Ox-cart chatter: A collection of reader reviews, V - The grand fireworks beneath the bamboo grove: Li Ruoxi on Ruan Ji

When I listened to stories as a child, what I loved most was their misty, faraway beginnings. A long, long time ago, in a certain place, there was a certain group of people who, at a certain time, did XXXX. Everything seemed so beautiful when a story had only just begun.

In the fifth year of Zhengshi, or AD 244, Ruan Ji brought three friends to the bamboo grove near Ji Kang's home in Shanyang: his nephew Ruan Xian, his much younger friend Wang Rong, and Liu Ling, a drinking companion he had happened to meet on the road. Ji Kang was still forging iron in the bamboo grove with his muscular upper body bare, while Xiang Xiu worked the bellows at his usual unhurried pace. The two looked up and gave Ruan Ji and his companions friendly smiles by way of greeting. Shan Tao, who had been dismissed from office and retired into seclusion, heard that Ruan Ji had arrived and hurried over to Ji Kang's home in an ox cart. Meeting old friends and new was a great pleasure. At last, the Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove had their grand gathering.

Ji Kang, Ruan Ji, Shan Tao, Xiang Xiu, Ruan Xian, Wang Rong, and Liu Ling-seven literary geniuses of differing styles-cast aside the worldly realm where the Sima and Cao clans fought until heaven and earth grew dark, and hid in this naturally graceful, secluded bamboo grove. By then, the "eminent scholars of the Zhengshi Era" had virtually all been slaughtered by the Sima clan. Only Xiahou Xuan, serving on the Liangzhou front against the Shu Han regime, had escaped disaster. The master of metaphysical philosophy Wang Bi had also died young. The "Music of the Zhengshi Era," described as an "awakening of human nature" and a "transcendence of the spiritual realm" in Chinese history, finally faded into silence and vanished.

These seven fellows in the bamboo grove shook off their shoes, climbed onto the banquet mats, and, fortified by alcohol and fragrant tea, began tinkering with a revival of metaphysical philosophy. This was a thoroughgoing "Renaissance" in the history of the two Jin dynasties. Confucian thought, which had never recovered from the decline of ritual morality since the Eastern Han, was finally defeated utterly by Daoist thought, ushering in the most unusual age in Chinese history: the two Jin dynasties, when Daoism governed the realm.

Let us first talk about the newcomers attending this gathering.

"Ruan Xian, a vivid, indelible name etched into the 2008 Olympics"

All his life, Ruan Xian regarded his uncle Ruan Ji as the model of an eminent scholar and the greatest pride of the Ruan family. A little brat who had followed at the heels of Ruan Ji, renowned for his wild eccentricity, since childhood naturally had an amusing childhood tale of his own.

The Ruan family had two branches, living across the road from one another, roughly like the eastern, western, southern, and northern buildings of the Chen family compound in A Refined Scholar of the Cold. The Ruans north of the road had a keen political nose and, in that age of tangled power struggles, picked the right side every time. Thus, they enjoyed wealth and status, a grand family behind imposing gates. The Ruans south of the road were largely blessed with artistic sensibilities. Literary people were sensitive souls whose political intelligence had practically no lower limit, so their fortunes had fallen badly, leaving them little better off than humble families. Ruan Ji and Ruan Xian both belonged to the poor Ruans south of the road.

Now then, one sunny afternoon with a gentle breeze, it was a fine time to air clothes. The Ruans north of the road hung theirs out, a dazzling array of silks and satins that positively assaulted the senses with wealth.

The passersby were all envious. Passersby generally included plenty of idlers, and where idlers gathered, conversation followed. After marveling at and envying the Ruans north of the road, they turned around: why had the Ruans south of the road not hung out any clothes? Ruan Xian happened to hear this. Without another word, the young fellow ran home, dug out two pairs of ragged trousers, found a bamboo pole in the courtyard, and boldly hung them up. Instantly, the whole street lit up! Whoa, what a powerful aura-it struck the audience like lightning. The spectators were puzzled. Was this brat deliberately hanging up torn trousers to make people look bad? Ruan Xian laughed and said, "Since they're being so 'common,' I can't escape the 'common' custom either. I'll hang something up for them to look at too!" The spectators stood there in bewilderment, while Ruan Xian laughed smugly and strode away.

