Graphics and Text in the Production of Technical Knowledge in China
Sinica Leidensia Edited by
Barend J. ter Haar In co-operation with
P.K. Bol, D.R. Knechtges, E.S.Rawski, W.L. Idema, E. Zürcher, H.T. Zurndorfer
VOLUME 79
Graphics and Text in the Production of Technical Knowledge in China The Warp and the Weft
Edited by
Francesca Bray Vera Dorofeeva-Lichtmann Georges Métailié
LEIDEN • BOSTON 2007
This book is printed on acid-free paper. On the cover: No. 9 of the “Ten Diagrams on Sage Learning (㎇䞯㕃☚; ᆣᖂԼቹ)” by Li Huang =( ✸ޕYi Hwang 㧊䢿, 1501–1570) [Yanji tu 3b, 13th century]; see Lackner, p. 368. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data A C.I.P. record for this book is available from the Library of Congress.
ISSN: 0169-9563 ISBN: 978 90 04 16063 7 Copyright 2007 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Hotei Publishing, IDC Publishers, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers and VSP. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. printed in the netherlands
CONTENTS Acknowledgements…………………………………………… List of Contributors……………………………………………
ix xi
Introduction: The Powers of Tu……………………………… Francesca Bray (University of Edinburgh)
1
PART ONE: THE POWER OF ORDER – TU AS SYMBOLIC MEDIATION I. THE ORIGINS OF TU 1. La représentation visuelle dans les pratiques pyro-ostéomantiques dans la Chine archaïque……………………… Olivier Venture (EPHE, Paris)
83
2. Placed into the Right Position – Etymological Notes on Tu and Congeners…………………………………………… Wolfgang Behr (Ruhr-Unversity Bochum)
109
II. TU AS MAGICO-RELIGIOUS SYMBOLS 1. Time, Space and Orientation: Figurative Representations of the Sexagenary Cycle in Ancient and Medieval China…… Marc Kalinowski (EPHE, Paris)
137
2. Communication by Design: Two Silk Manuscripts of Diagrams (Tu) from Mawangdui Tomb Three……………… Donald Harper (University of Chicago)
169
3. Picturing or Diagramming the Universe………………… Wu Hung (University of Chicago)
191
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CONTENTS
III. TEXT AS TU: TEXTUAL DIAGRAMS 1. Mapless Mapping: Did the Maps of the Shan hai jing Ever Exist?……………………………………………………… Vera Dorofeeva-Lichtmann (CNRS-EHESS, Paris)
217
2. The Tables (biao) in Sima Qian’s Shi ji: Rhetoric and Remembrance……………………………………………… Griet Vankeerberghen (McGill, Montréal)
295
3. The Avatamsaka-sûtra as a ‘bodhi mandala Text’……… Hermann-Josef Röllicke (Ekô Centre, Düsseldorf) 4. Diagrams as an Architecture by Means of Words: the Yanji tu………………………………………………………… Michael Lackner (University of Erlangen-Nuremberg)
313
341
PART TWO: PICTURING REALITY? TU AS TECHNICAL ILLUSTRATIONS I. THE IMPORTANCE OF THE MEDIUM 1. Imagining Practice: Sense and Sensuality in Early Chinese Medical Illustration……………………………………… Vivienne Lo (SOAS, London)
383
2. Geometrical Diagrams in Traditional Chinese Mathematics………………………………………………………… Alexei Volkov (National Tsing-Hua University, Taiwan)
425
3. Woodcut Illustration: A General Outline………………… Michela Bussotti (Ecole française d’Extrême-orient, Paris)
461
II. TEXT AND IMAGE IN THE ERA OF PRINT-CULTURE 1. The Representation of Plants: Engravings and Paintings… Georges Métailié (CNRS, Paris)
487
CONTENTS
2. Agricultural Illustrations: Blueprint or Icon?…………… Francesca Bray (University of Edinburgh) 3. ‘Like Obtaining a Great Treasure’: The Illustrations in Song Yingxing’s The Exploitation of the Works of Nature…… Peter J. Golas (University of Denver) 4. Song Yingxing’s Illustrations of Iron Production………… Donald B. Wagner (Copenhagen)
vii 521
569
615
III. WESTERN INFLUENCES AND THEIR USES 1. The Body Revealed. The Contribution of Forensic Medicine to Knowledge and Representation of the Skeleton in China………………………………………………………… Catherine Despeux (INALCO, Paris) 2. New Maps for the Modernizing State: Western Cartographic Knowledge and Its Application in 19th and 20th Century China…………………………………………… Iwo Amelung (University of Frankfurt)
635
685
INDEX…………………………………………………………
727
COLOUR PLATES……………………………………………
745
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS The co-editors gratefully acknowledge the support of the Chiang Ching-Kuo Foundation, whose generous subsidy made this publication possible. Our warmest thanks go to Tatyana Gardner, Ph.D. candidate at the East Asian Department of the University of Göttingen, for her prodigious and meticulous work on copy-editing and preparing the final text. We are also most grateful to Professor Dieter Kuhn, Institute for Cultural Studies of East and South Asia, University of Würzburg, and to the anonymous reader for Brill, for all their helpful comments and suggestions for improvement. Finally, we would like to thank our contributors for their generosity in allowing us to publish their papers in this collection, and for their patience as the editorial processes unfolded.
LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS Iwo AMELUNG Professor Sinology University of Frankfurt Germany Wolfgang BEHR Akademischer Rat, Lecturer in Classical Chinese Faculty of East Asian Studies Ruhr-University Bochum Germany Francesca BRAY Professor of Social Anthropology University of Edinburgh UK Michela BUSSOTTI Maître de conférences École française d’Extrême-Orient Paris France Catherine DESPEUX Professeur Institut des Langues et Civilisations Orientales (INALCO) Paris France Vera DOROFEEVA-LICHTMANN Chargé de Recherche Centre Chine-Corée-Japon Centre national de la recherche scientifique (CNRS) Paris France
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LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS
Peter J. GOLAS Professor History Department University of Denver USA Donald HARPER Professor Department of East Asian Languages and Civilizations University of Chicago USA Marc KALINOWSKI Professeur École Pratique des Hautes Etudes à la Sorbonne Paris France Michael LACKNER Professor University of Erlangen-Nuremberg Germany Dr. Vivienne LO Lecturer and Convenor of Asian Studies, Wellcome Trust Centre for the History of Medicine University College London UK Georges METAILIE Directeur de recherche Centre Alexandre Koyré Centre national de la recherche scientifique (CNRS) Paris France
LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS
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Dr. Hermann-Josef RÖLLICKE Member of scientific staff Ekô Centre of Japanese Culture Düsseldorf Germany Griet VANKEERBERGHEN, Ph.D. Assistant Professor Department of History and Department of East Asian Studies McGill University Montreal Canada Olivier VENTURE Maître de conférences École Pratique des Hautes Etudes à la Sorbonne Paris France Alexei VOLKOV Associate Professor Center for General Education and Institute of History National Tsing-Hua University Hsinchu Taiwan Donald B. WAGNER Independent scholar affiliated with the Nordic Institute of Asian Studies [formerly Senior Lecturer in Chinese at the University of Copenhagen] Copenhagen Denmark WU Hung Harrie H. Vanderstappen Distinguished Service Professor of Art History Department of Art History University of Chicago USA
INTRODUCTION: THE POWERS OF TU Francesca Bray1 The images (tu ቹ) are the warp threads and the written words (shu ) are the weft. As warp and weft alternate to form the pattern of a fabric (wen ֮) [so images and written words alternate to form the meaning of a text (wen ֮)]... To see the writing without the image is like hearing a voice without seeing the form; to see the image without the writing is like seeing a person but not hearing his words.2
The contributors to this volume focus on tu ቹ, technical images, and on their relationship with written text in the production of technical knowledge. The articles encompass a broad range of graphic forms and categories of specialised knowledge, from metaphysical cosmograms and magical talismans through mathematical diagrams to coroner’s charts. While we cannot claim to offer a comprehensive span of all significant forms of tu, this is, as far as we know, the first collection of studies devoted specifically to tu as technical images, and to the functional relation of such tu to the written text which almost invariably accompanies them. In his well-known treatise on the importance of tu, the Song scholar Zheng Qiao ㈕᮴(1104–1162) insisted that tu played as essential a part as written words in the techniques (or arts) of learning, xueshu ᖂ.3 The best way to convey specialist information was to lay it out in an illustrated register, tupu ⼆, a sequence of rubrics where for each item a graphic illustration was paired with an explanatory text. Among the fields of knowledge which Zheng Qiao listed as depending on tu for the adequate transmission of knowledge were a number whose technical dimension is immediately evident to modern readers, who would naturally be inclined to link the term “technical” with technology or science as we know them today.4 These fields of ——— 1 This introduction, though written by a single author, is the fruit of intensive discussions between the three co-editors. 2 Zheng Qiao, Tupu lüe, Tongzhi j. 71/837a. 3 Xueshu is more usually translated by the single term scholarship. 4 Studies of tu which assess them from the perspective of the history of technology and/or science include Edgerton (1985), Haudricourt and Métailié (1994), Golas
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learning included geography, cosmology, building, the construction of implements and machines, astronomy, mathematics, military science and medicine. But Zheng Qiao’s list of subjects where tu were essential aids to learning also included linguistics, law, official rankings, the study of ritual, music, history, ethics and fine arts, as well as talismans and Daoism. 5 While Zheng Qiao’s essay highlights tu as tools of scholarship and understanding, tu also served as important instruments of statecraft and government, both material and symbolic, and they played a key role in pedagogy. Furthermore tu were closely associated with craft skills,6 and with magical arts and cosmological techniques such as divination or geomancy. Not surprisingly, different technical fields such as magic, law and agronomy generated very different types of tu. Some represented objects, plans, figures or scenes in more or less realistic fashion; others were maps or abstract diagrams or schemata; others consisted entirely of arrangements of written words. There were also significant historical shifts in the predominant forms and functions of tu, associated not only with the evolution of a particular field but also, for example, with changes in elite ideas about education, or with the rise of woodblock printing. What then were the shared characteristics of tu, and what distinguished them from other Chinese visual categories such as hua (picture or painting) or xiang ွ (image or icon)? Taking into account the full graphic and thematic range of tu and the contexts in which the term was applied, it becomes apparent that in pre-modern Chinese usage the term tu was not—as often supposed today—a general term for pictures, of which pictures of technical themes were one sub-category. In fact it was a specialist term denoting only those graphic images or layouts which encoded technical knowledge: tu were templates for action. This concise definition seems to us to capture the essence of tu across its many variations in pre-modern China. It elegantly resolves many of the confusions about the apparently fuzzy boundaries between tu and other graphic categories which have puzzled historians trying to place tu as an intellectually coherent category. It highlights the fact that from the Chinese perspective tu was not a stylistic but a functional category: tu were instructive images ——— (1999, 2001), Vogel, forthcoming. 5 Reiter (1990: 314) notes that Zheng Qiao’s bibliography of works whose title included tu (divided into two sections listing works where the tu had been preserved along with the text and those where it had not) is not very reliable. 6 The relationship was not always straightforward, as will be discussed below.
