Wang Xizhi Writing Calligraphy (detail), by Liang Kai, circa thirteenth century. Princeton University Art Museums.
When the London newspaper the Athenian Mercury, edited and published by the author and bookseller John Dunton, first answered questions about romance, bodily functions, and the mysteries of the universe in 1691, it may have created the template for the advice column. But the history of advice stretches back even further into the past. Advice—whether unsolicited, unwarranted, or desperately sought—appears in ancient philosophical treatises, medieval medical manuals, and countless books. Lapham’s Quarterly is exploring advice through the ages and into modern times in a series of readings and essays.
Descended from an aristocratic clan whose members had served in several imperial courts, the Chinese polymath and politician Yan Zhitui was likely born in Jiangling, a provincial capital controlled by the Liang dynasty. When he was seventeen a military general led a short-lived rebellion against the Liang. As the conflict was ongoing, Yan was appointed to the staff of a Liang prince; both men were quickly captured by the general and imprisoned in Jiankang until his defeat. Yan returned to Jiangling but did not remain for long—in the winter of 554 the army of the Western Wei, another regional imperial dynasty, sacked Jiangling, and Yan was taken captive again, becoming an assistant to a Western Wei general. Over the next thirty years Yan served three successive imperial regimes in northern China, attaining success as a literary scholar and an advisor on legal debates but never knowing if he would lose the favor of the next emperor. He developed strong opinions on the best way to retain one’s social status in an unstable environment—lessons that he discussed in his writing.
Yan probably died in 591, at around sixty years old, leaving behind thirty scrolls of literary compositions and a compendium of advice for his three sons. Among these works, the only pieces that survive completely intact are a long autobiographical poem, “Rhapsody on Viewing My Life,” and Yan’s twenty-chapter book of advice, known today as the Family Instructions for the Yan Clan. A large section of the book is dedicated to Yan’s opinions on education, social etiquette, and literary arts. In the introduction to her translation of Family Instructions, Xiaofei Tian notes that philological and literary skills were a guard against falling out of favor when a new emperor took power. “At a time of quick rise and fall of fortunes, the fluidity of social status, and the dissolution of social distinction,” Yan was trying to preserve “the elite identity of the family.”
In a chapter on literary style, Yan warns his sons that writers often embarrass themselves by overestimating the quality of their work:
The essence of literary writings is such that they reveal one’s emotional stirrings and responses, give expression to one’s spiritual nature, and cause one to draw upon and show off one’s talent; so an author neglects the cultivation of integrity but is decisive in advancing himself. This problem is even more pronounced in today’s men of letters: if they use a single appropriate textual reference and craft a single ingenious line, their soul soars to the ninth heaven and their aspiration transcends a thousand years; chanting and admiring their own composition, they become completely oblivious to people around them.
Aside from giving tips on restraining one’s ego, Yan takes the opportunity to critique writers he dislikes, including the first-century bc poet Yang Xiong. Yang became famous for writing rhapsodies, an ornate form of prose poem, and acquired a prestigious position at the court of Emperor Cheng of the Han dynasty. After turning to philosophical writing, he dismissed rhapsodies as too effusive; he is also known for jumping from a tower when a political adversary usurped the throne. (He survived.) In Yan’s estimation, Yang was one of many writers “who brought ruin to themselves” by publishing their opinions—perhaps another reason why he instructs his sons to write only if they “still have surplus strength after doing other things.”
In scholarship some are sharp and some are dull; in literary composition some are skillful and some are clumsy. The dull scholar keeps up his efforts and may one day attain mastery; the clumsy writer will be crude and inferior no matter how hard he tries. As long as you become a learned man, you can establish yourself in the world; but if you have no genius, don’t force yourself to take up the writing brush. I have seen quite a few people without the slightest talent, who nevertheless regard themselves as pure and magnificent writers and allow their horrid and awkward compositions to spread through the world. In the south we used to call such men “sellers of their own folly.” Recently, there was a gentry member in Bingzhou who wrote laughable poems and rhapsodies. Yet he would poke fun at eminent gentlemen such as Xing and Wei. People mocked him by heaping on him false praise, and he would happily butcher oxen and strain ale to feast them in order to enhance his reputation. His wife, a wise woman, remonstrated with him with tears in her eyes. The man said with a sigh: “Alas, my talent cannot even be tolerated by my own wife! How can I expect much from people on the street?” He remained deluded until death. “Self-knowledge is the true knowledge”—and that is difficult to achieve indeed.