Ruan Xian once drank with his clansmen. They normally drank from cups, but whenever they saw him coming, they switched to a large basin, set it in the middle, and all drank together. As they drank, a herd of pigs caught the scent of the wine and shuffled over to the basin for a drink too. Ruan Xian simply joined the pigs in drinking around the basin. What did it mean to follow one's natural instincts? What did it mean to share joy with pigs? Anyway, across thousands of years of our vast Chinese civilization, this was the only lofty soul I had ever seen who had made drinking buddies of pigs.

A youthful tale of romantic exploits

Ruan Xian admired his uncle Ruan Ji, so naturally he was unrestrained and paid no heed to ritual propriety. When Ruan Xian's mother fell gravely ill, his aunt came to visit. Somehow, this fellow took a fancy to a Xianbei maidservant attending his aunt. After exchanging a few flirtatious glances, the two began an illicit affair-oh, no, they developed feelings. One dark and windy night, the young man and woman, unable to contain their passion, sneaked off to a secluded spot. Ablaze with desire, they touched each other heedlessly and swore never to part. Dry kindling met a fierce flame, and raw rice was cooked into a done deal.

Later, Ruan Xian's mother died, and he had to put on hemp mourning clothes and observe mourning. After attending the funeral, his aunt prepared to return to her husband's home. At first, she had promised to leave the maidservant behind, but when she departed, she secretly took her along. Ruan Xian was in the mourning hall thanking visitors when he heard, and immediately borrowed a guest's donkey to give chase. When he caught up, still wearing his mourning clothes, he said, "The human seed must not be lost," took the maidservant, and rode back with her on the same donkey. The later writer Ruan Fu was the son of Ruan Xian and this maidservant.

In Demi-Gods and Semi-Devils, when Duan Yu first met Young Master Murong, he felt ashamed of his own inferiority and thought he could never wrest his fairy sister away from this handsome, distinguished young gentleman. This showed that the Xianbei, especially the Murong family, produced the most beautiful men and women. When Fu Jian of Former Qin destroyed Great Yan, he brought its eleven- or twelve-year-old crown prince and his elder sister into his harem, doting on them and cherishing them like treasures. The human tragedy of a sister and brother serving one husband arose because the Murong family's genes were simply too good. The little Murong crown prince was probably ten times more alluring than Brother Chun; otherwise, he would never have fallen into the hands of Fu Jian, that coarse, stupid lout with a hairy chest.

There were far too many nobles with a taste for men back then, and it was considered an elegant pastime they could boast about. That was why I had always wondered whether Chen Caozhi, known as the "Wei Jie of Jiangzuo" in A Refined Scholar of the Cold, would manage to keep his chrysanthemum intact. Being handsome really was a sorrow sometimes.

Ruan Xian was also an outstanding musician, skilled at the pipa and well versed in musical theory. He was said to have modified the pipa introduced from Kucha, and later generations also called it the ruanxian, or ruan for short. Xun Xu, director of the Palace Secretariat, often discussed music with Ruan Xian and admitted he could not compare. This bred jealousy, and he transferred Ruan Xian to serve as governor of Shiping, which was why later generations called him Ruan Shiping. During the Kaiyuan reign of the Tang dynasty, a bronze pipa was excavated from Ruan Xian's tomb and named the "ruanxian," or "ruan" for short. It had a straight neck, a round wooden resonating chamber, four strings, and twelve frets, and was held upright and plucked by hand. In the Tang dynasty, the pipa was an instrument used to convey orders in the army, hence the line, "Drunk we lie, while the pipa urges us on from horseback." In traditional Chinese orchestras, the ruanxian family included the zhongruan and daruan, serving as the middle voices among the plucked strings.

The 2008 Beijing Olympics, which drew the eyes of the world, made a lavish display of traditional elements, including a traditional Chinese orchestra bolstered by the ruanxian.

