One Written Word is Worth

A Thousand Pieces of Gold

ADELINE YEN MAH

Dedicated to my husband Bob,

who knows me better than I know myself (zhi ji) and makes everything worthwhile.

CONTENTS

Note on Pronunciation

Preface

1 Loss of One Hair from Nine Oxen

2 Precious Treasure Worth Cherishing

3 One Written Word is Worth a Thousand Pieces of Gold

4 Binding your Feet to Prevent your own Progress

5 Clapping with One Hand Produces No Sound

6 When the Map is Unrolled, the Dagger is Revealed

7 Burning Books and Burying Scholars

8 Words that Would Cause a Nation to Perish

9 Pointing to a Deer and Calling it a Horse

10 Little Sparrows with Dreams of Swans

11 Destroy the Cooking Cauldrons and Sink the Boats

12 This Young Man is Worth Educating

13 Banquet at Wild Goose Gate

14 Dressed in the Finest Brocades to Parade in the Dark of Night

15 Plot to Sow Discord and Create Enmity

16 The Heart of the People Belongs to Han

17 The Human Heart is Difficult to Fathom

18 Devising Strategies in a Command Tent

List of Proverbs

Index

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Adeline Yen Mah

Copyright

About the Publisher

Note on Pronunciation

Chinese is a pictorial, not a phonetic, language. Words are pronounced differently in different provinces, even though they are written in the same way and have the same meaning. This was true even during the time of the Warring States (475–221 BC). The historian Sima Qian began the biography of the assassin Jing Ke with these words: ‘Jing Ke was born in the state of Wei [present-day Henan province]. The natives of Wei pronounced his name Master Qing, but those from the state of Yan called him Master Jing.’

After the Communists conquered China in 1949, they standardised the phonetic spelling of Chinese characters throughout China according to the Beijing dialect, or Mandarin, and called it Pinyin. Pinyin is defined as the phonetic, alphabetic spelling of Chinese writing.

I would like to introduce a few famous figures from Chinese history to western readers using Pinyin. This is not an exhaustive list of all the names that appear in this book, of course, but it gives an overall flavour of how Chinese names are pronounced.

Preface | Deng Xiaoping should be pronounced Dung Shiaoping because the letter X is pronounced SH in Pinyin.
| Zhuangzi should be pronounced Jwaang Tze because the letters Zh are pronounced J in Pinyin.
| Li Si should be pronounced Lee Si because Li is pronounced Lee.
| King Zheng should be pronounced King Jung.
| Qin should be pronounced Chin because the letter Q is pronounced Ch.
| Zhao should be pronounced Jow.
| Qi should be pronounced Chee.
Chapter 1 | Sima Qian should be pronounced Sima Chien.
| Ren should be pronounced Run because en is pronounced un in Pinyin.
| Zhou dynasty should be pronounced Jo dynasty.
| Qin Shi Huangdi should be pronounced Chin Shi Hwangdee.
Chapter 2 | Zhong Kui should be pronounced Jong Kwei.
Chapter 3 | Xi should be pronounced She.
Chapter 5 | Han Feizi should be pronounced Haan Fay Tze.
| Jiang Qing should be pronounced Jiang Ching.
Chapter 7 | Xu Fu should be pronounced Shü Foo.
| Zhang Liang should be pronounced Jaan Liang.
| Meng Tian should be pronounced Mung Tien.
Chapter 8 | Meng Yi should be pronounced Mung Yee.
| Zhao Gao should be pronounced Jow Gow.
| Hu Hai should be pronounced Who Hi.
| Fu Su should be pronounced Foo Soo.
Chapter 9 | Xiang Yu should be pronounced Shiang Yu.
| Liu Bang should be pronounced Liu Baang.
Chapter 10 | Zhang Han should be pronounced Jaang Haan.
Chapter 11 | Fan Kuai should be pronounced Faan Kwai.
| Sima Xin should be pronounced Sima Sheen.
Chapter 12 | Xiao He should be pronounced Shiao Huh.
Chapter 14 | Hahn Xin should be pronounced Hahn Shin.
Chapter 16 | Kuai Tung should be pronounced Kwai Tung.

