THE QUESTION OF LIFE AND DEATH AND LI ZHI’S PURSUIT OF THE DAO

After Li Zhi returned to Dragon Lake from Wuchang in 1593, when he was sixty-seven years old, he renovated a local monastery and built a pagoda called Buried Bones (Maiguta). Living in the monastery, he pondered death intensively, perhaps because he felt his own death approaching.¹ According to the modern scholar Xu Jianping, Li Zhi’s ideas about life and death changed several times: as a young man he espoused a Confucian viewpoint; in middle age he embraced a Daoist position; and at the end of his life he advocated for a Buddhist one. But he never completely gave up Confucian and Daoist concepts.² Even when he first encountered the works of Wang Yangming and Wang Ji, when he was about forty, the message that caught his eye was “A true man who attains the Dao will never die, and this achievement is equal to that of Buddha and the Daoist immortals.”³ He was not satisfied with Confucian ideas of worth, words, and works as means for overcoming death, nor did he entirely subscribe to the wisdom of seeing both life and death as intrinsic to the Dao. Instead, he contemplated such questions as: What happens to an individual after death? Does any part of life remain after a person dies? Does perception endure after death? Does a man really reap as he sows? Does the Western Paradise (Pure Land) really exist?

Li Zhi admitted that he was terrified of death, but he also endowed this fear with a positive meaning. He said, “If one takes the fear [of death] as the basis of learning, one’s ultimate goal will be to free oneself from life and death, to escape the sea of bitterness, and to avoid fear.”⁴ He further averred, “The only reason why sages tried desperately to understand the cause of life and death was that they greatly feared death. They therefore could not stop [seeking its cause] until they had grasped the non-duality of life and death.”⁵

Li Zhi’s perplexity toward the question of life and death, and his fear of death, compelled him, like the sages, to pursue the Dao. Although the phrases “to free oneself from life and death” and “to escape the sea of bitterness” contain Buddhist connotations, he considered the term “sages” to include not only Buddhist sages but also Daoist and Confucian ones. He viewed the sages of the Three Teachings as equals to those who had attained enlightenment through spiritual self-cultivation. This view was popular among late-Ming literati. As the Japanese scholar Araki Kengo has pointed out, many late-Ming literati were tolerant of synthesis; they tended to believe in the existence of a transcendental common ground or shared origin of the Three Teachings and maintained that this origin could be accessed by self-cultivation based on one’s mind-nature (xinxing).⁶ Zhou Rudeng (1547–1629), for example, said, “Although the teachings of Confucianism and Buddhism differ, there is no difference in the root nature of the mind.”⁷ Similar viewpoints appeared in Du Wenhuan’s (b. 1581) project to synthesize the Three Teachings (huizong sanjiao).⁸ As Jiang Wu shows in chapter 9, this period saw the emergence of a group of Dao learners who, downplaying social, institutional, and cultural boundaries, maintained that distinguishing among different religions was less important than engaging in sincere self-cultivation.

This intellectual context is essential for understanding Li Zhi. He said “Confucianism, Daoism, and Buddhism are the same. All the Three Teachings have the same goal, which was to know the Dao.”⁹ He thought that the most important thing in life was to cultivate one’s own spirit-and-nature (xingming), because one’s body would perish after death, while spirit-and-nature would endure forever. The sages of the Three Teachings dedicated themselves to cultivating spirit-and-nature and all attained the Dao, even though their representations of it differed. Li Zhi emphasized that “the differences [among the Three Teachings] were only superficial.”¹⁰ He consequently proclaimed that a wise person should not overemphasize the differences, and neither should he try to erase them. On the contrary, he urged people to pay attention to the “sameness” among these teachings: “If one learns to see the sameness of them, one will see that not only is there no difference among the sages of the Three Teachings, but there is also no difference under heaven.”¹¹

Li Zhi was dissatisfied with the idea that one should not expound upon the nature of the afterlife. He was inclined to believe in retribution, reincarnation, and the existence of ghosts.¹² He said, “If there is no such thing as reincarnation or ghosts, then there is no reason to study the Dao. So what the sages of the Three Teachings did was all in vain.”¹³ He believed that an individual’s identity continues beyond death and, when he spoke with Matteo Ricci (1552–1610), expressed his interest in and curiosity about “heaven.”¹⁴ However, he did not have a clear idea of what heaven was, nor did he set heaven (or the Pure Land) as his goal. When Li Shihui suggested that Li Zhi should strive to dwell in the Western Paradise, Li Zhi replied that he would not like to dwell forever in the Western Paradise: “If Buddha is in heaven, I will go to heaven; if he is in hell, I will go to hell.” Since everything is impermanent, rebirth in the Western Paradise too should be impermanent.¹⁵ Rather than set as his ideal goal an everlasting realm described by a religious doctrine, Li Zhi pursued the fullness of life, which had more to do with the living embodiment of the Dao than with any established religious ideology. He wouldn’t allow himself to be restricted by conventional rules or institutional ideology. He was an extreme individualist, as William Theodore de Bary and Mizoguchi Yūzō have pointed out.¹⁶ His identity was more fluid and unstable than those of other literati, even those who shared his omnivorous intellectual appetite. He praised the sages of the Three Teachings as models of self-cultivation, but he did not consistently identify himself with any institutional religion. His method of seeking the Dao and his inability to adhere to any institutional or conventional wisdom made him an outcast. But his passionate devotion to personal freedom also granted him the ability to appreciate people and things differently from his contemporaries.

