignified manner (on

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occasion); this was hardly the proper way for a princeps to display his civility. 6 But the whole posture of being the senators’ (senior) colleague,7 in need of winning them over by his arguments, rather than being their master, was very much part the tradition, established by Augustus, of how an Emperor, ideally, should appear before the Senate. Of course, the result of the debate was never in any doubt: it was inevitable that the Emperor’s speech would be followed by a senatorial decree accepting his proposal (though it cannot be ruled out that the precise terms of the decree, and the privileging of the Aedui, also reflected the senators’ preferences expressed after the Emperor’s speech). In fact we have, under Claudius, an actual record of an eloquent and almost touching attempt by the Emperor to galvanize the Senate into holding something approaching a genuine debate on an Imperial proposal: If these proposals find favour with you, Conscript Fathers, signify immediately, simply and in accordance with your own opinion; if they do not find favour, devise alternative remedies, but do so here and now; or if you want, perhaps, to take time to consider the matter at a greater leisure, take it, provided that, wherever you are convened, you remember that you are to speak your own opinions. It ill becomes the dignity of this House, Conscript Fathers, that here just one consul designate should speak his opinion drawn verbatim from the motion of the consuls and that the rest should speak one word: [I] agree, and then, when they are disbanded: [we] debated.8 Ultimately, of course, the wish of some of the Emperors (at any rate when they were in a conciliatory mood) to benefit from a genuine senatorial debate, could not prevail over the fundamental logic of Imperial autocracy that militated against it. The Senate in Claudius’ time had already made great strides, even compared with the Senate under Augustus, towards the Senate of the Late Empire that was no longer required even to rubber-stamp Imperial decisions by a formal vote, but rather had them read out before it and met them with repeated enthusiastic acclamations.9

14 Under the first Roman Emperor things were still very different. Suetonius, the biographer of the Caesars, addressing the early second-century (CE) Roman audience, clearly expects his readers (for all that they lived under “good” Emperors) to marvel at the degree of freedom that Roman senators under Augustus still enjoyed: As he was speaking in the Senate someone said to him: “I don’t understand” and another – “I would contradict you if I had the opportunity.” Several times when he was rushing from the Senate in anger at the excessive bickering of the disputants, some shouted after him “Senators ought to have the right of speaking their mind on public affairs.” (Augustus, 54) We also have, from Suetonius, an account of a senior senator actually succeeding in persuading Augustus to change his mind, on an important and sensitive subject, by his intervention in the course of a senatorial debate. The issue was precisely of conferring on the ruler of the title/name of Augustus, in January 27 BCE. The original idea, supported by the ruler himself, was to call him Romulus—as a second founder of the city. This name, however, had uncomfortable associations with royalty, and moreover according to one version of the events, Rome’s first king was assassinated by senators. Eventually, the man history knows as Augustus was persuaded to change his mind and take up this name; remarkably, this appears to have happened in the course of a senatorial debate on this subject: [The princeps received the name of Augustus on a motion of Plancus], who, when some expressed the opinion that he ought to be called Romulus as a second father of the city, carried the proposal that he should rather be named Augustus, on the

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grounds that this was not merely a new title but a more honourable one [because of its sacral associations] (Augustus, 7) Suetonius does not explicitly say that the debate was in the Senate, but this seems to be clearly indicated by his use of technical senatorial terms (sententia, quibusdam censentibus).10 We would certainly have expected any vote in the Senate on a matter of such importance and delicacy to have been merely a ratification of a decision taken beforehand in a narrow circle of the ruler and his close associates. But if any such prior decision had been made before the Senate assembled, Plancus appears to have succeeded in persuading the princeps to change his mind—of course, the final decision of the Senate was in any case bound to follow his wishes—by a speech made in front of hundreds of senators. We see how the art of persuasion could be exercised, effectively, in a Rome that was already an autocratic state—for it was the sole ruler whose opinion was decisive, and needed to be influenced; and moreover, somewhat ironically, the important question of public policy at hand, debated in the Senate with relative openness and freedom, was which sacral title the ruler should receive. Nevertheless, in some significant respects the system still functioned not in a “normal” monarchical way, and this had important consequences in the field of political rhetoric.