Unlike the western world, Chinese surnames are pronounced first, to be followed by the given names. For instance, my maiden surname is Yen and my given name is Junling . Thus my Chinese name is Yen Junling .

My husband Bob’s surname is Mah . When I married Bob, my Chinese name became Mah Yen Junling , whereas my English name became Adeline Yen Mah.

In a similar vein, Deng Xiaoping’s surname was Deng . His given name was Xiaoping .

Mao Zedong’s surname was Mao , and his given name was Zedong .

Sima Qian’s surname was Sima , and his given name was Qian .

The word Haan in the state of Haan during the Warring States period is the same character as the surname of General-in-chief Hahn Xin . The word Han in Han dynasty is an entirely different word from the other two. However, all three are pronounced Han and are spelt identically as Han in the Chinese-English Pinyin dictionary and in history books. To distinguish them and avoid confusion, I have chosen to spell them differently in this book.

State of Haan | = |  | Haan
General Hahn Xin | = |  | Hahn
Han dynasty | = |  | Han

Preface

As a little girl in Shanghai, I remember coming home from school in the afternoons and running up the stairs. The first thing I did was to dash into my grandfather Ye Ye’s room to see what he was doing. His room was next to the one I shared with my Aunt Baba, Father’s older sister. When he was in a good mood, he would be practising calligraphy and humming a tune from Beijing opera.

One day I asked him, ‘Ye Ye, what are these words that you are writing?’

‘They are proverbs.’

‘Why do you write proverbs when you practise calligraphy?’

He rested his brush on his inkstand and looked at me. ‘That is an excellent question!’ he answered. ‘Tell me, what is a proverb?’

‘A wise saying.’

‘Where do proverbs come from?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘The best proverbs come from our history. History describes the behaviour of people who lived in the past. Those people were our ancestors. We Chinese probably revere our ancestors and our history more than any other race. To us, history is not only a record of what has happened before. It is also a guide to educate children like yourself, giving you examples that will teach you how to live your life. Proverbs mirror the past to benefit the present.

‘Now, do you recognise the four characters that I am practising today? If you do, you can have a choice: a piece of candy from my jar or the legend behind these four words.’

With some difficulty, I read aloud the four characters, jiu niu yi mao (loss of one hair from nine oxen).

Ye Ye was delighted! ‘Since I’ve never told you stories from history before, today you get both the story and the candy. But only today! From now on, you’ll have to choose between the two.’

I nodded eagerly, sat on the floor by his chair and put the candy in my mouth as he began. The narrative he related was so fascinating that, despite my greed, I soon forgot about the candy. From then on, I often chose to listen rather than satisfy my longing for sweets.

My Ye Ye passed away many years ago, but his proverbs and the history behind them have remained in my mind. On one of the last occasions we were together, he said to me, ‘No matter what else people may steal from you, they will never be able to take the knowledge of these proverbs from your mind.’

In this book, I would like to share my knowledge, as well as my love of proverbs, with you.

When I first wrote the story of my Chinese family, I chose my grandfather’s favourite proverb for its title. Falling Leaves (return to their roots) is actually the second half of a couplet first published during the Song dynasty (AD 960–1279):

Shu gao qian zhang Luo ye gui gen.

Even if a tree reaches the height of ten thousand feet,

Falling leaves return to their roots.

Nowadays, the first half of the couplet is seldom used and only the second half is cited. ‘Falling leaves return to their roots’ symbolises the return of the wandering child to her ancestral home, as well as overseas Chinese going back to China or, for that matter, any ethnic group returning to their country of origin. Grandfather used to tell me that this proverb is a reminder that as a person gets older, he tends to go back to his beginnings.

In the 1980s, when Britain’s Margaret Thatcher and China’s Deng Xiaoping signed the agreement to return Hong Kong to China in 1997, Deng was asked by reporters to make a public statement. Instead of a lengthy speech, Deng righted the wrongs of 150 years of Chinese humiliation by uttering the four simple words luo ye gui gen (falling leaves return to their roots).