THE QUESTION OF LIFE AND DEATH IN NEO-CONFUCIANISM FROM LATE MING TO QING

Li Zhi was not alone in his obsession with the question of life and death. During the late Ming, not only did Buddhism and Daoism offer their answers to this question; even Confucianism provided insights and produced rich discussions on it. The Song dynasty neo-Confucians Cheng Yi and Zhu Xi criticized Buddhists for being afraid of death and cravenly clinging to life. They distinguished themselves from Buddhists by not saying much on this issue. Unlike Cheng Yi and Zhu Xi, late-Ming Confucians were obsessed with the subject of life and death. In many ways—including techniques of self-cultivation, images of the sage, and biographical writings—this phenomenon was closely related to Buddhist culture. Its advocates claimed that understanding the meaning of life and death was the ultimate goal of Confucian sagely learning, and they took this phrase from the Analects, “If a man hears the Dao in the morning, he may die in the evening without regret,” as evidence that Confucius taught people to ponder the meaning of life and death.¹⁷ They thus claimed that the question of life and death was the ultimate concern of learning.¹⁸ Some even emphasized the importance of being able to meet one’s death peacefully, which they considered proof of having understood the Dao.¹⁹

From late Ming to early Qing, we see a sharp decline in Yangming learning and a surge of Confucian criticism of Buddhism. Early-Qing neo-Confucians tended to distinguish “true” neo-Confucianism from pseudo-Confucianism and Chan Buddhism. They often viewed Yangming learning, and sometimes even all neo-Confucianism, as poisoned by Buddhism and Daoism. In this intellectual milieu, however, the question of life and death remained attractive to Confucians.

Rejecting Buddhist theory about reincarnation, Song neo-Confucians like Zhang Zai (1020–1077), Cheng Yi, and Zhu Xi adopted a theory of the transformation of qi to explain the existence of life. They speculated that life arises when qi congeals and that death occurs when qi disperses. In general, they did not mention the existence of an individual soul or the continued existence of the individual after death. For example, Zhu Xi said:

The qi of gods always extends and exists, but the qi of dead people disperses entirely. The speed of dispersion, however, differs according to the dead person. Some people do not submit willingly to death. As a result, their qi does not disperse after they die, and they became monsters or sinister beings. [For instance] the qi of people who die violent deaths does not disperse. This has also happened in the case of some Buddhist and Daoist monks. As for Confucian sages, they have all been able to embrace death peacefully. Has any one of them tried to hold onto his qi so as to become any sort of spiritual being? Certainly not! I have never heard that sages like Huangdi, Yao, or Shun became spiritual beings or monsters after death.²⁰

According to Zhu Xi, the qi of the dead naturally disperses, and as this happens, one’s individual identity fades. In other words, one’s qi disperses after death and rejoins the great qi of the cosmos. This process follows the Dao.²¹ In the Confucian Classics, however, there are some stories in which the dead return to life to exact revenge or individual spirits persist into the afterlife. Zhu Xi did not deny these phenomena. He admitted the possibility that one’s qi might not disperse after death, but he claimed that this situation was not an ideal postmortem state for human beings. On the contrary, it was unnatural and was often caused by great injustice. The preservation of qi and individual identity were often related to ghosts and demons seeking to avenge a wrong perpetrated against them. The other possibility that Zhu Xi mentions is a result of Buddhist or Daoist cultivation, which he also thought unnatural and a betrayal of the Dao. As for Confucian sages, Zhu Xi believed that their qi would completely disperse and return to the great cosmic qi. Confucian sages wouldn’t even try to preserve their qi, since they truly understood the Dao. Therefore, like Zhang Zai, Zhu Xi proposed that one should live according to the Dao and embrace death peacefully (cunshun moning). This view of the afterlife suggested that there was no fundamental difference between the postmortem fates of sages and of common people. Or, if there was, these differences did not occupy the minds of Song neo-Confucians.

Due to the orthodox role of Cheng-Zhu learning and its obvious difference from Buddhism and Daoism, this view of the afterlife was widely accepted by later Confucian literati. They saw no need to ponder the matter deeply, since ancient sages did not say much about it. Nevertheless, not everybody felt satisfied with this attitude, as the following dialogue, recorded by the Taizhou School scholar Deng Huoqu, demonstrates:

Someone asked Liu Bangcai: “When one who has truly engaged in learning dies, where does he go?” Bangcai answered: “He returns to the Great Void [Taixu].” His interlocutor asked again: “How about one who has never engaged in learning? Where does he go after death?” Bangcai answered: “He returns to the Great Void.” Someone asked Deng Huoqu’s opinion about this. Deng Huoqu said: “Those who have truly engaged in learning did not dare to act rashly, but those who did not engage in learning did all manner of evil. If both kinds of people return to the Great Void after death, why don’t we just imitate those who did all manner of evil?”²²

Liu Bangcai espoused a view of the afterlife that resembled Zhu Xi’s, while Deng Huoqu, whom Li Zhi deeply respected, represented another opinion that gradually became popular in late-Ming and early-Qing Confucian discourse. Deng Huoqu posed an important question about justice and the value of Confucian moral cultivation. Apart from the legacy of words, work, and historical memory an individual left behind, was there any way to live on after death? If a person’s moral achievement had nothing to do with his postmortem fate, wherein lay the value of Confucian morality? If in the end all human beings returned to the Great Void, what did justice mean for Confucianism?

