Self and Society in Tang Dynasty Love TalesAuthor(s): Timothy C. WongSource: Journal of the American Oriental Society, Vol. 99, No. 1 (Jan. - Mar., 1979), pp. 95-100Published by: American Oriental SocietyStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/598956Accessed: 30/03/2010 12:33

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WONG: Self and Society in Tang Dynasty Love Tales WONG: Self and Society in Tang Dynasty Love Tales

morphographemics and back-writing in Hittite. Instead, I have attempted to show only that Hittite orthographic tra- morphographemics and back-writing in Hittite. Instead, I have attempted to show only that Hittite orthographic tra-

ditions bearing on nasals in the middle of words were not stabilized. ditions bearing on nasals in the middle of words were not stabilized.

Self and Society in Tang Dynasty Love Tales

As readers of fiction who have become used to the value of the defiant self in love, we may be

surprised or disappointed to find this value greatly diminished in the most famous examples of Tang dynasty chuan qi love tales. But when we put aside our a priori expectations to seek out their

meaning, we find that their great concern for adherence to social norms does not detract from their

special appeal.

Self and Society in Tang Dynasty Love Tales

As readers of fiction who have become used to the value of the defiant self in love, we may be

surprised or disappointed to find this value greatly diminished in the most famous examples of Tang dynasty chuan qi love tales. But when we put aside our a priori expectations to seek out their

meaning, we find that their great concern for adherence to social norms does not detract from their

special appeal.

"The Story of Miss Li" (Li Wa Zhuan), one of the most

popular of the Tang dynasty's "tales of the marvelous"

(chuan qi), tells of a promising young man who, having set out for Changan, the Tang capital, to take the appropriate examinations which would lead him to an official career, succumbs to the charms of a courtesan (Miss Li) there and

squanders his generous allowance.1 After being tricked and

abandoned, he sinks to the social depths of having to earn his

keep at a funeral parlor. There, while singing a funeral dirge in a contest for mourners, he is recognized and brought before his father who believed his son had died at the hands of robbers. At this point, Western readers familiar with the biblical "Prodigal Son" might rightfully expect a tearful reconciliation: after all, the boy had been a favorite of his father who, only hours earlier, had wept in recalling the

report of his death. What follows therefore borders on the incredible: ". .. After they reached the residence, his father berated him, saying: 'In having conducted yourself in this

way, you have disgraced our house. How dare you show your face here again?' He then took him on foot to a place west of the Meandering Stream and east of the Apricot Gardens, removed his clothes, and whipped him several hundred times with a horsewhip. The young man, unable to bear the pain, fainted dead away. His father abandoned him there and went off."2

If we may suppose that fatherly love is universal, this scene is disturbing in two ways. First, we are incredulous at the utter lack of personal feeling on the part of the father for a son he once pridefully called the swift thoroughbred of the

family.3 But even more we are amazed at the pure concern for the sanction of society ("... you have disgraced our house.") and at the extreme measure to which the father goes to retain that sanction. The reunion of son and father at the story's end, after the young man survives and reacquires social

prestige via success at the examinations, can thus arouse as much digust for the father as relief for the son.

While such reactions have nothing directly to do with the artistic merits or demerits of the story concerned, they

"The Story of Miss Li" (Li Wa Zhuan), one of the most

popular of the Tang dynasty's "tales of the marvelous"

(chuan qi), tells of a promising young man who, having set out for Changan, the Tang capital, to take the appropriate examinations which would lead him to an official career, succumbs to the charms of a courtesan (Miss Li) there and

squanders his generous allowance.1 After being tricked and

abandoned, he sinks to the social depths of having to earn his

keep at a funeral parlor. There, while singing a funeral dirge in a contest for mourners, he is recognized and brought before his father who believed his son had died at the hands of robbers. At this point, Western readers familiar with the biblical "Prodigal Son" might rightfully expect a tearful reconciliation: after all, the boy had been a favorite of his father who, only hours earlier, had wept in recalling the

report of his death. What follows therefore borders on the incredible: ". .. After they reached the residence, his father berated him, saying: 'In having conducted yourself in this

way, you have disgraced our house. How dare you show your face here again?' He then took him on foot to a place west of the Meandering Stream and east of the Apricot Gardens, removed his clothes, and whipped him several hundred times with a horsewhip. The young man, unable to bear the pain, fainted dead away. His father abandoned him there and went off."2

If we may suppose that fatherly love is universal, this scene is disturbing in two ways. First, we are incredulous at the utter lack of personal feeling on the part of the father for a son he once pridefully called the swift thoroughbred of the

family.3 But even more we are amazed at the pure concern for the sanction of society ("... you have disgraced our house.") and at the extreme measure to which the father goes to retain that sanction. The reunion of son and father at the story's end, after the young man survives and reacquires social

prestige via success at the examinations, can thus arouse as much digust for the father as relief for the son.