15 The second Roman Emperor, Tiberius, still attended meetings of the Senate regularly during the first years of his reign. The inherent tension between the autocratic nature of the regime and still-surviving conventions of public debate on public affairs, in the Emperor’s presence and sometimes with his active participation, created awkward situations. Transacting public business before the wide audience of members of the Roman elite inevitably imposed certain constraints on the Imperial autocracy. On the other hand, it was in the nature of the principate that the whole public aspect of government was used by the regime in order to enhance its legitimacy. A senator was not supposed to be a mere yes-man; he might well disagree with the Emperor—for example by suggesting, on even insisting, that even greater powers and honours should be bestowed on him. In the first days of Tiberius’ reign (before he had even been officially confirmed as princeps—following an elaborate ritual of “refusal,” that was only overcome after the senators persuaded him, with great difficulty, that the supreme interests of the state demanded that he should accept the Imperial power11), the following exchange took place between Tiberius and one of the senators: Valerius Messalla suggested that an oath of allegiance to Tiberius should be renewed annually. To a query from Tiberius, whether that expression of opinion came at his dictation he answered (this was the one form of adulation still left) that he had spoken of his own accord, and, when public interests were in question, he would use no man’s judgment but his own, even at the risk of giving offence. (Tacitus, Annales, 1.8) Similarly, we have a case when the Emperor’s refusal to accept charges of maiestas (lèse-majesté) that seemed to him trivial prompted a protest that was an act of base flattery disguised as a show of senatorial independence (perhaps more in the hope to ingratiating oneself with the ruler than in any genuine attempt to change his mind): Lucius Ennius, a Roman knight, was accused of maiestas, for having converted a statue of the Emperor to the common use of silver plate; but the Caesar forbade the entry of the case for trial, though Ateius Capito protested openly, with a display of freedom (quai per libertatem); “The Senate,” he said, “ought not to have wrested from it the right of decision, nor should so grave an offense pass without punishment. By all means let the Emperor be easy-tempered when it comes to a personal grievance, still he should not be generous in the case of wrongs to the

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commonwealth.” Tiberius understood this for what it was, rather than for what it purported to be, and persisted in his veto. (Tacitus, Annales, 3.70) But the opposite could also happen—a real show of independence disguised as servility and flattery, the result of which was to shame the Emperor into changing his mind: [An accused was charged with] placing his own statue above those of the Caesars, while in another the head of Augustus had been struck off to make room for the portrait of Tiberius.12 This incensed the Emperor so much that, breaking through his taciturnity, he exclaimed that in this case he too would vote, openly and under oath—the object being to impose a similar obligation on the rest. There still lingered even then some traces of dying liberty. And so Cneius Piso asked, “In what order will you register your opinion, Caesar? If first, I shall know what to follow; if last of all, I fear that I may differ from you inadvertently.” Tiberius was deeply moved, and with a meekness that showed how profoundly he rued his unwary outburst, he voted for the acquittal of the defendant on the counts of maiestas. (Tacitus, Annales, 1.74) Piso’s pseudo-servile question put into sharp relief the fact that Tiberius was coercing the Senate—something that he was unwilling to admit openly. We see —here and in general—the importance of the public nature of the proceeding, and of the senatorial audience. In the end, only one man will decide—if he insists on deciding; the Senate, in fact, was no longer a decision-making body but an audience—except for the increasingly minor matters that the Emperor left for it to decide on.13 But the sole ruler is keenly aware of the audience in front of which he acts, representing, as it does, the elite of Roman society;14 he is, to some extent, constrained, in exercising his autocratic power, by cultural conventions that he, avowedly, shares with it. Even the way the Emperor’s close advisors sought to persuade him at confidential consultations, might, according to our sources, be influenced by these cultural conventions (though all we can be sure of is that there was a literary convention to describe those consultations in such a way).

16 Of course, all this applies to those Emperors who wished to be considered “civic.” A tyrant like Gaius Caligula would play a very different game;15 and Tiberius, in his later, more openly despotic years, removed himself not just from the Senate but from the city of Rome altogether. But even Caligula had a “good” period (from the senatorial point of view) at the beginning of his reign, and so did Nero—for a much longer period of time.