On that historic occasion, it was by means of an evocative proverb that Deng Xiaoping chose to express his sentiments, as well as those of over one billion Chinese.

There are numerous other recorded examples of Chinese leaders using proverbs to illustrate the lessons learned from history. In the 1930s, China was ruled by Chiang Kai-shek, leader of the Nationalist party. Instead of fighting the Japanese who had invaded China, Chiang was preoccupied with annihilating the fledgling Communist movement led by Mao Zedong. Under pressure from the USA to drive out the Japanese before tackling the Communists, Chiang refused, saying, ‘The Japanese are only xuan jie zhi ji “a disease of the skin”, but the Communists are xin fu zhi huan “a malady of the heart”.’

In America, Chiang was much admired for his poetic eloquence. What his western audience did not realise was that Chiang’s statements were not original. He was merely quoting an ancient proverb.

When the Vietnam War escalated and Ho Chi Minh asked for aid from Communist China, Mao Zedong agreed to assist and quoted the proverb chun wang chi han (when the lips are gone, the teeth are cold). The proverb stems from an incident during the early Warring States period (475–221 BC) when China was divided into many states. One state wished to invade another and asked for safe passage through a third one in order to do so. The prime minister of the last state advised his king not to grant the request, warning him that if the second state were conquered, their country would be the next target because chun wang chi han (when the lips are gone, the teeth are cold). The proverb signifies ‘interdependence’ between two parties and was first written down by Zhuangzi (born 330 BC).

While doing research for this book, I was amazed to come across the same proverb in a memorial written more than 2200 years ago by Li Si, a high-ranking official in the government of King Zheng of Qin. In the year 233 BC, Li Si was sent by his sovereign to the neighbouring state of Haan. At that time, the state of Zhao was planning to attack Qin and was asking for safe passage through Haan. Like Mao Zedong, Li Si quoted the proverb ‘when the lips are gone, the teeth are cold’ in an attempt to dissuade the King of Haan from granting the army of Zhao access through his land. He added in his memorial, ‘Qin and Haan suffer the same perils. The misfortune of one is the misfortune of the other. This is an obvious fact.’

Substitute the state of Zhao for the USA, Qin for Vietnam and Haan for Communist China, and we have Mao Zedong thinking the same thoughts and using the same language in 1963, as Li Si over twenty-two centuries earlier.

In September 2000, I read of the execution of two high-ranking Chinese officials for corruption: one was the vice-chairman of China’s National People’s Congress and the other was the deputy governor of a large province. The Chinese newspapers reported that before their crimes were discovered, both had already prepared escape routes in the tradition of the proverb jiao tu san ku. However, they were caught before they could put their flight plan into action.

That proverb jiao tu san ku means ‘a cunning rabbit has three warrens’. It originates from an ancient history book entitled Strategies between the Warring States, written over 2000 years ago. The proverb relates the story of a man named Meng who was prime minister to the King of Qi during the fourth century BC. Meng sent his adviser Feng to his fief to collect debts. Instead of doing so, Feng forgave all the loans, telling the villagers that he was doing this on the Prime Minister’s orders. Meng was displeased but the deed was done. A year later, Meng fell from favour and had to return to his native village. When he was still one hundred li (about thirty miles) away, the local people, young and old, all came out to welcome him. Meng was greatly moved and praised Feng for his far-sightedness but the latter said, ‘Jiao tu san ku. (A cunning rabbit has three warrens to hide and avoid capture.) You have only one. I am going to build you two more.’ Feng then obtained a fallback offer for Meng as Prime Minister of the Kingdom of Wei. Hearing of this, the King of Qi reinstated Meng as his Prime Minister. Feng told Meng, ‘Now that all three holes are in place, you may relax and live in peace.’

Commenting on the behaviour of the two corrupt officials, the Chinese newspapers reported that two common ‘rabbit warrens’ for corrupt politicians were to obtain foreign passports for themselves, and to move family members, loved ones and money overseas. The executed vice-chairman had secretly deposited US$5,000,000 in bribes in a Hong Kong Bank account for himself and his mistress, whereas the deputy governor was quoted as having advised his son to get a green card in the US so that ‘you’ll have permanent residence there and I’ll have somewhere to go when I emigrate myself’.