While such reactions have nothing directly to do with the artistic merits or demerits of the story concerned, they

nevertheless point to a fundamental problem in modern Western criticism of Chinese fiction, the problem of cultural values. As Western critics, we inevitably bring to our

analysis of Chinese works assumptions and attitudes foreign to the subject; nor are these assumptions and attitudes purely emotional. From the provocative article "Some Limitations of Chinese Fiction" published by the late John L. Bishop some twenty years ago to many of the books and articles

dealing with the criticism of Chinese fiction since, we encounter example after example of critics attempting, consciously or otherwise, to apply Western criteria directly to the categorization and evaluation of Chinese works.4 While this is in no way a purely wasted exercise-after all, the discovery that Chinese works do not always fit Western

prescriptions is instructive in itself-it can sometimes cause us to close our eyes both to the artistic features of a particular work and to new frontiers of literary appreciation to which the work can take us.

This essay is really an experiment. It is an attempt to

hypothetically delineate the difference of outlook between a Chinese reader of traditional times and the contemporary reader in the West. Tentative generalizations that may be

open to question will by necessity be made. The aim, however, is not to establish these generalizations themselves but rather, through applying them to the analysis of three

outstanding examples of chuan qi love tales, to suggest a broader approach to the appreciation of Chinese fiction. Tales dealing with love are chosen because they bear most

directly on a central problem, the problem of the dichotomy between self and society. As Professor C. T. Hsia has pointed out, the traditional Chinese storyteller appears to leave unresolved the internal contradiction between the maintenance of social decorum on the one hand and sym- pathy for the defiant self on the other.5

Hsia was of course commenting on stories in the vernacular (bai hua) collected during the late Ming dynasty by Feng Meng-long (1574?-1645?). The chuan qi tales with which we are concerned were written some seven centuries before

nevertheless point to a fundamental problem in modern Western criticism of Chinese fiction, the problem of cultural values. As Western critics, we inevitably bring to our

analysis of Chinese works assumptions and attitudes foreign to the subject; nor are these assumptions and attitudes purely emotional. From the provocative article "Some Limitations of Chinese Fiction" published by the late John L. Bishop some twenty years ago to many of the books and articles

dealing with the criticism of Chinese fiction since, we encounter example after example of critics attempting, consciously or otherwise, to apply Western criteria directly to the categorization and evaluation of Chinese works.4 While this is in no way a purely wasted exercise-after all, the discovery that Chinese works do not always fit Western

prescriptions is instructive in itself-it can sometimes cause us to close our eyes both to the artistic features of a particular work and to new frontiers of literary appreciation to which the work can take us.

This essay is really an experiment. It is an attempt to

hypothetically delineate the difference of outlook between a Chinese reader of traditional times and the contemporary reader in the West. Tentative generalizations that may be

open to question will by necessity be made. The aim, however, is not to establish these generalizations themselves but rather, through applying them to the analysis of three

outstanding examples of chuan qi love tales, to suggest a broader approach to the appreciation of Chinese fiction. Tales dealing with love are chosen because they bear most

directly on a central problem, the problem of the dichotomy between self and society. As Professor C. T. Hsia has pointed out, the traditional Chinese storyteller appears to leave unresolved the internal contradiction between the maintenance of social decorum on the one hand and sym- pathy for the defiant self on the other.5

Hsia was of course commenting on stories in the vernacular (bai hua) collected during the late Ming dynasty by Feng Meng-long (1574?-1645?). The chuan qi tales with which we are concerned were written some seven centuries before

95 95

Journal of the American Oriental Society 99.1 (1979)

and in the literary language (wen yan), with a style fashioned to appeal to the cultivated mind. I shall not go into the differences between wen yan and bai hua fiction here since these differences have little or no relevance to the point of our discussion.6 For in these Tang love tales as well, we encounter the same dual allegiance to both self and society that Hsia found perplexing in their vernacular counterparts. The critic of chuan qi tales can therefore accuse the Tang storyteller (as Hsia does the Ming) of ambivalence in his moral stance.