17 In the long run, the Senate, as a collective deliberative body, was destined to recede into insignificance, and Roman autocracy was destined to shed, progressively, the features that distinguished it from “normal” autocracies. When Fronto was writing his letter “de eloquentia” to Marcus Aurelius, ca 162 CE, this process was already well under way. Fronto addresses the Emperor as “Lord” (domine, in the vocative), which, as we know from the correspondence of Pliny the Younger with Trajan, had by that time become the usual way to address the Emperor—something that had been emphatically rejected by both Augustus and Tiberius. But, as we have seen, the influence of the senatorial view of the world is still strong. Though they both knew better, Fronto still describes to the Emperor the nature of his office—admittedly, in a context that almost requires exaggerating the importance of rhetoric—in a way that presents him, still, as the first citizen of what is still a commonwealth, whose ability to lead the state is largely dependent on his ability to persuade the Senate—and even the people. Since this description reflects cultural conventions common to both men, we need not assume that there was any deliberate hypocrisy involved.

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18 Roman Imperial political rhetoric, especially under the early Emperors, was thus different, in important ways, from the Chinese one, reflecting a very different political culture and tradition. It is not, however, obvious that the actual power of the Roman Emperor was, essentially, any less absolute than the power of his Chinese counterparts. Precisely because the power of a Roman Emperor was, at least formally, “civic” in its origin, and because he was, in some sense, the first citizen of the commonwealth, there was never any question of reducing him to a largely silent figurehead, too sacred to take active part in political deliberations. The culture of the educated elite influenced, of course, Chinese rulers too; though it accepted and celebrated their absolute power in principle, it seems to have succeeded, in some cases, to impose on its practical exercise restraints that were considerably more far-reaching than the ones in Imperial Rome.

19 It is true that when a Chinese ruler consulted his officials, this was not done in public, before an audience of hundreds. This is a significant difference. But is this quite the whole story? Did these proceedings necessarily lack a wider audience—in an indirect but potentially significant sense? If what was said behind closed doors could be expected to become known outside them, it stands to reason that this might influence what was said by the ruler’s advisors, and even the behaviour of the ruler himself, to the extent that he cared about the relevant public opinion. This, both in China and in Rome, was the opinion of the educated ruling elite (though some remnants of the influence of a wider, popular, public opinion remained in Imperial Rome for a considerable period of time). One recalls, by way of analogy, the famous right to remonstrate possessed by certain Chinese high officials. The remonstrations were addressed, in writing, to the Emperor—but were they not sometimes written with an eye to a wider audience? And, because official records were kept in China much better, and on a much larger scale, than in Rome, there probably was another indirect audience that those who addressed the ruler, and possibly the ruler himself, must sometimes have had in mind: the educated history-reading elite of the future generations. The possible weight of such a consideration should not be underestimated.

NOTES

1. English translations will mostly follow the Loeb edition. 2. Fronto has a more pessimistic account of the earlier Emperors’ capabilities as regards rhetoric, but public eloquence is for him, in this letter and elsewhere, indispensable for an Emperor – Ad Verum Imperatorem, 2.1 (Naber: 119), 6. 3. Fergus Millar (1977). The Emperor in the Roman World, 31 BC-AD 337. Ithaca, Cornell University Press: 203; but Millar refers to HA, Sev. Alex. 25.11, which may indicate that such events may have been more common than we usually assume, even after the Early Principate. 4. See Tacitus, Historiae, 1.16; cf. Annales, 4.9. 5. E. Mary Smallwood (1967). Documents Illustrating the Principates of Gaius, Claudius and Nero. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press: 369. 6. On the virtue of civilitas displayed by “good” Emperors see A. Wallace-Hadrill (1982). “Civilis princeps: Between Citizen and King.” Journal of Roman Studies, no. 72: 32-48.