Deng Huoqu was not alone in pondering these questions. Many of his contemporary Confucians had similar concerns and tried to offer their insights. One point they insisted on was that it was essential to differentiate between the postmortem condition of mortals and immortals. Gao Panlong (1562–1626), Chen Longzheng (1585–1645), Sun Qifeng (1585–1675), Huang Zongxi (1610–1695), Wang Fuzhi (1619–1692), Wang Sihuai (b. 1620), and many others emphasized this principle, although they did not have a consensus theory.²³ They believed that truly moral persons would be able to preserve certain elements of their individual identity after death. “Who dares say that [Sage King] Shun and [Robber] Zhi ended up the same?” they quipped. They criticized Cheng Yi and Zhu Xi for overlooking the similarities between Confucianism and Buddhism and implying that all lives, whether wise or foolish, good or bad, are completely extinguished. They believed that this idea would bring harm to moral education and customs.²⁴

The early-Qing Confucian Ying Huiqian (1615–1683) also argued against the idea that an individual’s qi disperses after death. He wondered why Confucian sages would continuously strive to improve their morality throughout their lives if they would end up no different from rotten, withered grass. He said that embracing the idea that qi disperses after death is like saying “Immediately after finishing the construction of a grand mansion, the mansion is burned to ashes.” Ying Huiqian avowed that the idea was repugnant to common sense and thus could not be true. He also said:

Confucians often say that because Buddhists and Daoists do not submit willingly to death, their qi doesn’t disperse after death, and because Confucian sages do not crave life, their qi disperses after death. But all human beings love life and hate death. How could the teachings of the Confucian sages oppose this universal sentiment? Moreover, when the sages established the rites, they viewed death as inauspicious. But they regarded life as the greatest value of all. If Buddhists and Daoists possessed spiritual efficacy after death while Confucian sages rotted immediately [like grass], no wonder people rush to join the Buddhists and Daoists.²⁵

Ying Huiqian thus claimed that Cheng Yi’s and Zhu Xi’s ideas about life and death betrayed the teachings of the sages. He believed that if Confucians continued to uphold Cheng-Zhu theory, people would be forced to abandon Confucianism altogether and convert to Buddhism or Daoism.

To sum up, many early-Qing neo-Confucians, following late-Ming discourse, continued to ponder the issue of life and death. Like Cheng Yi and Zhu Xi, they rejected Buddhism and Daoism. Nonetheless, they disagreed with Cheng Yi and Zhu Xi in that they tended to believe that moral cultivation should decisively influence a person’s afterlife. The spirits of sages, unlike those of ordinary people, should continue to exist, to perceive, and to resonate with the minds of those who truly dedicated themselves to sagely learning while alive. By and large, Confucians of this period rejected the Buddhist concepts of heaven (Pure Land) and hell, but they tended to believe in a Confucian heaven. Instead of describing hell, they often talked about how commoners would perish like withered grass. As for Confucian heaven, it was often imagined as the court of the supreme God (shangdi), in which the spirits of all sages would join in fellowship, as The Book of Poetry (Shijing) states, “on the left and right of God [zai di zuo you].”²⁶ It is worth mentioning that in the same period this phrase was also often quoted by Jesuits to argue for the existence of a Christian heaven. Many Qing Confucians emphasized that sages and worthies were able to enter the heavenly court and enjoy spiritual fellowship with all Confucian sages.²⁷ In contrast to the common impression that Confucians cared mostly about worldly affairs, these scholars, like Li Zhi, were not satisfied with Confucian ideas of worth, words, and works as means for overcoming death. They tended to believe that some vestige of life would remain after death and that an ideal postmortem state existed for those who attained sagehood through self-cultivation. In short, Li Zhi’s preoccupation with the question of life and death was shared by many of his contemporary literati.

DIFFERENT APPROACHES TOWARD LEARNING

If Li Zhi’s views were not unique, what made him so controversial? As previously noted, no one disputed the importance of studying the Dao; the difference lay in practice. Many serious debates and criticisms derived from different views on the methods of sagely learning. Two different approaches toward sagely learning help explain why Li Zhi was so hotly debated in Ming-Qing intellectual history.

Li Zhi’s quarrels with Geng Dingxiang afflicted Li greatly. Their falling-out sharpened Li’s critique of literati culture and shaped his ideas of “genuineness” (zhen) and the “childlike mind” (tongxin). But in fact, as Timothy Brook argues in chapter 4, Li Zhi and Geng Dingxiang shared many similarities. Both studied the ideas of Wang Yangming and read texts representing all three teachings. They were friends too. They were, nevertheless, very different in personality and thought, which made their later quarrels almost inevitable.