In the story of Miss Li, for example, there is an evident exhibition of sympathy for the young man who recklessly turns his back on coventional success for the love of a

courtesan, a social outcast. But ultimately, this love has to be

justified in terms of social standards: both in the begining and after the climax, the author finds it necessary at the expense of the economy of plot to recount in great detail the couple's return to social honor and virtue.7 To the reader on the lookout for what Bishop calls "philosophical realism" and "the author's personal judgement of a social condition or of a human problem," the total effect can be disappointing.8 Throughout the first two-thirds of the story, his sympathy is

deliberately drawn to the defiant love of the young man and Miss Li, a love admirable for its very defiance. Had they sealed their vows with suicide in the end in the manner of, say, Romeo and Juliet, the story would have emerged as a sound and consistent work. Yet, alas, the couple sells out: the

magnificence of their love in the beginning fades into nothing- ness because they willingly merge into the nameless, boring mass called society. From this point of view, we are indeed

justified to charge the author with uncertain control of his

material, as ultimately he appears to be unsure of what he wants to say.

Moreover, in the conflict between society and self, the rub is that society seems always to dominate. In the West, since the first appearance of the kind of fictional narratives we call

"novels," the premium has always been on the particular and the individual.9 Excellence in literature, therefore, is linked

by many of us to the stress on the individual self; as Hsia puts it, it is the self which represents "a commitment to life far more serious than the moral view which condemns it."10 In

judging the story of Miss Li to be less than excellent, as we have done above, we are simply saying that it fails to properly emphasize the self.

The question nevertheless remains of whether excellence in literature can be discovered by universal standards- whether it is truly enlightening or accurate to apply criteria concomitant with our own world view to Chinese works which, after all, are products of their own traditions and values. Before one can talk about the self in Chinese stories, one should more properly ask questions about the Chinese self which, from the texts we are examining, appears far less

antagonistic towards society than that found in Western literature.

What the essential difference might be between our world view and that of the traditional Chinese is a problem that, by its very nature, will never be indisputably settled. To even

speculate on the answer would be a formidable task, necessi-

tating a careful examination of the intellectual and spiritual underpinnings of both our civilization and that of the Chinese. But since Professor Andrew Plaks has recently made just such an attempt during the course of his study of the Dream of the Red Chamber, we might venture to use his conclusions as a working hypothesis. To Plaks, "the concept of a self- contained natural universe in the Western literary tradition differs radically from its Chinese counterpart in that this

system, in its entirety, is inextricably imbedded in a dual

ontological structure within which it constitutes the lesser

phase of being; whereas in the Chinese scheme the realm of flux is seen as including rather than excluded from the ultimate truth."" The meaning of all this becomes clearer if we refer to Denis de Rougemont's well-known study of Western love-literature.'2 De Rougemont explains that Western man premises his world view with a fundamental

abyss, an unbridgeable chasm, between himself and his God

(the "ultimate truth," his fulfillment, his love-ideal). Becaue this God is unattainable while on earth, Western man scoffs at the mundane, is psychologically repulsed at what he finds around himself, and strives ultimately to escape from all

things in his earthly environment, including his own body. When he approaches love, his ideal is not agape, which stresses social communion and a harmonious modus vivendi, but eros, which results ultimately in frenzied self-destruction. To de Rougemont, the outstanding examples of Western

love-literature, from the ballads of the troubadours, to the

story of Tristan and Iseult, to Romeo and Juliet, to the works of Corneille and Racine, all exhibit an infinite longing for

eros, a longing for the branding of the soul. Passion, which raises one above the satisfaction of love fulfilled, is sought for

itself, to the extent of final destruction and death (here seen as the final escape from the detestable, boring world). Such an extreme emphasis on self, and the works and theories of literature which emanated from it, would naturally be foreign to the Chinese who look only to their earthly environment for their complete fulfillment, including the fulfillment of love.13

Under this world view, passionate love does not transcend social concerns and is possible only within a social and

physical context. Even as they are caught in the throes of

passion, Chinese lovers find time to look around themselves and delight in their surroundings, free from the all-consuming intensity of their Western counterparts. Small wonder, then, that Chinese love tales would include seemingly inconsistent concern with social matters even while displaying the self in defiance.

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"The Story of Huo Xiao-yu" provides an even better

example of the Chinese self in love than "Miss Li."'14 If we take our standards from such examples as Romeo and Juliet or Tristan and Iseult, however, what goes on in that story can

hardly pass for an account of passion at all. First of all, we are not given any particular background or character delineation which would make the hero stand out; we know merely that he is a successful scholar. In terms of plot, the couple's meeting cannot be more prosaic: Huo Xiao-yu, the high-class cour-

tesan, is merely introduced to the young man by a go- between. Ironically most of his excitement seems to occur before he even meets her; for thereafter, even though he makes a passionate vow during their first night of love, he succumbs increasingly to prudential judgements, to the concern for setting up a proper and comfortable place for himself in his society while casting aside this anti-social attachment. The drawn-out account of the latter process, when his passionate self surrenders to the pressures of his

society, effectively wipes away any exhilaration his earlier, more defiant stand might have induced.