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7. Cf. Suetonius, Tiberius, 29 for an example of “civic” speech addressed by an Emperor to a fellow-senator, in the House; “I crave your pardon, if in my capacity as a senator I use too free language in opposing you”; cf. Tacitus, Historiae, 2.91. 8. E. Mary Smallwood (1967). Documents Illustrating the Principates of Gaius, Claudius and Nero. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press: 367. 9. A good example is provided by the way the Senate “approved” the Codex Theodisianus in 438 CE: an imperial degree proclaiming the publication of the Codex and its validity in both parts of the Empire was read out before the Senate in Rome and met with 43 different acclamations praising the Emperors (of the East and of the West), each repeated many times—829 acclamations in all, duly recorded—Codex Theodosianus, Gesta senatus Romani de Theodosiano publicando. 10. Cf. Florus, 2.34 (tractatum etiam in senatu an…). 11. Tacitus, Annales, 1. 11-13; Suetonius, Tiberius, 24. 12. Tiberius was evidently incensed because an act disrespectful to his deified father had been committed while honoring him. 13. Suetonius gives examples of senatorial decisions passed against Tiberius’ express opinion (Tiberius, 21). The issues dealt with are trivial, and the phenomenon does not repeat itself after Tiberius’ early years. 14. Cf. Tacitus, Annales, 2.38: Tiberius changes his mind (admittedly, on an issue of no political importance, relating to an impoverished senator’s request for financial assistance) after “feeling the chill” in the Senate, following his initial refusal that was met with “silence and suppressed murmur.” 15. This does not mean that Caligula did not practice public speaking: “As regards liberal studies, he gave little attention to literature but a great deal to oratory, and he was as ready of speech and eloquent as you please, especially if he had occasion to make a charge against anyone”— Suetonius, Gaius, 53; cf. Dio, 59.19.3-4: a senator accused by Caligula escapes death by pretending to be overwhelmed by the Emperor’s eloquence: “repeating the accusation point by point, he praised it as if he were a mere listener and not himself on trial. When the opportunity was given him to speak, he… threw himself on the ground and lying there prostrate played the suppliant to his accuser, pretending to fear him more as an orator than as Emperor. Caligula, accordingly… was melted, believing that he had really overwhelmed Domitius by the eloquence of his speech.”

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Paroles justes, paroles efficaces Just Words, Right Words

Gabrielle Radica

1 En ce qu’elle concerne le pouvoir du langage, la rhétorique, ou art de parler et de persuader, est par elle-même une compétence politique. À ce titre, le prédicateur, l’avocat ou l’amoureux intrigant qui parviennent à modifier les dispositions et les comportements de leurs interlocuteurs en usant efficacement de leur parole pratiquent une sorte de politique entendue en un sens métaphorique. Mais la politique désigne plus spécifiquement une sphère d’activités et de rapports humains, celle de la distribution du pouvoir social, de la détermination de valeurs et de normes collectives, et de la prise de décisions qui engagent le destin d’une communauté, sphère dans laquelle la rhétorique est appelée à exercer un rôle plus précis. En ce second sens du terme « politique », la rhétorique des gouvernants, des conseillers, des idéologues et autres partisans, ou encore celle du simple citoyen se sépare de la rhétorique « de la chaire » et de celle « du barreau ». Tel est le domaine des relations entre rhétorique et politique qui est examiné dans le présent volume.

2 Les situations rhétoriques qu’analysent les différentes contributions ne montrent pas de prise de parole devant une assemblée, ni nécessairement de délibération sur les fins collectives poursuivies par une communauté1, ni enfin d’échange égalitaire et démocratique, toutes conditions que l’on pourrait croire aujourd’hui essentielles à la nature du lien politique. Dans l’Essai sur l’origine des langues, au chapitre XX, Rousseau déploie sur le plan linguistique l’argument développé dans le Contrat social, selon lequel une association d’hommes mus par un intérêt commun est seule digne d’être appelée société. Tout autre lien entre les hommes court le risque de n’être qu’une agrégation d’hommes rassemblés par la force. Dans les anciens temps où la persuasion tenait lieu de force publique, l’éloquence était nécessaire. À quoi servirait-elle aujourd’hui que la force publique supplée à la persuasion ? L’on n’a besoin ni d’art ni de figure pour dire, tel est mon plaisir. Quels discours restent donc à faire au peuple assemblé ? Des sermons. Et qu’importe à ceux qui les font de persuader le peuple, puisque ce n’est pas lui qui nomme aux bénéfices ?