This true story illustrates the importance of proverbs in influencing behaviour and forming opinions in China today.

How do the Chinese think? Why do we think that way? Do people in the west think in a different way?

All of us think in words. Therefore every form of thought is related to the language, culture and history of the particular thinker, and the land of their birth. Westerners and Chinese have different views of the world that may sometimes contradict one another, yet both may be right. For example, to an Englishman, Israel is in the Middle East and China the Far East; whereas to a Chinese person, Israel is in the West and England the Far West. Depending on the viewpoint, the conclusions are different, but both parties are correct.

For westerners to understand Chinese reasoning, it is essential to realise that, more than any other nation, Chinese rationale stems from the roots of our lengthy and well-documented past. The Chinese view of the world is highly dependent on the lessons learned from our forefathers. Traditionally, this ‘wisdom of the ages’ is often encapsulated in the form of four characters and presented as a proverb.

Many Chinese proverbs originate from ancient historical literature, poetry, letters and other writings. Based on actual events, they carry philosophical or moral messages that make them relevant and meaningful in contemporary life. At best, they radiate a glow that mirrors the Chinese mind, recalling incidents from bygone eras that define the Chinese way of thinking. They keep alive the memory of fables and legends and, following centuries of repetition, have evolved into ‘coded messages’ that are integrated into daily speech. Used correctly, they illustrate aspects of human behaviour that capture the very essence of our existence and there is no doubt that ancient proverbs still shape the thoughts and behaviour of Chinese people today. Lessons learned from conflicts and battles that happened hundreds, if not thousands, of years ago continue to serve as a backdrop to many Chinese decisions.

Written Chinese is a pictorial language. Most of the words originate from pictures of actual objects, not mental concepts. Because of this, the Chinese are used to viewing life in terms of concrete examples, using specific incidents to illustrate abstract ideas. Citation of proverbs summarising past legends has a particularly emotive appeal for the Chinese and plays a large part in the expression of Chinese thought.

Ordinary conversation between Chinese people is studded with quotes from ancient historians, poets and philosophers. The use of proverbs is often viewed as a barometer of a Chinese person’s knowledge of history, level of education and depth of wisdom. Hidden within the psyche of many Chinese, there is a lurking conviction that scholarship is more admirable than money, and nothing impresses a Chinese person more than to hear someone quote an appropriate proverb in a timely fashion.

The Chinese language has no alphabet and there is no connection between speech and writing. A person may be capable of understanding written Chinese without knowing how to read aloud or speak a single word. Each word is a different symbol and must be memorised separately. As the language developed, metaphors (figures of speech) and proverbs (short sayings based on previous experience) became increasingly important in the expression of Chinese thought.

In English language, new metaphors are also being born daily before our very eyes, just as in China. Some examples are hot seat (for the electric chair), gun moll (for the gangster’s girlfriend), Pearl Harbor (for sneak attack), meeting one’s Waterloo (for defeat), jousting windmills (for fighting useless battles), pay dirt (for reward) and pan out (for successful result). The last two terms came from the California gold rush.

Walt Whitman once said that ‘Into the English language are woven the sorrows, joys, loves, needs and heartbreaks of the common people’. The same can be said regarding Chinese proverbs and metaphors.

Whereas Shakespeare has been hailed for the last four hundred years by most English-speaking people as the greatest English writer who ever lived, very few westerners have heard of Sima Qian (145–90 BC), a Chinese historian who lived during the Han dynasty. In his lifetime he wrote only one book, a book of history called Shiji (Historical Record). Published a few decades after his death, Shiji has been a best-seller in China since that time and is still in print. Many Chinese feel that it is the greatest book ever written. Its influence on Chinese thought has been immense throughout the last two millennia. Many of the proverbs we use today came from this ancient tome.