Although society, which pressured Xiao-yu's weak-willed lover into his betrayal, is at least partially responsible for her

plight, the reader's resentment is never directed aginst it.

Rather, the blame falls on her lover alone as the author mobilizes society to sympathize with her betrayal. He tells of her efforts to contact her man, and the pawning of her purple- jade hairpin which netted her the sympathy of a princess. "From that time," we are told, "her story became gradually known in Changan. While those romantically inclined were all moved by her constant longing, chivalrous individuals were all angered by the young man's heartless behavior."15 Thus, in the end, society the villain becomes society the hero, and the forces which pressured the young man into his cruel and cowardly abandonment of the heroine now compel him, in the person of a knight-errant, to return to her side. In terms of the conflict of self and society, there is no question here of which is dominant. And if, as de Rougemont holds, the transcendent assertion of self is necessary for the phenom- enon of Western passion, then neither Huo Xiao-yu nor her lover would qualify as passionate people.

Neither, for that matter, would Cui Ying-ying and her paramour Zhang in "The Story of Ying-ying" (Ying-ying Zhuan) which, later popularized into oral tales, then into a

"medley" (zhu-gong diao) and finally into a Yuan dynasty play, became perhaps the best known of China's love stories.16 For while the social pressures in it are so sluffed over as to weaken the plausibility of the plot, we still encounter the phenomenon of abandonment, with even more abruptness and less indication of cause.17 The concern is clearly less with the social defiance of Zhang and Ying-ying's liaison (after all, only the skimpy excuse that it would take too much time is offered for why Zhang did not want to go

through the normal marriage channels) than with the liaison itself. Finally, with no good reason, we find the couple ensconced each in his and her own little social niche, content to relegate their love to the graveyard of nostalgia. What a far

cry from Tristan or Romeo or a thousand other heros and heroines we find in Western love-literature who, in the face of

overwhelming circumstances, remain true to their own love- ideals, often at the cost of their very lives.

Are these stories intrinsically defective? Looked at with Western criteria, the answer could very well be yes. But considered in the light of the fundamental features of the Chinese view of life, it would hardly be satisfactory to rest with that conclusion.

For as we already noted, the traditional Chinese were more interested in remaining spiritually in the world and thus directed their yearning towards a fusion with their environ- ment, including their social environment. Thus while the

society/self dichotomy seems clear in Western literature, the split appears a lot less evident in these fictional characters who seem to be primarily occupied with merging their selves into their society. Towards the end of "Miss Li," for

example, after she brings about the hero's return to social honors, the heroine offers to end their relationship so that she could go home to care for her old mother. On the surface, this offer seems purely motivated by a concern for society's acceptance which she, as a courtesan, has little chance to achieve. Yet, in face of the young man's stubborn initial refusal, and in light of her final marriage to him, her offer has the self-satisfying appeal of martyrdom.18 His reluctant agreement to let her go (after threatening suicide), while it could be taken as yet another surrender to society, could

perhaps be more fairly interpreted as a basic de-emphasis of its conflict with his self which is now basically fulfilled because he has attained the requisite social honors.

In this light the father's beating of his son referred to in the beginning of this essay would also appear more plausible. For when social communion represents the paramount value in a person's weltanschauung, any threat to it must be put down by the swiftest and harshest of measures. This is not to say that there would be no serious conflicts, only that these conflicts, which alienate the self, could not be desired as ends in themselves. They arise naturally in story plots, but they must be resolved before tension can subside to the satisfac- tion of the Chinese reader. From this point of view, we can also better sympathize with the old man's happiness in the end when, choking with sobs, he caresses his son's shoulders and says, "I and you are father and son as before."'9

This blurring of the distinction between self and society would suggest the need for a different way to evaluate Chinese fiction. Vis-a-vis the love tales with which we are concerned, it would call for a description of the distinctive elements of Chinese passion and an accounting for its appeal

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Journal of the American Oriental Society 99.1 (1979)

to the Chinese optic. "The Story of Huo Xiao-yu," which admittedly fails to

profoundly explore or enshrine the self, may not be as great an artistic disaster as it would at first seem. For it is safe to assume that neither its author nor his readers seek to achieve the cathartic intensity one finds in many love stories in the West. Rather, the light humor in the story's beginning, the

gentle, flirtatious dialogue at the couple's meeting, the hedonistic descriptions of the first liaison all aim at placing the reader in a receptive mood for the main effect-a

lingering and gentle (if melodramatic) melancholy felt in

sympathy for the beautiful and helpless heroine who wastes

away in her chambers while she sends her maid out to pawn her jewels. This melancholy is moreover highlighted by apposition to the resentment one is made to feel for the hard-

hearted, cowardly hero. To heighten these effects, Xiao-yu's constancy is emphasized along with her lover's breaking of vows and indifference to her suffering. The scene of the

knight's intervention, a real case ofdeus ex machina, and her

subsequent death in her lover's arms do appear overly contrived; yet they do serve to enhance the sadly pleasurable feelings.