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S’appuyant sur l’hypothèse pessimiste d’une corruption inévitable des sociétés légitimes en sociétés illégitimes, l’auteur ajoute : Les sociétés ont pris leur dernière forme ; on n’y change plus rien qu’avec du canon et des écus, et comme on n’a plus rien à dire au peuple sinon, donnez de l’argent, on le dit avec des placards au coin des rues ou des soldats dans les maisons ; il ne faut assembler personne pour cela ; au contraire, il faut tenir les sujets épars, c’est la première maxime de la politique moderne2. La société n’existe en effet chez cet auteur que fondée sur le contrat social, à savoir une parole échangée entre égaux, et reconduite dans son existence à chaque délibération portant sur l’intérêt collectif. Les rapports de domination et d’influence sont rejetés hors de la politique car ils courent le risque d’être mêlés de force et de violence illégitimes.

3 Pour autant, ces conditions de la parole politique sont fortement situées dans le temps et l’espace, à savoir dans l’horizon d’une tradition démocratique européenne qui prend pour modèles – souvent idéalisés ou reconstruits – la démocratie athénienne, les assemblées du sénat et du peuple à Rome, la pratique oratoire des parlements anglais, américain et français. Mais cette définition de la politique aboutit paradoxalement à supprimer le recours à la rhétorique : Rousseau condamne la démagogie et pense que l’on ne doit délibérer qu’en son for intérieur sur l’intérêt commun ; la reconnaissance de ce dernier doit être l’objet d’une conviction et même d’une persuasion, dans laquelle toutefois nulle manipulation extérieure, nulle déformation partisane ne doivent interférer. Cette conception puriste de la politique ignore toutes les situations intermédiaires comme les entreprises diplomatiques, les négociations, les moments de crise et de redéfinition du lien politique, les situations de guerre où paroles et violences se trouvent imbriquées. Aussi, remettre en question ces réquisits sur la nature du lien politique permettrait peut-être de faire ressurgir le lieu des rapports entre rhétorique et politique comme celui précisément où l’intérêt général n’est pas opposé strictement aux intérêts privés et attend de recevoir sa définition de différents discours, comme celui où le règne de la force ne se distingue pas de celui du droit et du lien pacifique, comme celui où l’inégalité de statut est parfois renversée par une inégalité oratoire symétrique. En d’autres termes, c’est moins en lisant Platon – selon qui le sophiste s’oppose au philosophe-roi, et pour qui la cité doit se régler sur le Vrai – ou Rousseau, lequel coupe strictement le droit du domaine de la violence, ou encore, plus près de nous, Ricœur, qui affirme que la parole politique doit échapper au piège de la « manipulation fallacieuse3 », qu’en lisant Aristote ou Tocqueville, chez qui les intérêts se composent et se définissent par négociation, discussion et compromis, ou encore Naudé, Machiavel et les penseurs de la raison d’État en général, qui font de la politique l’objet des arcana imperii, que l’on pourra comprendre les rapports de la rhétorique et de la politique. Au lieu d’opposer une tradition européenne à une tradition chinoise concernant la pensée de ces rapports entre rhétorique et politique, il conviendrait plutôt d’opposer les conceptions qui ignorent leur interaction à celles qui la précisent et l’élaborent, puisque cette opposition apparaît aussi bien dans le contexte chinois : Confucius distingue entre une éthique de la parole exigeante, où les mots devraient se raréfier et correspondre le mieux possible aux actions d’une part, et l’accommodement nécessaire avec les circonstances qui contraint d’accepter l’avènement des orateurs politiques d’autre part (voir l’article d’Albert Galvany, « Sly mouths and silver tongues »).

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4 Les articles présentés dans le volume définissent des rapports entre rhétorique et politique où la parole doit engager ou arrêter la violence militaire, où l’intérêt particulier du conseiller s’associe à l’intérêt collectif, converge avec celui du souverain ou au contraire s’en écarte, où le lien politique ne repose pas sur une parole performative ressaisissant et refondant à chaque fois la totalité de la société, mais se tisse dans une série de décisions et d’actes particuliers, influencés par les discours, et capables ou non de produire et maintenir un État prospère.

5 Or, dès lors que la parole est étudiée moins dans ses rapports à la vérité qu’en tant qu’action, ce sont les conditions et les circonstances dans lesquelles cette action prend place qui importent pour l’analyse : la lecture des articles de ce volume permet de développer plus particulièrement trois remarques sur les rapports qu’entretiennent la rhétorique et la politique, liées à la singularité du contexte chinois. La première concerne la détermination qu’impose la forme du gouvernement et des institutions aux modalités de la parole ; la seconde, la façon dont le danger de parler et celui de se laisser persuader impriment au discours des caractéristiques particulières qu’il est au demeurant délicat de reconstituer (comment parler à demi-mot ou écrire entre les lignes ?) ; enfin, la dernière remarque porte sur la difficulté de mettre cette parole en règles, et de considérer la compétence rhétorique comme un art.