As a prominent Confucian scholar and official, Geng Dingxiang represented conventional Confucian wisdom. In contrast, Li Zhi was harsh, cynical, and arrogant, even though his message was not without merit. Because of his irascible personality, it was difficult for the majority of literati to appreciate him. Nevertheless, those who befriended both men recognized the advantages of their different visions. For example, Zhou Sijiu pointed out that their differences lay chiefly in their attitudes toward Confucian ethical norms (mingjiao) and genuine spirit (zhenji).²⁸

The following example illustrates the differences between the two men. Geng Dingxiang once debated with his brother Geng Dingli which phrase best encapsulated the meaning of the Four Books. Dingxiang advocated for a phrase from the Mencius, “The sages are the culmination of humanity” (renlun zhi zhi), while Dingli preferred the phrase “a state of equilibrium before any emotion has stirred” (weifa zhi zhong) from the Doctrine of the Mean.²⁹

Commenting on the brothers’ disagreement, Li Zhi remarked, “ ‘The culmination of humanity’ is precisely ‘a state of equilibrium before any emotion has stirred.’ How could one who has not experienced this state of equilibrium attain the culmination of humanity? Perfection is attained when the Dao achieves equilibrium.”³⁰ Here Li Zhi tried to reconcile the two statements by linking the moral agent’s state of mind to his behavior. Li’s comments focus on the brothers’ shared understanding of the ultimate goal of learning, but what he fails to account for is the fundamental incompatibility between the methods the two brothers proposed for approaching their common goal. The statements the Geng brothers favored implied two different stances toward sagely learning. Dingxiang defended the values of Confucian ethical norms, while Dingli was concerned with the subtle condition of the heart-mind. Li Zhi sided with Dingli. He explains why his quarrels with Dingxiang worsened: “Dingxiang, for his part, tenaciously set his heart on the phrase ‘The sages embody the culmination of humanity.’ He constantly feared that, in relinquishing worldly affairs, I had committed an error. For my part, I tenaciously insisted on the phrase ‘a state of equilibrium before any emotion has stirred’ and feared that perhaps he had failed to perceive the origin of things or to investigate the source of their principles. We debated back and forth, never pausing, and our debate turned into a quarrel that continues even to the present day.”³¹ Li Zhi considered his quarrels with Geng Dingxiang mainly a philosophical problem concerning the correct method for studying. He also said in another essay, “Geng Dingxiang and I argued over learning.”³² This helps us to understand why Li Zhi wouldn’t give up easily; he insisted because he was arguing over the essence of Confucian learning.

The differences between Li Zhi’s and Geng Dingxiang’s approaches to learning should also be examined in a broader intellectual context. Some Confucians like Geng emphasized the value of ethical norms, which were said to be inherent in human nature and congruent with heavenly principles. Confucians who held this belief intended to defend the validity of these ethical norms as well as the objective moral judgments that formed the basis of society. They insisted that, no matter how great and unfathomable the Dao was, if it was to serve as a moral compass, it needed to be represented to the people clearly and concretely.

On the other hand, Confucians rejected moral lessons learned by observing external rules alone. Instead of emphasizing moral behavior itself, they stressed the moral agent’s motivation and state of mind. A famous phrase from the Mencius expressed this idea clearly: “[A person should] follow [the path of] morality. He should not just put morality into practice.”³³ Ideally, one’s behavior should accord with one’s inner mental state, just as “rites/propriety” (li) were defined as external manifestations of heavenly principles within human nature. In practice, however, it was difficult to judge a person’s motivation by his behavior, and “proper behavior” was not easy to discern since it needed to adapt to various situations. Confucians, therefore, more often encouraged people to examine themselves and follow their own moral judgments than merely to observe fixed rules or judge others’ motivations.

The “pristine moral consciousness” (liangzhi) of Yangming learning, which both Li Zhi and Geng Dingxiang studied, attempted to bring to light questions regarding a moral agent’s mental state as well as his adherence to social norms. Wang Ji and a number of other Taizhou scholars to whom Li Zhi felt akin adopted the more radical position of fully believing in each individual’s liangzhi. Wang Ji proposed the theory of “ready-made liangzhi” (xiancheng liangzhi), by which he meant that one’s liangzhi was in a constant state of readiness and fullness. No practice was needed to improve one’s liangzhi. Neither should one adhere to any fixed practice, because every move should follow from liangzhi and adapt to the unfolding situation. This theory did not deny the importance of self-cultivation but rather emphasized practice at every moment, in all situations, guided by perfect liangzhi. This theory, however, worried many scholars and provoked serious criticism. A common criticism was that it led people to cherish the sense that they had already attained enlightenment and to neglect true moral cultivation.

The thought of ready-made liangzhi consequently de-emphasized the importance of rites and social norms in theory, although it did not necessarily do so in practice. It also raised doubts about the correspondence between name and reality, a Confucian ideal. During the late Ming, some doubted whether the reputations of certain public figures truly reflected their state of morality. “Name” or reputation (ming) not only did not necessarily reflect reality, but also could become the subject of power struggles and an obstacle to true moral cultivation. Therefore, some neo-Confucians asserted that true gentlemen should sincerely and continuously engage in ethical self-cultivation, even if doing so meant forgoing public recognition. Some upheld the idea of “cutting the roots of fame” (duan minggen) and “breaking through the obstacle of reputation” (dapo huiyu guan). These efforts aimed to encourage sincere self-cultivation. For example, Yang Qiyuan (1547–1599) said, “One’s reputation does not reflect one’s achievements, nor does one’s social status indicate whether one has comprehended the Dao. There are some who have hidden virtues and unknown merits. People unknowingly benefit from their help. This is how sagely learning ought to be.”³⁴ All these sayings emphasize the value of true moral motivation and demonstrate that one need not make others’ opinions the barometer of one’s own self-worth.