INTRODUCTION
3
conveying skilled, specialist knowledge. Tu offered spatial encodings (often but not necessarily two-dimensional) of factual information, structures, processes and relationships, translating temporal or intellectual sequences into purely spatial terms, and encrypting dynamic processes as static layouts. The perusal and decoding of the tu by the viewer constituted what Ames calls “performative looking”: the knowledge contained in the tu was unfolded into realisation and into action.7 Sometimes a tu stood alone, without textual explanation, but usually it contained or accompanied written characters. This means that tu cannot be studied independently of the texts with which they were paired (or from which they were constructed). The epistemological relationship between written text and tu showed many variations and generated recurrent debates among Chinese intellectuals. Text and tu might contribute equally to the viewer’s understanding, but in some cases the tu was held to be of primary importance, while in others it seems that the tu served merely as an organising device, or even just as a mnemonic, for the detailed factual information contained in the text. Sometimes it was context that determined whether a given image was considered a tu or a hua, that is to say whether its purpose was seen as instructive—or rather as entertaining or aesthetically pleasurable.8 The fact that the classification of a given image could depend upon the purpose for which the image was intended supports our argument that tu was a functional rather than a morphological or aesthetic category.9 Though the Chinese themselves did not usually make analytical distinctions between different types of tu,10 here we argue that they fell into two broad categories representing distinctive principles of ——— 7 “There is an unbroken line between image as what is real, image as the presentation (not representation) of what is real, and image as the meaning of what is real. Image is reality ... [Zhi ⶹ ‘to know’] is fundamentally performative – it is ‘realizing’ in the sense of `making real’” (Ames 1990: 239). 8 During the print era, for example, woodblock illustrations of novels or plays were usually classified as paintings, hua ⬿, or images, xiang 䈵 or ڣ. Not infrequently identical or very similar illustrations were included in anthologies of instructive anecdotes or exemplary biographies, but here they were categorised as tu, because in this context they were believed to play an important pedagogical role in imparting the moral meaning of the text (Bussotti, this volume; on the use of imagery in moral instruction see also Carlitz (1991), Raphals (1998)). 9 Of course in certain contexts aesthetics and function cannot easily be separated; see below on late Ming arguments that hua communicated to the educated viewer while tu were suited to the ignorant. 10 But see below on Luo Hongxian.
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spatial representation: (i) diagrammatic or schematic tu, forms of symbolic mediation whose formal patternings of space created understanding or generated action by guiding the viewer through a strictly ordered trajectory;11 and (ii) representational images, closer in intent and in cognitive operation to technical illustrations in the modern sense. The main effects of tu and their accompanying text, as we shall show below, could be communicative (displaying information), pedagogical (inculcating understanding), and/or transformative (effecting cosmic or other changes through the very act of inscription). As templates for action tu were powerful devices. Some tu were powerful in themselves, others as instruments. It is surely no coincidence that the first flurry of philosophical statements concerning tu coincided with the flourishing of shushu ᑇ, the occult arts or art of numbers, that began in the late Warring States.12 While the diagrammatic tu discussed in the first section of the book were powerful because they were plans for interpreting and mobilising cosmic forces, the secular, representational tu discussed in the second half of the book were more commonly mobilised in the service of statecraft, and they raise interesting questions about ideology and its tools. Another set of questions arises from consideration of the technical and aesthetic vocabularies of tu and their accompanying texts. What might they tell us about the relations between technical knowledge and artistic expression, or about attitudes towards precision versus allusion, abstraction versus accuracy, the establishment of conventions and the cumulative development of knowledge? Given the dramatic role that the development of technical drawing and technical writing has played in the rise of modern Western science and society, the comparative interest of our collection is clear. Unlike the post-Renaissance West, China did not develop a self-conscious, structured discipline of technical drawing that progressed ——— 11 Henderson speaks of geometric cosmography (1994: 204–204, 222); see also the discussion of forms of symbolic mediation in the production of ritual space in Dickhardt (2003). Vankeerberghen and Röllicke discuss the emotional, political and spiritual dimensions of such ordering. 12 Li Ling 2000, Li Jianmin 2001a. The mantic and numerological techniques of shushu included hemerology and several other types of divination and were closely associated with practices of prolonging life. Li Jianmin notes that all these techniques aimed to combine time, position and direction in a characteristically Chinese concern with cosmic resonances. Recently excavated documents and artefacts show that graphic images, accompanied by numbers or text, were an important part of early works on the occult arts (ibid).