Les conditions institutionnelles d’exercice de la rhétorique

6 Le déploiement de l’art oratoire dépend fortement des conditions politiques qui lui sont offertes pour s’exercer : si les hommes du XVIIIe siècle ne pensaient plus voir réapparaître les conditions grecques ou romaines de la vraie éloquence, ils faisaient la différence entre le régime anglais parlementaire qui revivifie la possibilité de l’art oratoire d’une part, et le régime monarchique français dans lequel seule la chaire donne carrière à l’éloquence. On n’est pas éloquent à propos d’un mur mitoyen affirme Voltaire dans l’article « Éloquence » de l’Encyclopédie, mais seulement sur des intérêts collectifs qui emportent une adhésion large. On l’a vu, le peuple assemblé, la liberté de parole, l’importance de la discussion et de l’égalité des participants semblent propices au développement de l’éloquence. Pourtant la relation monarchique ou impériale fortement inégalitaire n’aura pas empêché, ainsi que le montrent les articles de ce volume, le déploiement d’une rhétorique particulière, celle de ces conseillers voyageurs doués dans l’art de la parole, qui adressaient aux différents souverains des discours visant à influencer leurs décisions.

7 De telles conditions politiques influent sur la nature de cette rhétorique. En premier lieu, le contexte géopolitique, une situation de redéfinition permanente des frontières et d’instabilité militaire orientent, le regard sur l’efficacité du discours et font de la sanction des événements la sanction du discours de l’orateur. En second lieu, la nature des relations de l’orateur et du souverain s’avère également déterminante. Dans L’ Homme de cour, Baltasar Gracian (1601-1658) énonce les conditions d’une maîtrise de soi et d’une vie réussie dans une société curiale, reposant sur un système de distinctions, mais aussi sur différents commerces, échanges de services et de faveurs, ainsi que sur l’importance de la réputation. L’art de converser et de négocier est essentiel, et situé en ordre d’importance immédiatement en dessous de l’action. Aussi l’homme habile s’emploie-t-il à faire avancer ses objectifs en étudiant son adversaire et en le trompant

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éventuellement sur ses fins : il peut par exemple essayer de lui faire croire qu’il épouse sa cause, lui mentir, etc. Mais le jeu se complexifie, car l’interlocuteur se prémunit à son tour contre de telles tromperies, engageant l’adversaire à se prémunir derechef, etc. Il arrive que l’homme habile redouble de tromperie en ne trompant plus, et en « usant » de la vérité comme d’un instrument de tromperie. Le jeu d’entre- ajustement ne s’arrête pas tant que l’échange continue et que les paroles circulent dans un sens et dans l’autre. Rien de tel qui soit concevable dans les situations typiques décrites dans les contributions du présent numéro, dans la mesure où la complexification indéfinie des règles du jeu subit un coup d’arrêt inévitable en raison de l’asymétrie absolue qui caractérise les rapports du conseiller et du souverain. Celle- ci interdit un tel processus de raffinement prolongé des procédés rhétoriques et des manipulations. L’orateur-écrivain se trouve dans une situation radicalement différente de celle du souverain, qui, pour sa part, répond à l’éventuelle tentative de manipulation de l’orateur en lui opposant une apparence impénétrable, préludant parfois à une sanction fatale en cas d’échec de l’action recommandée, d’insatisfaction personnelle, ou simplement d’inconvenance jugée intolérable du propos tenu par le conseiller. Idéalement, le souverain ne parle pas, ou seulement pour juger et trancher ; par-dessus tout, il évite d’entrer dans le jeu des échanges oratoires ou des joutes verbales (voir la première partie de l’article de Romain Graziani sur le Han Feizi).

Rhétorique et persécution

8 L’orateur risque beaucoup dans ces discours et il développe de ce fait un art de s’exprimer qui doit non seulement atteindre les objectifs de persuasion, mais aussi garantir sa survie : connaissant les risques, certains orateurs commencent leur discours par des appels à la sanction, peut-être pour mieux les conjurer4.