This viewpoint was quite popular among those who sympathized with Wang Ji and the Taizhou scholars, including Li Zhi. However, it became a target of criticism for orthodox scholars, such as those of Donglin and Jiangyou (Jiangxi Province). Donglin and Jiangyou scholars stressed the role of rites, even though they also recognized the importance of achieving enlightenment through the cultivation of liangzhi.³⁵ They believed in the correspondence between names and reality (ming shi xiang fu). Wang Shihuai (1522–1605) analogized the view of Wang Ji and other adherents to the Taizhou School to fierce floods and savage beasts:

Acting arbitrarily was considered following one’s nature. Fawning on the world was considered being at one with the myriad things. Transgressing the precepts was considered not craving reputation. An unrestrained attitude was considered the state of joy achieved by Confucius and his favorite student, Yan Hui. Empty vision was considered transcendental enlightenment. Behaving shamelessly was considered possessing an untrammeled heart. Neglecting one’s heart and not seeking the Dao was considered never expending any artificial effort. Alas, there are so many people who behave like this nowadays.³⁶

Wang Shihuai considered the potential negative influences of claiming that words and reputations do not necessarily reflect reality. By disrupting the correspondence between names and reality, one risked upsetting social norms and losing the ability to make any objective judgment. Moral confusion and social disorder were the expected results. Furthermore, people who held such an opinion might even satirize those who scrupulously abided by rites and laws. Luo Hongxian (1504–1564) and Wang Shihuai, for example, complained that their contemporaries liked to deride as fame seekers those who strictly adhered to the rites.³⁷ All these criticisms might remind us of Li Zhi both because he was accused of being a fame seeker and because he too accused others of seeking fame.

CONTROVERSIES SURROUNDING LI ZHI

In debates about the correspondence between name and reality, Li Zhi’s views resembled those of Wang Ji and the Taizhou scholars. However, his views about name and reality led him not only to advocate engaging in authentic moral cultivation but also to attack others. These actions, in turn, generated negative responses from his contemporaries. He bragged about himself, saying, “When I measure myself, I find no evil in my heart, no error on my person, no dirt on my form, and no dust on my shadow. There is an old saying ‘neither blushing nor ashamed.’ I truly embody it.”³⁸ He also said, “People like me are very different from the majority of people in the world. If I harbored even the slightest deceitful thought or committed a minor transgression, I would feel deeply ashamed for a long time.… I am a person of the utmost self-discipline, whom no one could rival. However, I am strict only with myself, and very lenient with others. I have disciplined myself assiduously for seventy years. As I look around at all the people in the wide world, I find no one who can compare with me.”³⁹ Although these words were spoken in self-defense, the arrogant tone is obvious. More damaging, Li Zhi harshly criticized the hypocrisy widespread throughout contemporary literati culture: “Those who claim to learn from Masters Zhou, Cheng, Zhang, and Zhu all like to talk about morality, but their real concerns are high-ranking official positions and enormous wealth. After they have gained a high position and are garnering enormous wealth, they continue talking about morality, benevolence, and righteousness. They garrulously tell people: ‘My purpose is to rectify social practice and improve customs.’ ”⁴⁰

Li Zhi despised many literati and accused them of seeking wealth and rank while talking about morality. He derided them for doing so only because he believed that they lacked the true talent necessary to succeed.⁴¹ Yet by bragging about himself, he failed to engage in the kind of intense self-scrutiny the Confucian tradition demanded. His attacks on contemporary literati were unbearable to many. Qian Qianyi said that the reason contemporary literati hated Li Zhi so much was that he accused almost all of them of hypocrisy.⁴² And Fang Yizhi (1611–1671) accused Li Zhi of being a fame seeker:

I always feel sorry that Li [Zhi] was such a vain person, who, with little wit or talent, gave free rein to his own prejudices. He tried to smear all under heaven by his hand, and honored himself as the most outstanding person in the world. Because he could not reach his aspirations through officialdom, he allowed himself to spew venom at others.… Thus he specialized in scolding people for seeking fame, but in fact, he himself was seeking fame. Since he praised people like Wu Zetian and Feng Dao, he became a chief offender in breaking the code of ethics and he wrought chaos in the world. He sinned against heaven and earth, and people criticized him for unorthodoxy. However, it turned out that this was what he hoped for. He knew that his sinister and diabolic ways would not only satisfy the desires of those who coveted strange and new things, but would also provoke more criticism from the world, and this would make him more famous.⁴³

We don’t have to agree with Fang Yizhi in seeing Li Zhi as a fame seeker, but his view that Li was a “chief offender in breaking the code of ethics [and] wrought chaos in the world” reflected popular opinions in his time.

In short, when reading Li Zhi’s life story, we cannot stop wondering why a person with such lofty moral standards and the sincere intention to engage in serious study became a target of public attacks. It seems that his outlandish way of humiliating his contemporary literati was the main cause. Li Zhi’s rejection of the correspondence between name and reality, his repudiation of objective moral rules, and his fluid identity also contributed to creating the tragedy he endured.⁴⁴ All of these made him an iconoclast and a highly self-conscious thinker in late imperial Chinese history.