INTRODUCTION
5
hand in hand with steadily evolving disciplines of science.13 A number of interesting insights into the nature and workings of Chinese society and the Chinese state may be stimulated by asking why China did not follow the path of the West, even when examples of Western accomplishments in science and technology were often freely available.14 Another set of questions arises from acknowledging that Chinese world views and the political goals of its rulers were distinctive, as was the social and cultural context within which technical and scientific knowledge were generated. Then we are led to ask not why China failed to be like the West but whether (or how far) it succeeded in achieving the goals it set for itself.15 This approach leads us to ask which domains of technical knowledge were considered particularly important, and what efforts can we see (if any) to make them more effective—technically perhaps, but also morally or symbolically.16 Most previous studies of tu have considered only partial sets of the whole spectrum of tu, focusing on one type of graphic form, or on a specialised subset of the whole range of technical fields in which tu were created.17 The contributors to this volume start from our encompassing functional definition to analyse tu variously as programmes for action, process-oriented schemas, functional representations and blueprints. The examples of text and tu that they discuss include encodings of: cosmic processes; a path to enlightenment; the exegesis of a classical text; the construction of a silk-reeling machine; the reconstruction of a criminal assault; and the coursing of energy through the human body. 18 The advantage of the shared functional approach is ——— 13 Golas 1999, 2001 and this volume. 14 For examples in the field of cartography see Amelung, this volume, and also
Yee (1994: 170–202); for the impact of encounters with Western anatomy, see Despeux, this volume. 15 In his comparative analysis of the historical trajectories of early modern China and Europe, R. Bin Wong (1997) carries this approach one step further. He proposes a method which he calls “symmetrical comparison”, whereby each society is evaluated by the standards of the other rather than allowing unquestioned privilege to Western categories, values and goals. In the history of science, Lloyd and Sivin (2002) represents an analogous approach to balanced comparison between intellectual traditions. 16 Bray, Despeux, this volume; Amelung specifically emphasises the need to avoid bending historical study to teleological models if we wish to see how history goes. See also for example Amelung (1998, 2000), Brook (1994), Elvin (2004), Golas (1999), Will (2003). 17 See below on cartographic studies of tu; Lackner and Reiter's studies highlight abstract, diagrammatic tu, while other scholars (e.g. Edgerton 1985, Golas 1999, 2001) have focused on tu as expressions of scientific and technological knowledge. 18 Other recent publications that discuss tu, text and technical learning include:
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that it allows us to highlight what the Chinese considered to be the knowledge-producing characteristics common to the whole range of graphic representations known as tu, as distinct from or in coordination with written text. In the rest of this introduction, we outline the background to this project; provide a brief survey of the history of tu in the light of the papers in this collection and of other recent scholarship; and offer preliminary explorations of some themes suggested by the contributions. We propose a basic typology of tu (reflected in the two main sections into which the collection is divided), and offer some suggestions about historical trends or shifts in the uses of tu; changing conceptions of the nature of tu and their relation to text and to other categories of graphic representation; the media in which tu were executed; and the design and production of different kinds of tu.
MODERN TU STUDIES: THE STATE OF THE FIELD Most modern scholarship on tu, both Chinese and Western, has been marked by a paradox. In a study of two famous Song-dynasty maps published in 1903, the great French sinologist Édouard Chavannes suggested that we should think of tu as a category that encompasses “all forms of graphic representation”.19 Yet after proposing this very broad definition Chavannes went on to focus exclusively on tu in the sense of maps, and until very recently most Western (and modern Chinese) studies that analysed tu as cognitive tools followed Chavannes in confining their scope to maps and cartography.20 The choice to concentrate on this specialised application of the term tu is certainly ——— Golas (1999, 2001) and Vogel (forthcoming) on illustrations of technology; Smith (1991) on divination, geomancy and physiognomy; Yee (1994: 101 ff.) and Amelung (1998, 2000) on hydraulics (though Vermeer (1987), Dodgen (2001) and Elvin (2004) also discuss the practice and evolution of hydraulics, they do not pay specific attention to the importance of tu in the discipline). On much later administrative versions of the historiographical biao 㸼 or tables in the Shiji (analysed by Vankeerberghen), see Will (2003) on the eighteenth-century tables developed as guides to the penal code, and Hegel (2002) on the interplay between text and tu in Qing legal cases. 19 “Toutes les représentations graphiques quelles qu’elles soient” (Chavannes 1903: 236). 20 See the Chinese and Western language works cited in Sivin and Ledyard (1994: 28, n.13). Such studies could include celestial as well as terrestrial maps. Needham and Wang (1959) discuss star-maps, planispheres etc. in Section 20 on astronomy, and cartography in section 22.