9 La censure et le danger de parler, accrus par le contexte politique inégalitaire, n’empêchent pourtant pas de faire passer un message ; ces entreprises renvoient à la question traitée par Leo Strauss de l’art d’écrire en contexte de persécution, ou art d’« écrire entre les lignes5 ». « La persécution […] ne peut empêcher la pensée indépendante. Elle ne peut même pas en empêcher l’expression », affirme Strauss. « La persécution ne peut même pas empêcher l’expression publique de la vérité hétérodoxe, car un homme dont la pensée est indépendante peut exprimer publiquement ses opinions sans dommage, pourvu qu’il agisse avec prudence. Il peut même les faire imprimer, sans courir aucun danger, pourvu qu’il soit capable d’écrire entre les lignes » (p. 56-57). Défendre une telle hypothèse à propos de l’écrit suppose d’y voir à l’œuvre une « technique particulière d’écriture » qui contraint au demeurant à une technique particulière de lecture toujours soumise à révision. L’art d’écrire est un art paradoxal qui peut se définir de différentes façons : faire passer un message à certains et pas à d’autres dans le même texte, ou bien un message à certains et un message différent à d’autres.

10 Certes, Strauss s’intéresse à des situations où une censure établie ou bien une condamnation sociale plus diffuse guettent l’écrivain qui s’écarte de l’orthodoxie, et il privilégie le cas des philosophes à l’esprit indépendant qui s’émancipent de la pensée dominante, alors que les écrivains et historiens dont il est question ici craignent plus immédiatement la sanction redoutable du souverain. Mais il n’en demeure pas moins que c’est bien un tel art qui est décrit dans les troisième, quatrième et cinquième

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articles de ce recueil : ne pourrait-on par exemple supposer un double lectorat auquel s’adresserait simultanément Shang Yang (p. 18), non pas, comme c’est le cas chez Strauss, d’une part l’élite éclairée, d’autre part le vulgaire, mais d’une part les élites en place et d’autre part, une frange marginalisée de la population aspirant à des postes de pouvoir ? (Pour ce qui est de l’utilisation de l’expression fourre-tout de « min ben », « le peuple au fondement de la pratique politique », par le conseiller de la maison des Han, Jia Yi, il est bien question en revanche de repérer simultanément un message élitiste et un message adressé au peuple, grâce à l’ambivalence de la formule, qui n’est en rien précurseur du concept de démocratie d’après l’auteur de l’article.)

11 C’est encore un art d’écrire raffiné qu’expose Dorothee Schaab-Hanke à propos des historiens père et fils Sima Tan et Sima Qian qui, dans les Mémoires historiques, réussissent à pratiquer une « rhétorique de trahison » envers l’empereur Wu par la référence à un passage du Gongyang Zhuan relatant le moment où Confucius perd l’espoir de voir apparaître un sage gouvernant, à cause du mauvais augure que représente à ses yeux la capture d’une licorne, et où il n’envisage plus sa venue que dans un futur éloigné. Or la référence à ce passage est une occasion dans les Mémoires historiques de critiquer l’expansionnisme de l’empereur Wu, sa gestion arbitraire des fiefs, ses naïvetés et inconvenances dans l’usage des sacrifices. Aussi la compréhension de ces ouvrages requiert-elle un art de lire qui n’est jamais assuré d’atteindre la certitude, mais doit risquer des hypothèses plausibles afin de distinguer la part plus conciliatrice du père, la part cynique et désabusée du fils. À cet égard, la différence entre l’histoire et la fiction apparaît des plus ténues : l’article de Paul van Els montre à partir de cas précis combien l’étude minutieuse du recours aux anecdotes peut être féconde et révéler que telle ou telle façon de raconter la même anecdote peut promouvoir une vision politique du monde contre une autre.

