The Great River Flows East, Leaving No Trace of the Years
Lately I have been reading a little Song-dynasty ci poetry every day, which seems rather out of step with the times. Everyone else is preoccupied with the pandemic, while I am absorbed in Song ci—somewhat numb, it would seem, unaware of the world's sufferings.
In fact, even before the pandemic erupted on a large scale, I already knew it would be an unavoidable humanitarian disaster, so I foresaw today's situation earlier than most people and no longer feel great waves of emotion about it. I am qualified to say this, because at the very beginning of the outbreak I wrote a large number of articles proving that I knew in advance how events would unfold. So now I rarely follow the pandemic closely; instead I hope people can calm their hearts, face the difficult situation, learn to adjust themselves, and not be crushed by it.
Besides hardship, life also has beauty. Human nature is to seek advantage and avoid harm; in difficult years we should enjoy as much of the beauty still available to us as possible. Literary works are one form of beauty we can enjoy. These days I limit reading the news to fifteen minutes a day, but spend about an hour each day reading Song ci.
Generally, at six in the evening I put my phone aside and do not open it until seven the next morning to see if anything needs handling. Between six p.m. and seven a.m. I read three kinds of books: medicine, Song ci, and biology and chemistry. Of these, Song ci is the most relaxing and pleasant reading; reading it does not tax the mind.
I am especially interested in ci poems about the Yangtze River. I was born on the banks of the Yangtze, and there are many ancient poems about it. For example, Su Shi's "Niannujiao·Chibi Huaigu": "The great river flows east, its waves washing away all the gallant figures of ages past. West of the old fortress, they say, is the Red Cliff of Zhou Yu of the Three Kingdoms. Rugged rocks pierce the sky, startled waves pound the shore, rolling up a thousand heaps of snow. The land is a picture; in one age how many heroes. I picture Zhou Yu in those years, when young Qiao had just married him—bold and spirited. With feather fan and silk headband, amid talk and laughter, his warships went to dust and ashes. I roam in spirit through the old kingdom; a sentimental man should laugh at me for having early grown grey. Life is like a dream; one cup of wine is poured to the moon over the river." And another example, Li Yu, the Later Lord of Southern Tang, in "Wuye Ti": "The forest blossoms have shed their spring red, all too quickly; helpless against the cold rain of dawn and the wind of evening. Rouge tears, lingering drunkenness—when shall we meet again? Life is ever full of regret, and the waters flow ever eastward."
If we stand on the banks of the Yangtze and read these poems, a different feeling wells up in the heart. The rushing water flows east without a moment's pause; the river is broad, with the occasional boat passing by. A person's brief life, even a whole nation's entire history, may vanish in an instant, yet the great river's eastward course never changes with the passing years. I do not know what others feel as they watch the river flow east. Last year I returned to my hometown and made a point of going to the Yangtze; gazing at the river I had often seen as a child, a hundred feelings welled up in me.
How many gallant figures have fought fiercely by the Yangtze; how many, like Su Dongpo, have composed impromptu verses by its banks; and countless common people have made their living on its waters. Yet the years have left no trace on anyone. Whether they lament sorrowfully like Li Yu—"Life is ever full of regret, and the waters flow ever eastward"—or sigh vast and distant like Su Dongpo—"The great river flows east, its waves washing away all the gallant figures of ages past"—they can only, like the water flowing east, go and never return.
Su Dongpo has another ci poem, "Linxianjiang·Night Drinking at Dongpo, Waking and Drunken Again," also written by the Yangtze in my hometown, Huanggang, Hubei (Huangzhou Prefecture in the Song Dynasty): "Drinking at Dongpo at night, waking and drunken again; returning as if it were midnight. The boy servant snores like thunder. I knock but no one answers; leaning on my staff I listen to the river. Long I grieve that this body is not my own; when shall I forget the endless rushing? Night deepens, wind stills, ripples level. A little boat will drift away from here; on river and sea I will rest my remaining years."
Su Dongpo arrived in Huangzhou after surviving the trauma of the "Wutai Poetry Case." Once the favored darling of heaven, he had nearly lost his life. At forty-three, Su Dongpo suddenly realized that life is impermanent. He no longer chased fame and fortune; he felt an unprecedented closeness to ordinary life and greatly wished to "rest his remaining years on river and sea."
Su Shi, demoted to Huangzhou, was a political prisoner; few old friends dared associate with him. Only his good friend Ma Zhengqing found him a plot of sloped land to the east to farm, and from then on he took the name Dongpo (Eastern Slope). The scholar Su Shi, who had rarely done heavy labor before, farmed more than ten mu in Huangzhou to feed his wife and children. This political storm made him more open-minded than before, and at the same time more attentive to genuine human feeling. He wrote a poem to his younger brother Su Zhe expressing this mood: "Green hills everywhere can bury my bones; on future rainy nights I will grieve alone. With you, brother, life after life; may we in the next life complete the unfinished bond."
A life without setbacks is incomplete. Everyone inevitably experiences setbacks; it is only a matter of when. When my older brother was in college in Shanghai, one of his teachers said he had lived a safe and peaceful life all his days. If that teacher were still alive today, he would not say that. Even if we ourselves are law-abiding and willing to live safely as ordinary people, who can escape the tragedies of the times?
Some natural laws are like the Yangtze flowing east; no one can change them. Once a new virus becomes a pandemic, it will affect our lives for the next hundred years or more. However we human beings choose to fight it today, in the end we will inevitably have to accept it. The years are always ruthless; in taking anyone away they leave few traces. However people cherish life and cling to all it offers, the years can reduce it all to nothing.
Song ci has a unique flavor. Like Zen Buddhism, which "points directly to the human mind and sees nature to become Buddha," Song ci is writing that reaches into the depths of life—the sediment and reflection of a generation of scholars on life itself. The emotions in Song ci are genuine human emotions, no longer the lofty, superhuman emotions of old.
Within Chinese literature overshadowed by the tradition of "literature as a vehicle for the Way," Song ci is an extraordinary flower. Song ci does not pursue "literature as a vehicle for the Way"; it focuses on expressing genuine human feeling—goodness and beauty are meaningful only when built on genuine feeling; otherwise they are grand and empty. Most of us are tired of the grand and empty, for since childhood we have heard too many grand, empty platitudes and falsehoods from every source; we need genuine feeling.
To write with a flowing, effortless grace, genuine feeling is indispensable. Many people can write exquisite aphorisms and have a good command of language, yet cannot write good articles. The root cause is that their experience of genuine feeling is too shallow, and they cannot use words to reveal their true inner heart. Song-dynasty scholars seemed to have a special gift in this regard; they did not hesitate to express their true inner feelings and thoughts, which is why Song ci is so enchanting.
In Song ci we can feel the love, hate, and passion of others, their emotions and moods; we can also discharge our own emotions and find an outlet for our present pain. Great literary works can cross the ages to soothe the heart. So I occasionally use Song ci to heal the wounds that the tragedies of our times have inflicted on my own heart. Chinese philosophy, psychology, religion, and literature are integrated into one; our ancestors blended all these elements together into beautiful literary works for us to enjoy, which is truly a rare blessing. Life has too many helplessnesses; without these words our hearts would have nowhere to rest. With these words, we can always, like finding a kindred spirit, feel less alone.
Life is short; the days behind us are numbered, and we do not know when an accident will come. Perhaps tomorrow everything will come to nothing, but today we have lived. While alive, live well, love well, and enjoy the spring light, enjoy being loved. There is no need to cling to various illusory grand principles, nor to be so frightened by suffering that nothing but suffering remains in life.