From this it becomes evident that an over-emphasis on a

self-versus-society intepretation could cause one to dismiss a work as inferior without first considering the work's origin and purpose. In all three stories considered here, abandon- ment occurs as a main feature of the plot: Miss Li and the hero's father both abandon him; Li Yi abandons Huo Xiao-

yu; and Zhang abandons Ying-ying, all presumably under one kind of social pressure or another. Yet if the triumph of the self is not a concern in these cases, abandonment becomes a desirable and creditable device since it brings about the feelings of sadness and resentment which appeal to the Chinese reader. To merely interpret it as a sell-out to

society would be to miss the point. These arguments are not made to justify the forsaking of

the excellence Western criticism seeks. They merely indicate that the art of literature, produced under vastly different

cultures,should be judged under standards which take these differences into account; for otherwise we would be insen- sitive to works whose merits are different from those we encounter in our own literary milieu and our critical vision would suffer from myopia. Moreover, from our discussion thus far, we can see that these standards should be gleaned from the examination of the literary works themselves,just as Aristotle derived the principles set forth in his Poetics only after combing through the extant Greek literature for them. To do otherwise-to take Western standards and judge Chinese literature completely according to them-would be

arbitrary, a priori, and ultimately unwise. In effect, it would limit the definition of literary art and change the critic from a seeker to a prescriber.

I am of course suggesting that literary excellence is

inseparable from the goals of a particular literature. While it is undeniable that the Tang stories under discussion violate

consistency in their allegiance to the individual, we should realize that they do not aim at a celebration of the self or the cathartic emotions of pity and fear in the manner of Greek

tragedies. The intended effect appears clearly to be more a

gentle melancholy than any uplifting explosion of emotion found in the more self-centered works of the West. And it is from a story's success or failure in achieving this aim that we should pronounce on its degree of excellence.

With all this said, let us discuss anew "The Story of Ying- ying" as an illustration. That the conflict of society and self remains an underlying theme throughout is undeniable. Yet in Ying-ying's agonized rationalizations, in Zhang's initial

longing for and final abandonment of her, in Ying-ying's exquisitely written letter, and in the final poetic verses, we can discern a subtle-and highly pleasurable-tension which this conflict brings about but which only uses the conflict as a means to its own end. Consider these words of

Ying-ying, after she has enticed Zhang to visit her by sending him a suggestive reply to verses he had written:

If indeed I keep your verses a secret, as I want to, then I am harboring your licentiousness, and I won't be fulfilling my duty. If I reveal them to my mother, then I am turning my back on your [previous] favors and this would be

unpropitious. I was about to convey my thoughts through the maid, but I was also concerned that she would be unable to express my actual feelings. Thus, by means of the brief note, I wanted to give myself the chance to

explain to you in person. Still, I was afraid that you would be embarrassed [by a conventional message], and so I made sure you would come by using low and suggestive verses. I can't help feeling ashamed about having taken this improper step, and I especially wish that we could both maintain our decorum and not lose control of ourselves.20

This is indeed double talk. But what marvelous double talk! Between each line of rational propriety leaps a flame of personal desire. For however cleverly Ying-ying puts her "actual" reasons, the stronger suggestion is her simple longing to see Zhang in person. When this suggestion becomes reality in the very next scene as she comes to him blushing weakly on her maid's arm, the entire passage takes on even more delicious tension in retrospect.

Later on, when the couple has to part, this tension is maintained through profound and memorable glimpses into Ying-ying's character, which manifests in itself both inner turmoil and outward calm. In a gradual and gentle voice and with great deference, she tells Zhang at parting that "If after

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you have thus stirred my emotions you abandon me, that is of course as things should be and I dare not carry any grudges. But if... you must bring this matter to a happy climax [by marrying me], then it is your own kindness and our eternal vows would have their fulfillment. Thus why should I be deeply saddened by this parting?"2t These mild and rational words are immediately intensified as Ying-ying, unable to control her actual grief, breaks off from playing the harp and runs to her mother's quarters sobbing. This magnificent exploitation of the outward control demanded by Chinese society to intensify inward conflict likely accounts for the story's magnetic attraction for so many Chinese readers over the centuries.