Rhétorique, art militaire et médecine

12 Concevoir la rhétorique comme un art présente quelques paradoxes, ce que montrent Shang Yang, qui recourt à l’écriture pour dénoncer les arts, et l’exaspérant charron qui dénigre les lectures du duc Huan (Paul van Els, « Tilting Vessels and Collapsing Walls »), pointant ainsi tous deux, l’un comme auteur, l’autre comme personnage, le problème de l’art rhétorique. Leur attitude rappelle celle de Rousseau condamnant les arts tout en y voyant le dernier remède à la corruption qu’ils ont causée, ou encore celle de Socrate qui affiche son mépris pour les œuvres écrites. L’art rhétorique est en effet condamné à user de paroles pour provoquer un changement à un niveau sur lequel les paroles n’ont pas de prise certaine, ou qui relève d’un autre domaine qu’elles : les motifs, les intentions. D’où le caractère toujours insuffisant de la parole, et le risque de fonctionner à vide sans s’arrimer aux choses sur lesquelles elle cherche pourtant à opérer. Quoique dans sa visée même la rhétorique soit par essence compromise, les pages livrées ici permettent d’en éclairer le statut technique.

13 Si l’on considère l’ordre des moyens et des fins, ainsi que l’architectonique des arts, on constate que la rhétorique prélude ou succède au recours à l’art militaire (on incite à poursuivre une guerre, on en dissuade), qu’elle collabore avec lui, voire qu’elle y supplée (les paroles justes de Xiangzi, étudiées par Van Els, sur le rempart effondré lui valent une victoire sur le peuple mieux remportée que par n’importe quelle manœuvre militaire). Mais si l’on considère en quoi consiste l’activité, une analogie de structure

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est également repérable avec l’art militaire, puisque l’orateur est une sorte de stratège qui prend possession de l’âme de son adversaire. Ceci révèle autant d’après Albert Galvany la violence à l’œuvre dans l’art oratoire que l’intelligence et le savoir déployés dans toute stratégie : la connaissance de l’adversaire (le souverain) devra être bien plus précise et singulière que les opinions que le rhéteur grec prête grosso modo à l’assemblée qu’il veut convaincre. Le registre de la neutralité et de la transparence porte des connotations très différentes chez un auteur comme Platon et dans le contexte chinois. Alors que le sophiste est présenté dans La République comme celui qui promène un miroir sur la foule et ne fait que lui renvoyer ce qu’elle est, l’orateur chinois doit imiter le stratège militaire, en devenant aussi fluide que l’eau pour échapper à la saisie de l’adversaire.

14 Savoir s’adapter à toute situation et se rendre insaisissable à force de changer, c’est développer un savoir pratique et singulier, loin des recettes et des mauvaises généralisations auxquelles se réduit l’art sophistique selon Platon6. L’emploi de l’art oratoire est paradoxal au sens où sa victoire comme sa défaite le disqualifient semblablement : en cas de défaite, la sanction de l’événement retombe sur les conseils du mauvais orateur et en cas de victoire, il faut comprendre qu’on l’avait obtenue avant même de parler, parce qu’on a suffisamment miré l’adversaire (voir l’article de Galvany).

15 La rhétorique requiert donc un savoir psychologique. Si elle peut être tantôt poison, tantôt remède, ce n’est pas parce qu’elle dirait tantôt la vérité, tantôt la déformerait. Romain Graziani montre à cet égard que la rhétorique peut soigner selon des voies dont on ne peut totalement rendre compte, et devient même une sorte de travail « psychanalytique » avant la lettre.

NOTES

1. L’article de Yuri Pines sur Shang Yang présente à cet égard une exception. 2. Rousseau, Jean-Jacques (1959-1995). Œuvres complètes. 5 vol., éd. Gagnebin et Raymond. Paris, Gallimard, « Bibliothèque de la Pléiade » : t. 5, 428. 3. Ricœur, Paul (1991). « Langage politique et rhétorique ». In Ricœur, Paul, Lectures 1. Autour du politique. Paris, Éditions du Seuil : 166. 4. Ce péril propre à la situation de conseiller n’est pas lié au contexte autoritaire et hiérarchique, puisque l’on doit rappeler que les Spartiates proposaient des lois la corde au cou. Toutefois les dangers qui guettent celui qui s’est exprimé imprudemment semblent omniprésents dans les descriptions offertes par l’ensemble des articles ici recueillis. 5. Strauss, Leo (1989). « La persécution et l’art d’écrire ». In Strauss, Leo, La Persécution et l’Art d’ écrire, trad. Olivier Berrichon-Sedeyn. Paris, Press Pocket : 55-74. 6. Voir le Protagoras et le Phèdre.

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