PERCEPTIONS OF LI ZHI FROM LATE MING TO QING

As previously noted, Li Zhi and Geng Dingxiang held different views of practice, which reflected differences of opinion among the followers of Wang Yangming. From the late Ming onward, Yangming learning was greatly criticized for too closely resembling Buddhism and Daoism. To rectify this perceived problem, many Confucians completely abandoned the idea of liangzhi. Most Yangming scholars, no matter what branch of his philosophy they belonged to, held liangzhi to be the key to ethical attainment. Either maintaining that individuals must act according to their ready-made liangzhi or advocating that individuals must cultivate and preserve their liangzhi by quiet sitting, late-Ming Yangming scholars tended to engage in a certain kind of inward practice with regard to mind-nature, the so-called first order of practice. They claimed that if one acted according to liangzhi, one’s behavior would naturally conform to proper norms, and one’s human relationships would become peaceful and well regulated. On this point, Li Zhi and Geng Dingxiang agreed: both endorsed the cultivation of liangzhi.

However, Qing Confucians tended to oppose the inward practice of the heart-mind (meditation and the pursuit of enlightenment) and focused instead on concrete actions such as building human relationships and fulfilling ethical obligations in everyday life (riyong renlun). For example, Xie Wenjian (1615–1681), who was a follower of the Cheng-Zhu School, disagreed with Zhu Xi and Cheng Yi insofar as he rejected all types of inward practice of the heart-mind. Alleging that such practices had been contaminated by Buddhism, he instead proposed that morality be practiced in daily life, and he asserted that Confucian sages should be able to follow their nature while adhering to the five cardinal relationships: ruler-minister, father-son, husband-wife, elder brother–younger brother, and friend-friend.⁴⁵ Similarly, Pan Pingge (1610–1677) emphasized the importance of restoring one’s own nature and seeking benevolence (qiuren) or substance (benti). He often talked about the unity of the myriad things (wanwu yiti), and in many ways he was an inheritor of late-Ming Yangming learning.⁴⁶ Pan, however, opposed the practice of preserving reverence through quiet sitting and the practice of “observing qi before the feelings of pleasure, anger, sorrow, or happiness arise” (guan weifa qixiang). He criticized the neo-Confucian teachings of Cheng Yi, Zhu Xi, Lu Jiuyuan, and Wang Yangming for having betrayed the precepts of the ancient sages, which, he thought, were able to bring about peaceful governance and inspire people to live according to the cardinal relationships. The following dialogue between Pan Pingge and his friend demonstrates the value he placed on filial obligations:

To encourage the people in the hall, a friend quoted Master Yangming, saying: “Everyone in this hall is a sage.” Master Pan said: “Everyone in this hall is somebody’s son.” The friend said: “Everyone should learn to become a sage.” Master Pan said: “Pingge only hopes that everyone can learn to become a filial son and a loving brother.” The friend then expounded the Western Inscription [Ximing], saying: “Qian is father and Kun is mother. We need to understand that heaven and earth are our great parents. Only then can we understand the meaning of Unity.” Master Pan said: “Pingge only wishes that everyone will know his own parents, and this will naturally lead to the great Unity.”⁴⁷

Pan Pingge tried hard to ground the lofty discussions of “the great Unity” and “the heavenly great parents” in concrete ethical obligations to parents and brothers. He did not deny the teachings of the famous Song dynasty text the Western Inscription on the unity of the myriad things, but he rejected the notion that one should abandon daily familial obligations in order to pursue the Dao.

Similar opinions were popular in early Qing neo-Confucianism. Confucian scholars such as Chen Que (1604–1677), Lu Shiyi (1611–1672), Mao Xianshu (1620–1688), Zhu Yongchun (1617–1688), Xu Sanli (1625–1691), Lu Longqi (1630–1692), and Yan Yuan (1635–1704) criticized the inward focus on the heart-mind and argued that fulfilling ethical obligations was the basic requirement for sagely learning. According to their arguments, one could learn to become a sage only within the context of one’s family. This thesis was also often invoked to distinguish Confucianism from other religions.

Corresponding to this argument, Qing scholars likewise asserted that all Confucian sages must have been great filial sons. They tried hard to argue that not only those whose filial behavior had been recorded in history, such as Sage King Shun, King Wen of Zhou, and Confucius’s disciple Zengzi, deserved recognition, but so did many who had no particular reputation for filiality, such as Confucius himself and his student Yan Hui. Because these Qing scholars viewed filial piety as the foundation of all virtues, they believed that in order for a person to be benevolent, he must also be filial.⁴⁸ Geng Jie (1623–1693), a Henan neo-Confucian, stated this point clearly: “Anyone who would like to learn to become a sage must first learn to become a filial son.”⁴⁹

In sum, from the late Ming to the early Qing, the intellectual ethos had shifted away from the debates within the Yangming School, which in some sense were represented by the differences between Li Zhi and Geng Dingxiang, to conversations that generally rejected the ideas put forth by members of the Yangming School. Most early-Qing neo-Confucians agreed that those engaged in sagely learning had to abide by ethical norms; moral cultivation could be realized only by adhering to familial obligations. Therefore, although Qing neo-Confucians did not necessarily agree with Geng Dingxiang’s inclination toward Yangming learning, there was no doubt that, if they had had to take sides in the dispute between Li Zhi and Geng Dingxiang, they would certainly have sided with Geng.

Along with these intellectual changes, perceptions of Li Zhi also changed. From the seventeenth to the eighteenth century, his negative image became more and more entrenched, while the “controversies” surrounding him subsided. In the late Ming, although severe criticisms of Li Zhi continued to proliferate, quite a few literati publicly spoke out on his behalf. People lamented his death and tried to rehabilitate his name. He was controversial but did not lack supporters.