Westerners, too, have been captivated by the charm of Chinese proverbs. When I was a medical intern at the London Hospital in the 1960s, I had the privilege of looking after the renowned British poet Philip Larkin.* He once described Chinese proverbs as ‘white dwarfs’ of literature because each was so densely compacted with thoughts and ideas. He told me that ‘white dwarfs’ were tiny stars whose atoms were packed so closely together that their weight was huge compared to their size. He said that the enormous heat radiated by these small stars was like the vast knowledge and profound wisdom contained in these compact sayings gleaned from China.

Recently, as I was reading an American book, Who Moved My Cheese by Spencer Johnson, my husband Bob pointed out that the message it contained is essentially the same as one stated over two thousand years ago by Li Si, the man who eventually became Prime Minister to the First Emperor of China.

As a young man, Li Si worked as a petty clerk in his district. In the lavatory attached to his office, he observed numerous scrawny rats lurking around and eating the excrement, but they would scurry off at the first approach of man or dog. Visiting the granary one day, he noticed that the rats there were not only sleek and fat, but were calmly helping themselves to the sacks of grain. They squatted comfortably beneath the galleries and hardly stirred when disturbed. Thereupon he sighed and thought to himself, ‘A man’s ability or lack of ability resembles the behaviour of these rats. Everything depends on where he locates himself.’

The point made by the American writer is the same as that mentioned by the Chinese clerk: a person must be willing to move to another location in response to change. Otherwise the cheese (or grain) will run out regardless of one’s ability.

Most Chinese are proud of their country’s long history. While doing research on the origin of proverbs, I came to realise that many of them came from the pen of one man: the brilliant Han dynasty historian Sima Qian, who wrote his seminal book Shiji (Historical Record) some two thousand years ago.

Here I have chosen a few commonly used proverbs gleaned from the writings of Sima Qian, combined them with my personal reflections, and related the history behind them to provide a window into the Chinese mind. I hope you will find them as fascinating as I did when I first heard them from my Ye Ye all those many years ago.

* See Watching the Tree.

1
Loss of One Hair from Nine Oxen

JIU NIU YI MAO

WHEN I WAS THIRTEEN YEARS OLD, my parents told me that I was to leave school at fourteen and get a job because they no longer wished to pay for my education. Desperate to go to university, I begged my grandfather Ye Ye to intercede on my behalf. One evening after dinner, on one of my rare visits home from boarding school, Ye Ye cornered Father and they had a private conversation. Afterwards, Ye Ye related that Father had been unsympathetic. Further schooling would only strain their budget because a daughter should never be too well educated. It would spoil any slim chance I might have of making a suitable marriage. ‘No sane man’, according to Father, ‘would ever want a bride with a Ph.D.’ Therefore, as far as he and my stepmother were concerned, my education was a matter as trivial as jiu niu yi mao (the loss of one hair from nine oxen). They had made their decision and the subject was closed.

‘Loss of one hair from nine oxen’ is a phrase taken from a poignant letter written by the historian Sima Qian to his friend Ren An in 93 BC, three years before Sima Qian’s death.

Sima Qian (145–90 BC) was the taishi (‘Grand Minister of History’ or ‘Grand Historian’) during the reign of Emperor Wu of the early Han dynasty (157–87 BC, ruled from 141–87 BC). He was responsible not only for keeping historical records, but also for regulating the calendar and doing research on astronomy. Such positions were handed from father to son and the Sima family had been Grand Historians for many generations. Sima Qian’s father, Sima Tan, had also been Grand Minister of History. Even as a boy, Sima Qian was groomed to step into his father’s shoes one day.

It had been Sima Tan’s dream to write a comprehensive history of China. With that in mind, he collected many ancient tales and historical writings and shared them with his son. He encouraged the young Sima Qian to embark on three separate journeys to explore the length and breadth of China. There is evidence that, in travels similar to those of the Greek historian-traveller Herodotus with whom he has often been compared, Sima Qian reached the Kundong Mountains of Gansu province in the west, the battlegrounds of Julu in Hebei province in the north, Confucius’s birthplace of Qufu in Shandong province in the east and the Yangtze river in the south. While lying on his deathbed in 110 BC, Sima Tan extracted a promise from his son that he would one day realise his father’s unfulfilled dream of writing a comprehensive history of China.