It is finally important to see that gentle, subtle pleasures the story conveys are possible only because the conflict of self and society is not overly intensified and idealized. And

despite the contradictions of ambiguous allegiance, this mildness of approach allows the author to note the physical settings to the plot and thus enhance it with deft observations and suggestions. Ying-ying's rouge on her lover's arm and her tears on his bedding are what assure him that their initial tryst is not a dream. Her longing for Zhang is expressed by the imagined warmth on the other half of her bed. Her symbolic gifts to him, though melodramatic, are nevertheless poeti- cally touching. In the frenzied stress of the self in so much of Western love-literature, such artistic devices are hardly imaginable. Juliet, we might surmise, would be too busy comparing her Romeo to the stars in heaven to note that the night is the eighteenth day of the lunar month and that the crescent moon is bathing half the bed in alternate brights and darks.22

We are perhaps too caught up in the intense, analytical, scientific moder world to appreciate viscerally such a spirit of literature. But if part of the task of literature is to broaden our visions of life, we would do well to look at these Tang love stories with different eyes.

TIMOTHY C. WONG

ARIZONA STATE UNIVERSITY

1 This story is attributed to Bo Xing-jian (776-826) and included in various anthologies. My text: Lu Xun (Jou Shu- ren), ed., Tang-Song chuan qiji (rpt. Hong Kong: Xin-yi chuban she, 1967), pp. 91-99. This text is rpt. from a collection of Tang and Song chuan qi tales Lu Xun put together in 1927. The other two Tang stories to be discussed in this study will also be cited from this collection, hereafter referred to as TSCQ.

The many translations of "Li Wa Zhuan" available attest to its enduring popularity. English versions of the story include: (a) Arthur Waley, trans., "The Story of Miss Li," in

Anthology of Chinese Literature: From Early Times to the Fourteenth Century, ed. Cyril Birch (New York: Grove Press, 1965), pp. 300-313; (b) Chi-chen Wang, trans., "Li Yahsien, a Loyal Courtesan," in Traditional Chinese Tales, trans. Chi-chen Wang (New York: Columbia Univ. Press, 1944), pp. 60-74; (c) Yang Hsien-yi and Gladys Yang, trans., "Story of a Singsong Girl," in The Dragon King's Daughter: Ten Tang Dynasty Stories (Peking: Foreign Languages Press, 1954), pp. 57-71.

The story is also prominently mentioned in many published discussions of Tang love tales. See, for example, Zheng Zhen- duo (Cheng Chen-to), "Introducing Tang Stories," Chinese Literature, Feb. 1954, 216-220; or Liu Kai-rong, Tang-dai xiao-shuo yan-jiu (rev. ed. 1950; rpt. Taipei: Shang-wu yin- shu guan, 1966), pp. 55-63.

2 TSCQ, pp. 91-96. This and all subsequent translations are mine.

3 TSCQ, p. 91. The actual words are "thousand-li colt" and indicate both ability and promise.

4 "Some Limitations of Chinese Fiction," Far Eastern Quarterly, 15 (1956), 239-247; rpt. in Studies in Chinese Literature, ed. John L. Bishop (Cambridge: Harvard Univ. Press, 1966), pp. 237-245.

5 See the Appendix in Professor Hsia's The Classic Chinese Novel (New York: Columbia Univ. Press, 1968), pp. 299-321. This Appendix is a revision of the article "'To What Fyn Lyve I Thus?'-Society and Self in the Chinese Short Story," Kenyon Review, 24 (1962), 519-541, in which Professor Hsia first presented his views on the society/self problem.

6 For a delineation of the formalistic differences between bai hua and wen yan fiction, see P. D. Hanan, "The Early Chinese Short Story: a Critical Theory in Outline," Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies, 27 (1967), 172-178. This important article was later rpt. in Cyril Birch, ed., Studies in Chinese Literary Genres (Berkeley: Univ. of California Press, 1974), pp. 299-338.

7 In the very beginning, the storyteller declares that Li Wa, a former courtesan, is the "Lady of Qianguo" and a person of such rare and admirable character that her deeds are worth recording. And towards the end, after the young man's success and reconciliation with his father, he had to marry the ex-courtesan with proper formality, first setting her up in her own residence, and then going through the trouble of securing a matchmaker. The account goes on to include the pious and filial mourning the hero goes through at his parents' funerals, his reception of imperial honors for his virtuous conduct, and the marriages into "great families" of his four sons.

8 See Bishop, p. 240. 9 See Ian Watt, The Rise of the Novel (Berkeley: Univ. of

California Press, 1957), pp. 9-34. 10 Hsia, p. 308.

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Journal of the American Oriental Society 99.1 (1979) Journal of the American Oriental Society 99.1 (1979)

11 Archetype and Allegory in the Dream of the Red Chamber (Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press, 1976), p. 124. Italics from the original.