During the early Qing, however, the criticism intensified. Writings by Wang Fuzhi, Peng Shiwang, and Lü Liuliang (1629–1683) attest to the literati’s strong desire to rectify their culture and preserve it from Li Zhi’s potentially deleterious influence. Eighteenth-century attitudes toward Li Zhi remained critical, but perhaps because his influence was on the wane, debates over his ideas receded. Few wrote to catalogue his misdeeds in detail. Rather, they considered him as representing the perversion and corruption of late-Ming culture. As Yuan Mei (1716–1797) said, Li Zhi was “an evil person recognized by all” (ren suo gongshi de yaomei).⁵⁰

The eighteenth-century image of Li Zhi is clearly evident in the editorial synopses of the Four Treasuries (Siku quanshu), where he is portrayed not only as a representative of the corrupt literati culture of the late Ming but also as a touchstone for moral and cultural values. Phrases such as “the manner of Li Zhi” (Li Zhi zhi xiqi) and “the sort of person like Li Zhi” (Li Zhi zhi liu) are often used pejoratively to describe other authors and scholarship.⁵¹ Any positive words about him or any quotation from him is taken as evidence of bad scholarship. For example, the synopsis of Leisurely Notes Composed during a Spring Chill (Chunhan xianji) states, “The book contains many good stories and wise words of people in history; however, it conveys high regard for Li Zhi.”⁵² Here, “convey[ing] high regard for Li Zhi” obviously was meant as criticism. Similarly, the synopsis of the Fragmentary Writings of Master Mao (Maoshi canshu) mentions a preface written by the author Mao Yuchen, who praises Li Zhi. Based on this, the synopsis comments, “We therefore know that the source of Mao’s learning was not correct.”⁵³

Another example is the synopsis of the Biographies of Three Extraordinary People (San yiren zhuan). The book consists of works by Fang Xiaoru (1357–1402), Yu Qian (1398–1457), and Yang Jisheng (1516–1555), selected by Li Zhi. Fang, Yu, and Yang were famous loyal officials, and the book contains their ethical teachings, but the synopsis warns, “Li Zhi transgressed ethical norms and poisoned the minds of later generations. Since he selected and edited these three men’s writings, the collection won’t honor them but rather will bring them shame.”⁵⁴

Not only was it considered intolerable to show favor for Li Zhi, but anything associated with him was considered shameful and humiliating. This viewpoint reflected the official perspective on Li Zhi throughout the eighteenth century. Sometimes along with Tu Long (1543–1605) or He Xinyin, Li Zhi was reviled as a symbol of the decadence of late-Ming literati culture, especially the part disfavored by orthodox Qing Confucians. Repeated references to his writing style, his personality, and his zealous pursuit of religion helped to shape Li Zhi as a stereotype of the Chinese iconoclast, and this fixed image remained unchallenged throughout the nineteenth century.

It was not until the twentieth century that the image of Li Zhi began to change. Liu Shipei (1884–1919) published a study of Li in Japan in 1907, and the Institute for the Preservation of Chinese Learning (Guoxue baocunhui) reprinted Li’s A Book to Burn in Shanghai in 1908. Amid the anti-Manchu sentiment of the time, Li was transformed into a noble and insightful thinker. The Guocui xuebao (1905) praised his teachings as “exceedingly noble, refined, and independent of conventional views.” The same newspaper extolled the courage with which he rejected the teachings of Confucius.⁵⁵ His thought was considered progressive and was even favorably compared to Western philosophy.⁵⁶ These tremendous changes marked a new era in the study of Li Zhi in the context of modern Chinese history.

CONCLUSION

Spurred by his yearning to understand the meaning of life and death, Li Zhi embarked on the study of the Dao. Many late-Ming literati shared his concern and his dedication to learning, but his thought and personality made him special. He believed that one could attain the Dao only by self-cultivation. He trusted his own experience more than any institutional guidelines and consequently downplayed the importance of social norms. Although he shared ideas with scholars such as Wang Ji and Luo Rufang, his identity was far more fluid than theirs.⁵⁷ The freedom with which he crossed boundaries and the ferocity with which he attacked those who disagreed with him prevented him from being accepted by mainstream Confucian scholars.

Throughout the late Ming and early Qing, Confucian scholars continually debated the issue of life and death. Like their Ming predecessors, Qing scholars emphasized the value of moral accomplishment and the preservation of individuality. But they tended to advocate methods for attaining these ends that differed from those endorsed by their Ming forebears. During the late Ming, a general consensus emerged that liangzhi must play a key role in moral practice, even though scholars such as Li Zhi and Geng Dingxiang emphasized different approaches toward learning. In the early Qing, however, many rejected the previous consensus and attempted to restore “true Confucianism” by claiming ethical norms as a basic requirement for sagely learning. In this latter period, Li Zhi and his ideas were further condemned and viewed as representing the heterodoxy of late-Ming literati culture. During the eighteenth century, his image as an iconoclast became more entrenched. It was not until the intellectual and political sentiment shifted to oppose the Manchu state that Li Zhi and his free spirit were finally rediscovered and appreciated. This time, due to a similar distortion of history, he was transformed into a harbinger of the Chinese Enlightenment.

NOTES

1.   1    Xu Jianping, Li Zhuowu zhuan, 253–67.

2.   2    Xu Jianping, Li Zhi sixiang yanbianshi, 351–66. Also see Liu Zhiqing, “Li Zhi.” On Li Zhi’s religious commitments, see chapter 9 in the present volume.

