21 AN ECCENTRIC CONSIDERS SUICIDE Self-authored funerary biography by Xu Wei 徐渭 (1521–1593)

Self-Authored Funerary Biography

I, Xu Wei, am a native of Shanyin [Zhejiang]. I became familiar with the writing of the ancients as a boy and studied even harder when I was older. Later I became interested in the Way, so I went to study the teachings of the Wang [Yangming, 1472–1528] school under Ji Ben [1485–1563]. Realizing its links to Chan Buddhism, I went on to study with Chan masters. Years passed before people thought I was making any progress, and in the end, I understood neither writing nor philosophy. Since I was a person of no status who was, moreover, lazy and blunt, I feared that friends in high positions saw me as overly self-confident. I also spent time with people who casually violated respectability—even going nude in public. Since many disliked the way I behaved, in the end, my arrogance and impudence assured that I did not get anywhere.

At age nine, I was able to compose examination essays, but then neglected to continue practicing for over a decade, which I later regretted. Being impractical and in search of broad learning, I divided my effort among many schools of classics and history and wanted to investigate thoroughly even the most insignificant matter. Once I started pondering something, I would forget to eat or sleep; when reading, I would leave books everywhere. For this reason, I am approaching forty-five and have been a government school student for twenty-six years. Half of that time, I was on a stipend at the county school. I have taken the lowest level of the civil service examinations eight times and failed every time. People all made fun of me, but I did not let it bother me. For ten years, I rented a place in an out-of-the-way alley and made do with the bare necessities.

Then the junior guardian Hu Zongxian recruited me to serve as an aide with responsibility for drafting official documents. I took the post but several times resigned and left. Once, when Mr. Hu wrote to ask me to return, I did not even get up from my bed when the messenger arrived. Everyone thought that I was being obtuse and worried about my situation, but I remained unconcerned. After that, Mr. Hu acted even more deferential, treating me as an equal. In the end, I worked for him for two years, during which time he bestowed on me hundreds of ounces of silver and treated me with great respect. Everyone was impressed by my success, but for my part, I felt deep unease.

Then, all of a sudden, I wanted to kill myself. People thought that a scholar with integrity like me had no reason to die. They did not know that many scholars with lofty character from the past who aided powerful men ended up dead. In my case, I wanted to commit suicide, so it was different from being executed. As a person, when a matter has nothing to do with moral obligation, I am usually relaxed and choose not to be bound by the Confucian principle of righteousness. But if a matter violates righteousness and carries the risk of bringing me shame and a bad reputation, I am willing to sacrifice my life in order to act on principle. For this reason, my relatives cannot stop me from killing myself. Nor do my friends understand why I want to do it.

I am especially terrible at earning a living, to the extent that on the day I die, I will not have enough money to cover the costs of my funeral. My belongings include several thousand volumes of books, two chime stones, plus some inkstones, swords, and paintings, as well as a number of my own works of prose and poetry. I have asked a fellow townsman to sell the swords and paintings for me and have written to urge him to proceed so that the funds from the sale will be available for my burial. My unfinished drafts were also taken by a friend.

I once said that, of all the books I have studied, I have gained the most from The Śūran˙gama Sūtra, Zhuangzi, Liezi, and The Yellow Emperor’s Classic of Internal Medicine (Huangdi neijing). If I had had more time to expound on them, I would have been able to demonstrate all the errors of the commentators and show posterity their original meaning. I am profoundly fascinated by the “Basic Question” chapter in Internal Medicine and confident of my reading of it.

I was planning to arrange a marriage for my son this year. That way, I could entrust my mother’s welfare to the new couple so that I could tour all the celebrated mountains, get out of the house, and escape distractions. These wishes are all impossible to realize now. I don’t hide my mistakes, and I consider it shameful to claim I know what I don’t know. Describing me that way is not far from the mark.

My original courtesy name was Wenqing, but I later changed it to Wenchang. I was born on the fourth day of the second month of the xinsi year in the Zhengde reign period [1521] to a concubine of my father, the associate prefect of Kuizhoufu [Sichuan]. My father died when I was a hundred days old. I was raised by my legal mother, Madame Miao, for fourteen years. After she died, I lived with my eldest brother, Huai, for six years. In the gengzi year of the Jiangjing reign period [1540], I enrolled in the county school and took the first level of the civil service examination without success.

I married into the Pan family as their son-in-law. My father-in-law was the recorder of Yangjiang in Guangdong. We accompanied him there and lived south of the Ridges [Guangdong] for two years. Two years after we returned, my eldest brother, Huai, died during the summer. That winter, I lost the family property in a lawsuit. In the winter of the next year, my father-in-law died. The next fall, I rented a place and began to teach students. Ten years later in the winter, I became an aide at Mr. Hu’s office. Altogether, I worked under him for five years. I died four years later on a certain day in a certain month in the yichou year of the Jiangjing reign period [1565].

I have two sons. The older, born to Madame Pan, is Mei; the younger, Du, by my successor wife, is only four. Information about my ancestors is included in the funerary biography for my father, so I won’t repeat it here. I am buried in Mount Muzha of Shanyin. Since I don’t know the date of my funeral, I’ll skip that information too. The inscription reads:

Cui Zhu [d. 546 BCE] allowed Yan Ying [d. 500 BCE] to express his loyalty;

Geng Liang’s [289–340] illness saved his life.

They should have lived;

Their deaths would have destroyed their trust in each other.

Zhong Jing [n.d.] imprisoned Ban Gu [32–92];

Wang Yun [137–192] arrested Cai Yong [133–192].

It was fine for them to die;

What would have justified a different outcome?

I ridicule myself for jumping into the water because of my fear of drowning,

But sympathize with Ma Rong [79–166] for attempting suicide following his demotion.

When his life was in danger, Confucius [551–479 BCE] escaped by hiding his identity;

Jizi [n.d.] faked lunacy after King Zhou [d. 1046 BCE] [of the Shang] rejected his advice.

Again and again, I recite “The People of Our Race,”

Feeling ashamed that I am not as wise as Zhong Shanfu [Western Zhou].

SOURCE: Xu Wei, Xu Wenchang sanji 徐文長三集, in Xu Wei ji 徐渭集 (Beijing: Zhonghua Shuju, 1999), 26.638–40.

Further Reading

• He Yuming. “Difficulties of Performance: The Musical Career of Xu Wei’s ‘The Mad Drummer.’” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 68, no. 2 (December 2008): 77–114.
• Kwa, Shiamin. Strange Eventual Histories: Identity, Performance, and Xu Wei’s “Four Cries of a Gibbon.” Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 2012.
• Ryor, Kathleen. “Regulating the Qi and the Xin: Xu Wei (1521–1593) and His Military Patrons.” Archives of Asian Art 54 (2004): 23–33.