"The Grandet of the East-Wang Rong"

This fellow was a notorious miser in Chinese history, with numerous accounts recorded in A New Account of Tales of the World and the Book of Jin. In the review section for A Refined Scholar of the Cold, there was a piece by the esteemed Yashalong titled "A Carnival of Drugs and Sex-the Hippies of the Jin Dynasty." Those interested could go read it themselves.

"Heaven gave birth to Liu Ling, whose name was made through wine"

Here he came, another legendary fellow making his entrance. This guy loved wine as dearly as life itself and was a famous wine immortal in Chinese history. Apparently, Hebei Province really did produce a liquor called Liu Ling Drunk these days, and its sales were quite good. It was even a venerable brand that had been in business for centuries, a treasure eligible for an application to the United Nations for intangible cultural heritage status.

A wild drunkard-if he also knew a few sword techniques and had a lean, refined face, he would be the very image of a "wine sword immortal." Delightfully enough, our esteemed Liu Ling's looks really did his mother no credit. At most 1.45 meters tall, he would absolutely count as severely disabled today, the incurable kind. Add his ugly face, and for a creepy uncle like this, having a romance would be sheer luxury. There was only one solution: throw money at it! Stack up a thick pile of RMB to stand on until he was as tall as a sizzling beauty, and only then would he have a chance to take her out for a spin. Just a spin, mind you-if he wanted things to go any further, he would have to keep throwing money.

Liu Ling was lucky to have been born in ancient times, and into a gentry family at that. Not only could he afford food, wine, and a set of wheels, but he could also find himself a good wife. I had no idea whether Brother Liu's wife was pretty, but she was certainly virtuous, and I had proof: once, with tears and snot streaming down her face, his wife pleaded with him, "Husband, you drink too much. This is no way to preserve your health. Please, you must give it up!" Liu Ling replied, "All right! But I can't quit drinking by my own strength. I must swear before the gods before I can stop. Sorry for the trouble, but prepare some wine and meat to sacrifice to them." His wife believed him and brought wine and meat. Liu Ling placed them before the altar, knelt, and prayed, "Heaven gave birth to Liu Ling, whose name was made through wine; one hu at a draught, five dou to dispel the hangover. A woman's words must never be heeded." With that, he took the wine and meat and ended up dead drunk again.

Liu Ling was also among China's earlier performance artists, fashionable and bold, willing to give his all for art. Sometimes, when drunk, he wore nothing and lay naked in his room. Visitors who came looking for him called his behavior disgraceful, but he answered, "Heaven and earth are my house, and this house is my clothes and trousers. Why have you crawled into my crotch?" Taking a house for his underpants showed that Brother Liu must have been exceptionally endowed, both hard and thick. As the saying went, when God closed a door on you, he opened a window to make up for it. God had denied Brother Liu stature and looks, but satisfied his masculine pride. Being a big man was wonderful.

Liu Ling also liked traveling alone. He often rode in a deer cart with a jug of wine and a hoe loaded at the back, telling the attendant following him, "If I drink myself to death, just bury me wherever I fall!" Pay attention: what kind of ride did Brother Liu have? A deer cart! Back then, ordinary wealthy households drove ox carts, with only a very few driving horse carriages. Did the short Brother Liu, with his luxuriant beard and bulging belly, not resemble the Santa Claus of Western legend as he drove his deer cart? These days, he would absolutely be a top-grade elderly bottom. Men and women, young and old, beautiful and ugly, would all stare at him with blazing eyes until he grew embarrassed and handed out Christmas presents.

This ugly, disheveled man sat crookedly on it, cradling a wine jar. He hummed a little tune and went on drinking heartily. Although it was a self-drive tour, he had a driver. If his own driver drove the cart, could that not count as a self-drive tour? Letting out a thoroughly satisfying wine belch, Brother Liu instructed the servant carrying a shovel behind the cart, "If I drink myself to death on the road, just dig a hole right there and bury me!" After that, he paid no further attention. The servant meekly agreed, but wondered blankly, Could he really not even want the ancestral graveyard anymore? According to the Yixian Gazetteer, he once traveled through southern Shandong, died of drunkenness, and was buried in what was now Liuyao Village northeast of Yicheng, within Xiwangzhuang Township, Shizhong District, Zaozhuang City. Living drunk and dying in a dream, finally perishing in a tender haven brewed from fine wine-Brother Liu died a fitting death.