3.   3    Li Zhi, “Wang Yangming xiansheng nianpu houyu,” in Wang Yangming quanji, 1604.

4. 4    Li Zhi, “Guanyin wen, you,” in LZ 2:80.

5.   5    Li Zhi, “Da Zixin, you,” in LZ 2:84.

6.   6    Araki, Mingmo Qingchu de sixiang yu Fojiao, 189–214.

7.   7    Zhou Rudeng, Dongyue zhengxue lu, 575.

8.   8    Du Wenhuan, Sanjiao huizong. For the thought of Du Wenhuan, see Lu Miaw-fen, “Du Wenhuan huizong sanjiao.”

9.   9    Li Zhi, “San jiao gui Ru shuo,” in LZ 3:223.

10. 10    Li Zhi, “Da Ma Lishan,” in LZ 3:1.

11. 11    Li Zhi, “Da Ma Lishan,” in LZ 3:1.

12. 12    Li Zhi, Yinguo lu, in LZ 18:9–12.

13. 13    Li Zhi, Yinguo lu, in LZ 18:11.

14. 14    Bernard and Wang, “Li Madou siduo he dangdai Zhongguo shehui.”

15. 15    Li Zhi, “Yu Li Weiqing,” in LZ 1:148–49; Yuan Guangyi, Li Zhuowu xinlun, 95.

16. 16    De Bary, The Liberal Tradition, 79–80; Mizoguchi, Zhongguo qianjindai sixiang, 111–93. See chapter 8 for an argument against identifying Li Zhi as an individualist.

17. 17    Zhu Xi, Sishu jizhu, 2:12a.

18. 18    For example, see Zhou Rudeng, Dongyue zhengxu lu, 210, and Wang Ji, “Zisong wenda,” in Longxi Wang xiansheng quanji, 15:26b.

19. 19    Lu Miaw-fen, “Rushi jiaorong de shengren guan.”

20. 20    Li Jingde, Zhuzi yulei, 3:39.

21. 21    Li Jingde, Zhuzi yulei, 3:43–44, 46.

22. 22    Deng and Deng, Nanxun lu jiaozhu, 26–27.

23. 23    For detailed discussion, see Lu Miaw-fen, Chengsheng yu jiating renlun, ch. 1.

24. 24    Gao Panlong, Gaozi yi shu, 1:20–21.

25. 25    Ying Huiqian, Xingli dazong, 23:26–30.

26. 26    Karlgren, The Book of Odes, 185.

27. 27    Lu Miaw-fen, Chengsheng yu jiating renlun, ch. 1.

28. 28    Huang Zongxi, Ming Ru xue’an (1987), 827.

29. 29    For a complete translation of this essay, see Li Zhi, A Book to Burn, 166–71.

30. 30    Li Zhi, “Geng Chukong xiansheng zhuan,” in LZ 2:21; Li Zhi, A Book to Burn, 168.

31. 31    Li Zhi, “Geng Chukong xiansheng zhuan,” in LZ 2:22; Li Zhi, A Book to Burn, 169–70.

32. 32    Li Zhi, “Da laishu,” in LZ 3:56.

33. 33    Lau, Mencius, 131.

34. 34    Yang Qiyuan, Taishi Yang Fuso xiansheng zhengxue bian, 1:31a.

35. 35    Lu Miaw-fen, Yangming xue shiren shequn, ch. 9.

36. 36    Wang Shihuai, Tangnan Wang xiansheng youqingtang hegao, 4:18a.

37. 37    Luo, “Ji Yu Jiong zhai,” in Nian’an wenji, 3:67a–b; Wang Shihuai, “Yu Wang Simo,” in Tangnan Wang xiansheng youqingtang hegao, 1:29b.

38. 38    Li Zhi, “Yu Zhou Youshan,” in LZ 3:47.

39. 39    Li Zhi, “Yu Ma Boshi,” in LZ 3:82.

40. 40    Li Zhi, “You yu Jiao Ruohou,” in LZ 1:119.

41. 41    Li Zhi, “San jiao gui Ru shuo,” in LZ 1:223–24.

42. 42    Qian Qianyi, Leichao shiji xiao zhuan, 6277.

43. 43    Fang Yizhi and Pang, Dongxi jun, 256–57.

44. 44    For discussion of Li Zhi’s image trouble, see chapter 6.

45. 45    Xie Wenjian, Xie Chengshan ji, 9:23b.

46. 46    Lu Miaw-fen, Xiao zhi tianxia, 182–87.

47. 47    Pan Pingge, Panzi qiurenlu jiyao, 140.

48. 48    Lu Miaw-fen, Chengsheng yu jiating renlun, ch. 2.

49. 49    Geng Jie, Jingshutang wenji, 340–41.

50. 50    Yuan Mei, Xiaochang shanfang shiwenji, 1540.

51. 51    Yong, Siku quanshu zongmu, 125:12b, 16a.

52. 52    Yong, Siku quanshu zongmu, 118:30b.

53. 53    Yong, Siku quanshu zongmu, 129:20b–21a.

54. 54    Yong, Siku quanshu zongmu, 192:35a–b.

55. 55    Guocui xuebao, 2:1388.

56. 56    Pei-kai Cheng, “Continuities in Chinese Political Culture.”

57. 57    On Li Zhi’s complicated relationships to these two masters, see chapter 5.