INTRODUCTION
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not arbitrary, for its use in this sense was prominent throughout Chinese history. 21 But the cartographic perspective tended not only to confine studies of tu to a restricted range of examples, but also to limit the kinds of questions that were asked about them as a form of technical communication. 22 At the other end of the spectrum some scholarly enterprises have followed Chavannes’ exhortation to complete comprehensiveness and presumed that in its broader sense the semantic field of tu could be extended to encompass almost any illustration or drawing.23 This approach opens up a range of interesting questions about systems of visual communication, and intersects fruitfully with the new wave of studies of visual cultures and print cultures in China. But in conflating tu with visual forms considered by the Chinese to belong to other categories of visual communication it shifts the focus away from what it was that the Chinese felt were the distinctive features of tu. It is only recently that modern scholars have begun to address Chavannes’ underlying challenge of studying tu both in their full variety, yet within the boundaries of the Chinese concept. Indeed the lack of recognition of tu as a coherent conceptual category is not surprising when we consider that historians of mathematics in China usually encounter tu in the form of abstract diagrams, while historians of agriculture are familiar with tu that consist of drawings of implements and machinery. Furthermore earlier scholars interested in tu usually adopted the perspective of classic history of science, which meant that certain important categories or dimensions of tu eluded their attention. Chavannes chose to discuss his two Song maps in terms of accuracy, setting the agenda for a positivist approach to maps in particular and to tu more generally. There is certainly valuable information to be gained from considering specific tu as more or less successful attempts to observe, measure and then render in two dimensions such objects as the boundaries of a territory or the construction of a waterpump. But on the one hand this approach screened out the ritual, ——— 21 See for example Reiter (1990), Harley and Woodward (1994). 22 Yee (1994: 37 ff.) offers a critique of the flaws inherent in studying Chinese
cartography primarily as a mathematical discipline for understanding geographical space. 23 This agenda is implicit for instance in the programme of the conference entitled “From image to action” discussed below, and even to some extent in Vogel, forthcoming; see also Behr’s repeated assertion that he can find no evidence in ancient or classical texts that tu was a term that applied to pictures in general. We would argue (see below) that often it is not so much form or medium as use and context that determined whether a given image was considered a tu.
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cosmological or moral dimensions of such forms of representation, and thus distorted their original goals.24 On the other hand it focused attention on tu characteristic of fields of thought or activity that corresponded to modern branches of science or technology and their recognised precursors, but ignored the continuity of these fields with other domains of thought and action that the Chinese considered epistemologically, philosophically or pragmatically related. The line of studies that treated tu as geographical maps can be traced from Chavannes to Needham and Wang Ling, 25 and it remained a guiding thread in later studies by Lackner and Reiter.26 But Lackner and Reiter achieved a breakthrough in tu studies because they also tried to answer the question of what tu might be apart from geographical maps. Both scholars focus on the surge of interest in tu among Song philosophers and on the metaphysical diagrams or cosmograms that they (re)created (see below): they thus shift the focus from the mapping of territory to the plotting of structured relationships. Lackner notes that tu refers to maps or charts not only of landforms or political territory, but also of the heavens, of ritually significant buildings, or of genealogies. He makes the crucial point that such tu are characterised by ordering “mapped” things with respect to definitive positions, wei ;ۯthus the category includes divinatory and medical as well as geographical “maps”. Lackner describes the philosophical tu of the Song dynasty as maps of spiritual regions (Landkarten geistiger Gebiete), and characterises divinatory tu as mandalas—that is to say, he emphasises their importance in structuring a trajectory for the reader or user of the tu.27 Reiter’s article raises another important aspect of tu, which is the connotation of such mapping or positioning with norms and laws. He also remarks on the manifold administrative powers accorded to tu: maps, for example, may record the real boundaries of a territory or they may map symbolic claims to control; in either case they constitute an assertion of the authority to rule. Lackner and Reiter’s papers established the need to include maps, plans or charts in the very broadest sense into the study of tu, and underlined that symbolic tu must be integrated into any analysis of ——— 24 Bray, this volume, Henderson 1994. 25 They quote Chavannes’ article almost in its entirety in the course of develop-
ing his arguments; Needham and Wang (1959: 534–551). 26 Lackner 1990, 1992, 1996 and 2000; Reiter 1990. 27 Lackner 1990: 138–139 and 153.