Ji Kang had people prepare the feast, and the fellows sat on the ground, sipping tea, drinking wine, and sitting knee to knee in pure conversation. Ruan Xian was a quiet young literary man with good manners. He simply listened as his uncle Ruan Ji debated Ji Kang, Xiang Xiu, and the others, occasionally sipping some clear wine. Wang Rong was a shrewd one and only got along with Ruan Ji. Had Ruan Ji not said, "Come on, I'll take you to meet some impressive fellows, all very creative young artists," Wang Rong probably would never have left Luoyang in his entire life to come to this place where birds would not even shit and form some "Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove" artistic ensemble with these strange-looking people. He preferred going solo. Brother Liu naturally concentrated on getting drunk, occasionally chipping in a word or two. Having gone to all the trouble of coming, surely he could show off a little learning? Shan Tao was wooden and said little, always listening with a gentle smile as Ruan Ji, Ji Kang, and Xiang Xiu debated. By this point, Ruan Ji had completed his transformation from a defender of feudal orthodoxy into a Daoist adept. He was bloody formidable at pure conversation. Ordinary scholars would be talked into stupefaction within a few exchanges and could only stare helplessly as he held forth. In truth, Ruan Ji had been lonely for a long time. Fortunately, Xiang Xiu and Ji Kang were both incisive in their metaphysical discussions, so the three sprayed spit as they talked until heaven and earth went dark. Brother Liu occasionally passed over a bowl of clear wine, which the parched Ruan Ji drained in one gulp before plunging back into abstruse endless loops such as, "Who was I before I was born? Who will be me after my body dies?" This was much like "Which came first, the chicken or the egg?"-an exceedingly profound philosophical proposition involving a great deal of biology and theology, which might yield no result even after eight or ten years of discussion.

Besides drinking and pure conversation, they also played instruments. As mentioned above, Ruan Xian played the guitar-the ruan-and Ji Kang was a top-tier guzheng and qin player. I had always stubbornly believed that Wang Rong must have known how to play the vertical bamboo flute, but simply never showed it because his mind was elsewhere when he came. There we had it: with guitar, piano, and clarinet, a thoroughly complete orchestra was established. Add Liu Ling's fondness for beating wine jars, and their ensemble accompaniment to Ruan Ji's soft whistling instantly put Huang Yaoshi's "The Jade Sea's Rising Tide" in the shade. Ruan Ji's whistle resembled a dragon's chant and a phoenix's cry; this was recorded in the histories. Besides being a celebrated performer, Ji Kang was also a leading composer. His two pieces "Long Clarity" and "Short Clarity" were once popular north and south of the great river. With Ji Kang composing, Ruan Ji giving voice, and the orchestra playing, Vitas's dolphin notes and Brother Zeng's sheep voice were all useless. What was art? This was art!

I often thought that if this orchestra formed by the Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove could have toured the major cities, tickets would surely have sold like wildfire, emptying every alley as crowds poured out. With the shrewd, seasoned Shan Tao as manager and Xiang Xiu as announcer, it would have been perfect. Putting on this appearance of losing themselves in frivolous pursuits would surely have kept the Sima clan from bothering them later. Delightfully enough, Wang Rong, who loved gold and silver, and Shan Tao, who had his heart set on an official career, would certainly never have agreed. And so this tragedy-this "cup"-was placed early on the Sima clan's tea table. One gentle push, and shattered porcelain covered the floor.

And later, this story had no later. Beneath my pen, it came to an abrupt halt. Revelry always left a littered mess behind; splendor gave way to a desolate air of separation everywhere. In the bamboo grove of Shanyang, a group called the Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove held a grand feast in AD 244, drinking, playing music, discussing metaphysics, and debating the Dao. With their splendid literary gifts, they set off a magnificent burst of fireworks in the brilliant starry sky of Chinese literary history. In both literary and intellectual terms, these fireworks bloomed from the Eastern Jin through the High Tang and on to the present day. The fireworks remained while the spectators changed. Whether later generations praised or condemned them, they followed their own inspiration as naturally as the men who had set them off.