12 Love in the Western World, trans. Montgomery Belgion (rev. and aug. ed. 1956; rpt. Greenwich Conn.: Fawcett

Publications, 1966), esp. pp. 15-74. 13 Cf. de Rougemont, pp. 72-74. 14 "Huo Xiao-yu Zhuan," attributed to Jiang Fang (fl.

785), included in TSCQ, pp. 65-72. English translations

readily available include: (a) Chi-chen Wang, trans., "Huo

Hsiao-yu," in Traditional Chinese Tales, pp. 48-59; (b) Yang Hsien-yi and Gladys Yang, trans., "Prince Huo's

Daughter," in The Dragon King's Daughter, pp. 32-43; (c) Ch'u Chai and Winberg Chai, trans., "Little Jade Huo," inA

Treasury of Chinese Literature, trans. and ed. Ch'u Chai and Winberg Chai (New York: Appleton-Century, 1965), pp. 77-88; (d) Elizabeth Te-chen Wang, trans., "Little Jade

Huo," inLadies of the Tang, trans. Elizabeth Te-chen Wang (Taipei: Heritage Press, 1961), pp. 179-202.

15 TSCQ, p. 69. 16 Attributed to Yuan Zhen (779-831), included in

TSCQ, pp. 119-125. For a brief account of the evolution of this story from Tang tale to Yuan play, see Shi Jong-wen (Shih Chung-wen), The Golden Age of Chinese Drama: Yuan Tsa-chu (Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press, 1976), pp. 15-17.

As with the other two stories, many English translations are available, including (a) Arthur Waley, trans., "The Story of Ts'ui Ying-ying," inAnthology of Chinese Literature, pp. 290-299; (b) Chi-chen Wang, trans., "The Story of Ying Ying," in Traditional Chinese Tales, pp. 75-86; (c) William

McNaughton, trans., "The Story of Ying Ying," in Chinese Literature: An Anthology from the Earliest Times to the Present Day, ed. William McNaughton (Rutland, Vt.:

11 Archetype and Allegory in the Dream of the Red Chamber (Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press, 1976), p. 124. Italics from the original.

12 Love in the Western World, trans. Montgomery Belgion (rev. and aug. ed. 1956; rpt. Greenwich Conn.: Fawcett

Publications, 1966), esp. pp. 15-74. 13 Cf. de Rougemont, pp. 72-74. 14 "Huo Xiao-yu Zhuan," attributed to Jiang Fang (fl.

785), included in TSCQ, pp. 65-72. English translations

readily available include: (a) Chi-chen Wang, trans., "Huo

Hsiao-yu," in Traditional Chinese Tales, pp. 48-59; (b) Yang Hsien-yi and Gladys Yang, trans., "Prince Huo's

Daughter," in The Dragon King's Daughter, pp. 32-43; (c) Ch'u Chai and Winberg Chai, trans., "Little Jade Huo," inA

Treasury of Chinese Literature, trans. and ed. Ch'u Chai and Winberg Chai (New York: Appleton-Century, 1965), pp. 77-88; (d) Elizabeth Te-chen Wang, trans., "Little Jade

Huo," inLadies of the Tang, trans. Elizabeth Te-chen Wang (Taipei: Heritage Press, 1961), pp. 179-202.

15 TSCQ, p. 69. 16 Attributed to Yuan Zhen (779-831), included in

TSCQ, pp. 119-125. For a brief account of the evolution of this story from Tang tale to Yuan play, see Shi Jong-wen (Shih Chung-wen), The Golden Age of Chinese Drama: Yuan Tsa-chu (Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press, 1976), pp. 15-17.

As with the other two stories, many English translations are available, including (a) Arthur Waley, trans., "The Story of Ts'ui Ying-ying," inAnthology of Chinese Literature, pp. 290-299; (b) Chi-chen Wang, trans., "The Story of Ying Ying," in Traditional Chinese Tales, pp. 75-86; (c) William

McNaughton, trans., "The Story of Ying Ying," in Chinese Literature: An Anthology from the Earliest Times to the Present Day, ed. William McNaughton (Rutland, Vt.:

Charles E. Tuttle Co., 1974), pp. 263-275; (d) Elizabeth Te- chen Wang, trans., "Miss Oriole," inLadies of the Tang, pp. 303-322.

17 The late Professor Chen Yin-ke has put forth the thesis that Zhang doesn't marry Ying-ying in the story because the latter was patterned after a Tang courtesan. This thesis assumes that the story is autobiographical and that Yuan

Zhen, the putative author, is Zhang. See "Du Ying-ying Zhuan," in Guo-li zhong-yang yan-jiu yuan li-shi yu-yan yan-jiu suoji-kan, 10,2 (1942), 189-195. Cf. Liu Kai-rong, pp. 64-82.