INTRODUCTION
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the nature of tu and their role in Chinese thought. Meanwhile the study of tu as maps has also been transformed in tune with broader trends in critical cartography. In 1987 J.B. Harley and David Woodward argued forcefully that historical cartography could greatly enrich our understanding of past societies if it set aside narrow scientistic approaches and redefined maps as all forms of “graphic representations that facilitate a spatial understanding of things, concepts, conditions, processes, or events in the human world”. 28 At much the same time historians of China began to address the significance of the wide range of varieties of map produced in China, analysing them as products of aesthetic, political, socioeconomic, ritual and administrative concerns. Innovative studies by Amelung, Brook, Clunas, Hostetler, Smith and other historians, covering such genres as route maps for merchants, temple tours for affluent gentlemen indulging a taste for leisurely travel, assertive demarcations of nebulous imperial frontiers, and the meticulous charting of the hydraulic features of the Yellow River, have made significant contributions to rethinking what maps were and why and how they were made in China.29 A landmark contribution is the section on China by Cordell D.K. Yee and his colleagues30 in the Chicago History of Cartography, a monumental study of maps and mapping throughout the world, edited by J.B. Harley and David Woodward whose expansive approach to maps has just been quoted. It is noteworthy that only one of the contributors on China, F. Richard Stephenson, is a historian of science and technology as conventionally defined; John B. Henderson is a historian of cosmology and Yee himself was trained in English literature before becoming interested in cartography. One striking and stimulating feature of the enterprise is its emphasis on the many roles that maps played in statecraft. From the perspective of “tu studies” as distinct from “map studies”, we might also note that this collection affords Henderson the opportunity to reinstate the crucial ritual and/or cosmological dimensions of many tu, whereas earlier studies had usually simply ignored the non-secular aspects of such forms of representation.31 Innovations in map studies matched the broadening of horizons in ——— 28 Harley and Woodward 1987: xiv. 29 Amelung 1998, 2000; Brook 1988, 1994, 1997, 1998; Clunas 1996, 1997;
Hostetler 2001; Smith 1996. 30 Yee 1994, Sivin and Ledyard 1994, Henderson 1994, Stephenson 1994. 31 Henderson 1994: 203.
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the history of science more generally. Of particular interest to anyone studying graphic representations are the new attention to the role of visual expression in knowledge production, and to the aesthetics and rhetoric of explanation and persuasion.32 Approaches to scientific and technical activity as art, craft, and/or social mobilisation offer fruitful new insights for the analysis of images. The essential underpinning for all such efforts has been the shift to examining systems of knowledge rather than teleologically defined branches of science. 33 Not only does this eliminate artificial boundaries between science and non-science, or between the technological and the technical, it is also an indispensable prerequisite for any serious study of science as culture, or of science as ideology.34 The history of science (or of “the sciences”, scientiae) in China is now integrated into the history of thought more generally, while techniques and technology are beginning to be incorporated more convincingly into the history of government and cultural history.35 As a consequence of these shifts it has been possible to focus more closely on how domains of knowledge and practice were articulated, and to gain new insights into what powerful knowledge was at different points in Chinese history, and how it was expressed and realised. One of the many benefits of these new approaches for anyone interested in understanding tu is that they help circumscribe the fields of knowledge and action in which tu were seen as operating. In recent years historians interested in images have also begun to expand the scope of their studies to think beyond narrow specialist fields, to consider in broader terms the visual cultures of particular social groups or historical periods. This too has opened new opportunities for “tu studies”. Thinking in terms of visual cultures offers possibilities for spanning the divide between “art” and “science”, between “decoration”, “representation” and “symbol”, and helps us to reconstruct the visual conventions, the aesthetic grammar and the iconographic cross-references that a viewer of the time might have ——— 32 See below on visual cultures, as well as for example Kuriyama (1999). 33 For example Chemla et al. (2001). 34 The work of Benjamin Elman (1984) and his colleagues on Confucianism and
knowledge is an excellent example. 35 For example work by Li Jianmin (2001) and by Richard Smith (1996) casts light on fang ᮍ (technical knowledge), fa ⊩ (specialist methods) and the role of “technical specialists”. On techniques of government and the state we might cite recent work by Pierre-Étienne Will and his associates.