Sima Qian was appointed Grand Minister of History in 107 BC. Two years later, he finally assembled sufficient material to begin the laborious writing process. In those days, paper had not yet been invented, so characters were written with a brush or carved vertically with a knife on to narrow strips of bamboo or wood. Unfortunately, soon after Sima Qian began writing, disaster struck.

At that time, China was frequently troubled by raids from nomadic tribes (called Xiongnu or Huns), living in the desert areas north-west of China (present-day Mongolia). In retaliation, Emperor Wu would dispatch military expeditions into the desert to harass them. In 99 BC, the young, dashing and usually victorious Han commander Li Ling led a force of 5000 men in a daring raid deep into enemy territory in an attempt to capture the Hun ruler. Vastly outnumbered, Li Ling was defeated and finally surrendered after he ran out of food and arrows. On hearing this, Emperor Wu became furious. In the case of defeat, the monarch expected his military officers either to die in battle or commit suicide to avoid capture. Surrendering to the enemy was considered cowardly and despicable. He proposed punishing Li Ling by confiscating his property and imposing death sentences on his family members to the third degree (parents, siblings, wife and children).

Sima Qian, who knew and admired Li Ling, tried to defend him in court. By doing so, he enraged Emperor Wu even further. The monarch first cast Sima Qian into prison for daring to speak up on behalf of a ‘traitor’, then, a year later, he accused the historian of attempting to deceive him and sentenced him to death. In those days, it was possible for disgraced officials either to buy their way out of their death penalty or to submit voluntarily to castration. For those with insufficient funds, tradition dictated that death was far preferable to mutilation, for only the most cowardly would choose to live with such shame.

Unable to come up with the money to redeem himself, Sima Qian chose castration over death in order to complete the writing of his book, Shiji. Afterwards he became tormented by guilt for having chosen this ‘lowest of all punishment’. Not wishing to appear spineless and unmanly, he wrote to his friend Ren An to justify himself and to explain the rationale behind his decision.

Ren An was the governor of Yizhou, now called Sichuan province. In Sima Qian’s famous letter, which may never have been sent to its intended recipient, the historian mentions that Governor Ren himself had recently fallen out of favour with the Emperor and was being accused of major crimes. The entire letter is composed of 2401 Chinese characters and was probably written in 93 BC. Below are three segments that I have selected and translated.

If I were to die now as befits my punishment, my death would be as insignificant as jiu niu yi mao (the loss of one hair from nine oxen). How would it differ from the demise of a cricket or an ant?

Besides, posterity will never consider such a death to be comparable to that of someone who perishes out of a sense of honour. They would say that it came about only because I had exhausted all other avenues of expiating my crime, yet found it impossible to forgive myself.

So, why should I confirm their condemnation by carrying out this deed?

A person dies but once. That death may be as monolithic as the Tai mountain or as trivial as a goose feather. It all depends on him…

Having chosen castration, Sima Qian was well aware of the humiliation and suffering awaiting him for the rest of his life. He continued:

I have incurred upon myself the derision and ridicule even of men from my own village. I have dishonoured my family name. I can never stand proudly again before the tomb of my parents. Even after the passing of a hundred generations, the memory of my disgrace will still linger on. This is what grips my mind and twists my guts nine times a day. Resting at home, I am in a daze, as if I have lost my way. I venture out, and know not what I should do or where I should go. Every time I remember my disfigurement, the sweat pours out and seeps through my robe. I have become no more than a slave in a harem. How can I disappear and hide myself somewhere in a remote mountain cave? Hence I go along with the common crowd, drifting aimlessly, gliding up and down with the tide, sharing their illusions and madness.