When one is learning to write, one should consult one’s relatives and friends and get their assessment and feedback first. After one is assured that the piece is acceptable, then one may let it out of hand. You must by no means follow your own heart and trust your own judgment, for you may well be a laughingstock to others. Since ancient times, numerous men have taken up a brush to write, and yet, when it comes to magnificent and superb writings, there have been no more than a few dozen. As long as one’s writing has a clear structure and presentable expressions, one may be considered talented. If one seeks to stun the public and surpass the entire world, he might as well wait for the Yellow River to clear up first.
Someone asked Yang Xiong, “Were you, sire, not fond of rhapsodies when you were young?” He replied, “Yes, I was. It is like a boy’s carving of the insect script and the tally script. A grown man does not do it.” I humbly beg to differ. Yu Shun chanted the poem of “South Wind”; the Duke of Zhou composed the “Owl” piece; Jifu’s and Shi Ke’s verses are among the most beautiful of the Odes and the Hymns. I have never heard that their virtue was hurt by poetry-writing in their youth. Confucius said, “If one does not study the Poems, one will not know how to speak,” and “I rectified music upon returning to Lu from Wei, and the Odes and the Hymns each found its proper place.” When expounding the way of filial piety, he also cited the Poems to prove his point. How could Yang Xiong dare to ignore poetic writings? As for his statement, that “the rhapsodies of a poet are beautiful and proper while those of a rhetorician are beautiful but excessive,” he only knows how to distinguish the two kinds, but how about his own behavior when he became a grown man? He wrote the essay on “Criticizing the Qin and Praising the Xin,” and threw himself off the tower for nothing; panicked and terrified, he had no comprehension of the Heavenly Mandate—this was all a boy’s doing. It is lamentable that Yuan Liang should have regarded him as superior to Laozi and that Ge Hong should have compared him to Confucius. They were both deceived by this fellow simply because he knew something about mathematics and the yin and yang principles and was thus able to write the Classic of Great Mystery. His words and conduct cannot even match those of Sun Qing and Qu Yuan; how could he possibly look up to the pure dust of those great sages? Besides, what is the use of the Great Mysterytoday? It is only good for covering sauce jars.
During the Qi there was a gentleman named Xi Pi, who was an efficient man of integrity and reached the position of minister of the branch department of state affairs. He despised literary learning. Once he taunted Liu Ti, saying, “The fine words of your ilk may be likened to the morning hibiscus: it provides a momentary pleasure but is no great timber. How can you compare with people like us, who are pine trees of a thousand fathoms tall and never wither despite frequent wind and frost?” Liu replied, “How about being a cold-resisting tree and sprouting spring flowers?” Xi laughed, “That would be all right, I guess.”
Writing is like riding a fine steed: even if it has a noble air, you must control it with the bit and reins. Don’t let it go off the tracks, gallop to its heart’s content, and fall into a ditch somewhere.
Literary writings should take ideas and feelings as the heart and kidney; tone as the sinews and bones; textual references as the skin; beautiful flourishes as the cap on the head. Nowadays writers all follow one another in abandoning the roots and pursuing the branches, and most of them are ornate and superficial. Rhetoric and ideas compete; rhetoric wins out and ideas are compromised. Textual allusions contend with the author’s talent; talent is injured by too many allusions. A writer who is wild and unrestrained wanders off and forgets to return to the topic at hand; a writer who strains to make things work puts together various pieces and is still found wanting. This, however, is the contemporary trend; how can you alone fight it? Just try to avoid extremes and excesses. Suppose you have great talent and enjoy a high reputation and can reform the literary style, that is truly what I hope to see.
The ancients’ writings demonstrate magnificent talent and noble air. Their structure and style are very different from today; it is just that their organizing and phrasing are rough and simple, not meticulous and subtle. Today’s writings, in terms of harmonious metrical pattern, refined parallelism, and avoidance of taboos, are much superior to former times. You should take the ancients’ tailoring and structuring as basis and today’s diction and sound as the branches: both must be preserved; do not discard either.
From Family Instructions for the Yan Clan and Other Works by Yan Zhitui. Translated by Xiaofei Tian. Edited by Paul W. Kroll. Copyright © 2021 by Xiaofei Tian. Used with permission of the author. (CC BY-NC-ND 4.0)
Read the other entries in this series: Inez Milholland and Eugen Boissevain, George Washington, Plutarch, Lewis Carroll, Chrétien de Troyes, Nizam al-Mulk, Saadi, Giovanni Della Casa, Maria Edgeworth, Dan McQuade on basketball manuals, and Leopold Froehlich on syndicated advice columnists.