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11
drawn upon to decode a specific image.36 Craig Clunas’ Pictures and Visuality in Early Modern China, which discusses visual cultures in the late Ming, is notable for its specific and sustained attention to how the relations between image and text were conceptualised. Although as Clunas notes the role of painting, hua , figured far more prominently in Ming debates about perception and knowledge than that of tu,37 he is nevertheless able to devote several pages to how conceptualisations of tu evolved during the Ming, seen in the context of contemporary metaphysics and classifications of knowledge, aesthetics, print culture and property relations.38 As he ranges through the vast array of media and styles in late Ming images, covering such diverse forms as literati hand-scrolls, decorated tableware, navigators’ sketch maps, religious paintings, and most notably the proliferation of woodblock illustrations in every kind of printed book,39 Clunas provides a salutory reminder that drawing hard lines between modern visual categories often obscures more than it reveals. The recent surge in studies of print culture and of the book trade in late imperial China has also influenced the study of tu, suggesting new ways to think about the production, transmission and reception of specific images and visual themes, and highlighting questions about the role of graphic media (painting, woodblock print, manuscript, rubbings, etc.) in the design and effectiveness of technical graphics.40 Such sea-changes in the history of knowledge production and in approaches to visual cultures have promoted a growing awareness among sinologists that tu is an important epistemological category which has been poorly understood and deserves renewed attention. In the broad sense of “graphic representations”, tu have figured as the theme of three sinological panels or conferences in recent years: Wu Hung and Hans-Ulrich Vogel organised panels at the Association of Asian Studies in Chicago in 1998 and at the International Conference on East Asian Science, Technology and Medicine in Singapore in 1999 respectively,41 and the whole third meeting of the European and ——— 36 E.g. Wu Hung, this volume; Powers 1991, Cahill 1994, Yee 1994, Hwang 1996, Smith 1996, Li Lin 2000, Ledderose 2000, Li Jianmin 2001. 37 Clunas 1997: 33, 110. 38 See especially pp. 104 ff., and also Clunas 1996, Brook 1998. 39 See also Chia (2002: 52 ff.) and Bussotti (2001), and below. 40 Bussotti, Métailié, this volume, Chia 2002a, Reed 2004, Brokaw and Chow 2005. 41 “Tu (diagrams, charts, drawings) in traditional Chinese culture”, Annual Meeting of the Association of Asian Studies, Chicago, 1998; “Illustration (tu) in Traditional Chinese Science, Technology, and Medicine: Comparative and Cross-cultural
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North American Exchanges in East Asian Studies Conference, held in Paris in 2001, was devoted to the theme “From image to action: the dynamics of visual representation in Chinese intellectual and religious culture”. The 1998 Chicago panel looked primarily at tu of the cosmographic type, presenting four studies of ritually, religiously or politically powerful tu from the Warring States through to the Tang. The panel was intended as “a first step towards a more comprehensive interdisciplinary study of tu as a distinct system of knowledge, changing over time”.42 The Singapore panel included twelve papers on the uses of tu in “Chinese sciences and production techniques”, and aimed to explore their historical evolution and to sketch a contrast with Western developments. Topics included secular uses of tu in such fields as mapping, mathematics, engineering and medicine, as well as three papers on cosmographic and symbolic tu.43 The Paris conference, where over forty papers were presented, did not attempt to differentiate specifically between Chinese categories of visual representation. However, the conference’s theme, linking image to action, suggested to the co-editors of this volume the rich possibilities of a new approach to the epistemological powers of tu, treated as graphic guides to action employed across a broad range of technical fields. We also realised that the complex relation between tu and text could not be ignored if we were to throw some new light on how tu worked or were thought to work. Most of the papers in this volume are revised versions of selected presentations made in Paris; Wolfgang Behr wrote his article especially for this volume, as did Michela Bussotti and Francesca Bray whose original presentation in Paris were on different topics; Wu Hung’s contribution was first presented at the Chicago panel and Michael Lackner’s chapter is an elaboration of his contribution to the same panel; Donald Wagner graciously provided an abbreviated version of a paper he gave at another symposium, tailored to fit our analytical framework.44 ——— Perspectives”, 9th International Conference on the History of Science in East Asia (ICHSEA), Singapore, 1999. 42 http://www.aasianst.org/absts/1998abst/china/c189.htm; three of the contributors to this volume, Wu Hung, Donald Harper and Michael Lackner, gave papers in this panel. 43 http://www.uni-tuebingen.de/sinologie/sino/personal/vogel/ichsea.html; five of the contributors to this volume, Dorefeeva-Lichtmann, Métailié, Amelung, Golas and Lackner gave papers at the Singapore meeting. 44 3rd International Symposium on Ancient Chinese Texts and Records on Science and Technology, Tübingen, 2003. Wagner’s paper is published in the proceed-
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WORDS AND THINGS: A BRIEF SURVEY OF TU IN CHINESE HISTORY
Recent archaeological discoveries of texts and artefacts are transforming our understanding of the early history of tu.45 Both as a concept and as a class of material artefacts tu have a very ancient pedigree in China, but we often need to be wary in postulating equivalence between the words and the things, particularly in pre-imperial China. The character tu itself can be traced back to inscribed bronzes from the early Zhou period (ca. 1000 to 800 BC). Although the exact form of the practices or artefacts that the term tu referred to in these inscriptions and later pre-imperial texts often remains unclear, the primary connotations of the character tu were “to order”, “to position in space”.46 As objects or practices that established or displayed relative positions in time, in space or in rank, the early tu, whatever precise forms they may have taken, were instruments of considerable ritual, political and/or social power.47 By the Song dynasty it was routine for maps, charts and other technical graphics to bear a caption in which they were explicitly identified as tu. But this seems to have been a relatively late development, and although Harper presents one document from an early Han tomb in which a passage in the written portion explicitly refers to the drawings in the graphic portion as tu, all too often we have no proof that all the early figurative representations we now consider to be forms of tu would have necessarily been given this name at the time.48 Conversely, pre-imperial and early imperial texts often refer to tu whose forms cannot now be identified with precision. Chinese scholars were apt to assume that ancient tu were conceived in the same forms and executed in the same media as those at their own disposal, but in fact quite dramatic ruptures between eras can now be ——— ings of this conference (Wagner 2006). 45 See especially Kalinowski, Harper and Lo, this volume. 46 Behr, this volume. 47 Behr, this volume; for more on the importance of relative position, wei ԡ, in Chinese thought see for example Lackner (1990) and especially the papers in Chemla and Lackner 1996. 48 Kalinowski, for example, notes that of the ten calendrical and hemerological documents that he analyses as having forms of tu layout, only one is explicitly designated as a tu. See also Lo on the frequent difficulty of matching text and image. One potential source of confusion is that archaeologists often name finds of early diagrams or pictures as tu in their reports.