Towards the end of the letter, he concluded:

I encountered this monumental catastrophe before completing my manuscript. Because my work is not yet finished, I had no choice but to submit meekly to this most severe of punishments [castration]. When my book is finally written, I shall place it in the famous mountain archives for posterity. And should my words one day penetrate the minds of men who will value them, allowing my thoughts to burrow into the counties as well as great bustling cities, then even if I should suffer ten thousand deaths by mutilation, I would have no regrets…

Instead of suicide, Sima Qian channelled his energy into writing his groundbreaking book Shiji (Historical Record). Totalling just over half a million words, it chronicles events from the time of the Yellow Emperor (a legendary and largely mythical ruler and sage who supposedly invented boats, oars, the compass and the fire drill, and lived in 2400 BC but the date is uncertain) to the reign of the emperor who condemned the historian — a period of over two thousand years. His book records the ancient history of China, a country about half the size of present-day China with its population clustered around the Yangtze and the Yellow River. From it we learn that the Shang dynasty lasted from 1765–1122 BC, and was followed by the Zhou dynasty. A succession of Zhou kings ruled China for about three hundred years through feudal vassals appointed by the king. China was vast even then and these feudal lords were given free rein to govern their territories as they saw fit. As time went on, the descendants of the local rulers became increasingly rebellious and independent. The stronger ones developed their own armies and defied the king.

From 770 until 476 BC, China was only nominally governed by the House of Zhou. This was known as the Spring and Autumn period during which China was initially divided into as many as 170 different semi-independent states. Each was ruled by its own feudal lord (some called themselves kings), its own hereditary ruling caste, and had its own court and bureaucracy. The feudal lords fought against each other, with the stronger states annexing the weaker ones.

By the beginning of the Warring States period (475–221 BC) this process of annexation had accelerated to such an extent that by 403 BC, only seven states remained. They were Qin, Zhao, Yan, Qi, Haan, Chu and Wei. Each state was headed by its own king, and the seven continued to wage war against one another. Gradually, it began to emerge that the state of Qin in north-west China was becoming the richest, strongest, largest and most efficient. Qin began systematically conquering and annexing the other states until King Zheng (259–210 BC) subdued them all and unified China in 221 BC. He called himself the First Emperor of the Qin dynasty (Qin Shi Huangdi) and planned for his dynasty to last for ten thousand generations.

The chronicle of this long period of civil war is vividly narrated by Sima Qian in his book Shiji. He brings history alive by including biographies of notable individuals — not only the emperors who reigned and the ministers who governed, but also the warlords who lost as well as the words and deeds of the philosophers, writers, merchants, landlords, thieves, paid assassins, comedians and teachers who lived and died during the reign of each ruler.

Released from prison after three years at the age of fifty, Sima regained Emperor Wu’s favour and was appointed ‘Palace Secretary’. Despite his disgrace, he was able to arrange an advantageous marriage for his only daughter. His son-in-law, Yang Shang, was a rising young star who eventually rose to become prime minister. Sima soon had a precocious grandson, Yang Yun, who was composing poetry at a very young age.

In Sima’s spare time, he continued to write, and completed his manuscript just one year before his death in 90 BC, but he never dared reveal his work during his lifetime for fear of offending the Emperor further. He buried one copy in the cave of a ‘famous mountain’. The other copy he left to his only daughter and talented grandson, Yang Yun.

Yang Yun became a marquis under Emperor Xuan (92–49 BC) and for a time enjoyed great favour at court. Yang judged it prudent to release Shiji some time between 73 and 54 BC and promoted it assiduously. Shiji was immediately popular and turned into a classic on which all later official Chinese histories would be modelled. It also became the first in a series of government-sponsored histories commissioned and compiled by the emperors of successive dynasties. The history of each dynasty was systematically recorded by court-appointed historians and illustrated with biographies of notable men (and an occasional woman) of that era. At present, there are more than 3600 volumes of official Chinese history, totalling over 45 million words, and describing events from the time of the Yellow Emperor to the present day.

By focusing his energy into creativity rather than despair, Sima Qian became the most famous Chinese historian who ever lived. Nowadays he is certainly better known than the emperor who punished him so severely for speaking his mind.

When I first heard the story of Sima Qian from my Ye Ye, I was only eight years old. Even at that early age, I remember being deeply moved by the Grand Historian’s plight. In those days, I was living in my father’s big house in Shanghai. My childhood was filled with fear and self-loathing. Although I never admitted it even to myself, I knew deep down that my stepmother despised me and wished to be rid of me. Perhaps because of this, I identified strongly and instantly with Sima Qian’s depression following his mutilation, although I didn’t fully understand what the term ‘castration’ implied. I only knew that it was something very bad and that he did not deserve the punishment.