18 This is not unlike the sacrifice of To-fu in the vernacular

story "The Everlasting Couple" cited by Professor Hsia (pp. 303ff.) to further illustrate the Chinese storyteller's divided

allegiance. Yet, even in the case of To-fu, it seems unclear whether her noble sacrifice (marrying a leper to remain true to a pre-birth betrothal) is actually motivated by social or

personal considerations or a mixture of the two. 19 TSCQ, p. 98. 20 TSCQ, p. 121. 21

TSCQ,p. 122. 22

TSCQ, p. 121; cf. Juliet's soliloquy (Romeo and Juliet, Act III, Sc. 2, 21-25): "Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die, / Take him and cut him out in little stars, / And he will make the face of heaven so fine / That all the world will be in love with night, / And pay no worship to the garish sun."

Romeo, as when he replaces "Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven" with Juliet's eyes and declares that nevertheless "The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars / As

daylight doth a lamp" (Act ii, Sc. 2, 15-20), also makes clear the transcendent vision of a Western lover for his love-object, a vision so focused on the person that it obscures all surrounding things.

Charles E. Tuttle Co., 1974), pp. 263-275; (d) Elizabeth Te- chen Wang, trans., "Miss Oriole," inLadies of the Tang, pp. 303-322.

17 The late Professor Chen Yin-ke has put forth the thesis that Zhang doesn't marry Ying-ying in the story because the latter was patterned after a Tang courtesan. This thesis assumes that the story is autobiographical and that Yuan

Zhen, the putative author, is Zhang. See "Du Ying-ying Zhuan," in Guo-li zhong-yang yan-jiu yuan li-shi yu-yan yan-jiu suoji-kan, 10,2 (1942), 189-195. Cf. Liu Kai-rong, pp. 64-82.

18 This is not unlike the sacrifice of To-fu in the vernacular

story "The Everlasting Couple" cited by Professor Hsia (pp. 303ff.) to further illustrate the Chinese storyteller's divided

allegiance. Yet, even in the case of To-fu, it seems unclear whether her noble sacrifice (marrying a leper to remain true to a pre-birth betrothal) is actually motivated by social or

personal considerations or a mixture of the two. 19 TSCQ, p. 98. 20 TSCQ, p. 121. 21

TSCQ,p. 122. 22

TSCQ, p. 121; cf. Juliet's soliloquy (Romeo and Juliet, Act III, Sc. 2, 21-25): "Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die, / Take him and cut him out in little stars, / And he will make the face of heaven so fine / That all the world will be in love with night, / And pay no worship to the garish sun."

Romeo, as when he replaces "Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven" with Juliet's eyes and declares that nevertheless "The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars / As

daylight doth a lamp" (Act ii, Sc. 2, 15-20), also makes clear the transcendent vision of a Western lover for his love-object, a vision so focused on the person that it obscures all surrounding things.

SOMA Brought Up-to-date SOMA Brought Up-to-date

I

ALREADY A DECADE HAS PASSED since the publication of the

English edition of our SOMA: Divine Mushroom of Immortality' [Soma]. Now that a French version is

appearing, it is fitting that I inform readers of developments in the intervening years.

Soma first made its bow to the world in an expensive de luxe format. That edition is exhausted and copies are quoted in the auction markets for rare books at a considerable

I

ALREADY A DECADE HAS PASSED since the publication of the

English edition of our SOMA: Divine Mushroom of Immortality' [Soma]. Now that a French version is

appearing, it is fitting that I inform readers of developments in the intervening years.

Soma first made its bow to the world in an expensive de luxe format. That edition is exhausted and copies are quoted in the auction markets for rare books at a considerable

advance in price. The hard cover edition is also exhausted. Of the paperback edition there has been a succession of

printings. It sells steadily, especially in university centers of the English-speaking world.

When I undertook to study the Soma enigma, I

approached it from outside the Sanskrit discipline, from

ethnobotany. After all, if a plant is to be identified, why not turn to botany? And if the plant, when its juice was ingested, inspired its devotees with glowing rapture and adoration, why not have recourse to someone conversant with plant

advance in price. The hard cover edition is also exhausted. Of the paperback edition there has been a succession of

printings. It sells steadily, especially in university centers of the English-speaking world.

When I undertook to study the Soma enigma, I

approached it from outside the Sanskrit discipline, from

ethnobotany. After all, if a plant is to be identified, why not turn to botany? And if the plant, when its juice was ingested, inspired its devotees with glowing rapture and adoration, why not have recourse to someone conversant with plant

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