I understood Sima Qian because I too felt that I had no one to turn to for justice. Life was unfair and I had to fend for myself. After being bullied or beaten, my only refuge was to bury myself in books or write short stories to assuage the rankling within my heart. In time, the characters in my make-believe world became more real to me than my tormentors at home. Unlike my family members, these imaginary figures provided constant comfort and consolation. Reading and writing carried me away from my real life and conveyed me to another realm. In that other kingdom, the playing field was level and the dice were no longer loaded against me.

In 1991, one year after my stepmother Niang’s death, I received permission from my brother James, executor of Niang’s will, to fly to Hong Kong and inspect her empty flat. ‘Everyone else’, James told me, ‘has chosen and taken what he or she wanted from Niang’s flat. All of her personal letters have been burnt because they are private. The rest is yours, including her flat, as soon as the probate is completed. I am a man of my word.’

At that time, I was still practising medicine full time in California but, at the back of my mind, I harboured vague thoughts about writing the book I had always meant to write, ever since I was a child. The day after my arrival in Hong Kong, I visited a bookshop in the hope of finding some Chinese proverbs to use as possible chapter headings. I did actually buy a volume but was not entirely satisfied with its contents.

Later that afternoon, I secured the keys of my stepmother’s flat from my brother and went to the familiar building. In Niang’s empty apartment smelling of mildew, mothballs, stale cigarette smoke and neglect, I came across two dusty books lying in the corner of a closet amidst a few discarded photographs. The first book I picked up was in English and entitled Selected Chinese Sayings by a writer named T.C. Lai. The second was a paperback copy of Shiji in Chinese.

I flipped open the cover of Selected Chinese Sayings and, with a pang, saw my father’s familiar signature at the top of the page. On the next page was printed the author’s dedication which read, ‘In memory of my father’.

Quickly, I perused the contents and saw that Selected Chinese Sayings consisted of a collection of the author’s favourite Chinese proverbs. I read that the book was first published in 1960 but reprinted in 1973, three years before Alzheimer’s disease took hold of my father’s mind. As I perused the proverbs, I could not help wondering whether this was a message from my father to give up medicine and begin my writing career. For once, Niang was not there to interrupt our communication.

Next, I took Father’s copy of Shiji and randomly turned the pages. This was where I first came across the letter written by Sima Qian to his friend.

In one passage, I read:

All these ancient writers had pain in their hearts, for they were not able to achieve in life what they had set out to accomplish … and so they felt compelled to write about their past, in order to pass on their thoughts to posterity…

I, too, have dared to venture forth and commit myself to writing. I have collected all the ancient customs that were dispersed or discarded. I have investigated the affairs of the past and probed the reasons for their buoyancy or decay. I would like to discern the patterns leading from the past to the present, proffering my views as one method of interpretation.

When I read these words, it almost seemed as if Sima Qian himself had stepped out of the pages of his book and was speaking to me personally, urging me to be strong and not falter in my resolve to become a full-time writer. Although we were separated by more than two thousand years, at that moment I understood him completely. He was telling me that there were many who had suffered unjustly in the past. A few, like himself, were able to transcend their hurt through literature. Was I prepared to follow in his footsteps and do the same?

As I turned eagerly to the next page, I came across these lines:

The reason I have borne this anguish and refused to die, living in shame without protest, is because I cannot bear the thought of leaving my work unfinished. I am still burdened with things in my heart that I have not had a chance to express…

I placed my father’s two books with the old photographs in the large bag I had brought and prepared to leave. There appeared to be no other items worth taking. Niang’s flat was scheduled to be refurbished and everything was to be thrown away. Looking through her closets for the very last time I suddenly saw another item abandoned by my siblings. Quickly, I retrieved it from a pile of yellowed newspaper cuttings. It was a large, framed photo of our grandfather Ye Ye, taken a few months before his death at the age of seventy-four.

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