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identified. In some cases it appears that early tu took a form that was completely different from that hypothesised in later interpretations; in others it seems that both form and function changed.49 Thus when archaeologists today identify an ancient artefact as tu, based on its function, form or layout, this does not necessarily mean that it would have been called tu at the time of its manufacture. Indeed the earliest surviving artefact that can be unambiguously identified as a tu is a bronze plaque depicting a plan for a mortuary monument (see below) and dated to no earlier than around 310 BC. By this time the meanings of tu discussed in contemporary texts converge rather clearly with the forms and functions of certain material objects.50 Nevertheless archaeologists and ancient historians argue plausibly that predecessors of the class of figurative representations which later came to be called tu can be traced back as far as certain abstract, symmetrical motifs on neolithic ceramics from the Taihu region, Liangzhu jade mask designs, and even perhaps to the disarticulation and reassembly of bones in human burials in the fifth millennium BC Yuanjunmiao site of the Wei river valley—“the body had, as it were, been turned into a diagram, a tu, of its former self.”51 Certainly the careful spatial ordering of piercings and written questions on the Yin oracle-bones belongs to a form of inscription that later was considered a tu, even though it is unlikely that such nomenclature was applied to them at the time of their creation. Osteomancy was practised in China well before the Shang period, but the Yin diviners made significant modifications in its techniques: they recorded the questions in written characters, and the characters were carefully arranged according to principles of symmetry and sequence, explored by Venture and Kalinowski. It has also been suggested that Yin diviners chose to use turtle plastrons for divination in addition to the more traditional scapulae of bovines and caprines because their symmetrical form had cosmic significance.52 For the early Zhou period no artefacts that can unequivocally be identified as tu have yet been found, but the character occurs in several bronze inscriptions from which Wolfgang Behr concludes that it “originally denoted some sort of representational token which was used in feudal or military exchanges of the Western Zhou royal ——— 49 50 51 52
Dorofeeva-Lichtmann, Volkov, this volume. Behr, this volume. Keightley 1998. See Venture n.22; Kalinowski, this volume; Allan 1991; Li Ling 1993: 54–56.
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house, and aimed at the fixing of territorial affiliation or rank in a court ritual”.53 Textual references from the late Warring States and early Han show that the term had by then come to designate geographical maps, as well as plans and magico-religious cosmograms. The inscription on the bronze plaque from the tomb of King Cuo of Zhongshan, the Zhaoyu tu ٢ቹ, dated to ca. 310 BC, contains the term tu in a context where it clearly signifies “to plan”, “to make a layout”, in other words to ‘design a blueprint’ for King Cuo’s necropolis.54 Planning of this kind was as much ritual as architectural, and there are many references to charts of this kind in the various works on ritual, li ៖, that date from the Warring States–Han transition on. Ritual charts emphasised positioning in time as well as space, and were thus closely related in conception to divination diagrams. There are numerous references to mantic tu of this kind in the “apocryphal” (chenwei ᨅᒮ) literature which proliferated in the Eastern Han dynasty.55 The bibliographic section of the Hanshu records numerous illustrated works, as does that of the Suishu, almost all of which were works on such mantic techniques as divination, astrology or calendar-making.56 The term cosmogram denotes diagrams representing the cosmic forces of creation and change which shape the natural world and its processes, including history and individual human destiny. 57 Cosmograms, whether in the form of two-dimensional diagrams and patterns or of three-dimensional models, were another common theme in the philosophical and technical literature of the period. One prominent cosmic model was the Mingtang ࣔഘ or Luminous Hall. The Mingtang was alluded to cryptically in such pre-Han classics as the Mengzi ([Book of] Master Meng) and the Zhuozhuan ؐႚ (Zuo’s tradition [of interpreting the Chunqiu or Spring and Autumn annals]). From these works it was clear only that the Mingtang was “a ——— 53 Behr, this volume, p. 120. 54 Behr, this volume. Yee (1994: 36–37) provides a photograph, plan and analy-
sis of the bronze plaque. Though the design for the necropolis included five huge ceremonial halls situated above the burial mounds, intended to form what Behr calls “a megalomaniac ‘funerary park’ ”, the excavation reports show that only one and a half of them were constructed. The failure to complete the project, which as Behr notes was not exceptionally extravagant for the time, was probably due to the invasion of Zhongshan by Zhao in 296 BC. 55 Behr; Kalinowski, this volume. 56 Vogel, forthcoming. 57 Henderson 1994, Dorofeeva-Lichtmann 1996, Dorofeeva-Lichtmann and Kalinowski, this volume.
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sort of cosmological temple designed for the performance of imperial rites”, and “an architectural symbol of virtuous government”.58 In the absence of precise descriptions of the Mingtang in the classics, Han scholars enthusiastically seized the opportunity to recreate it according to their own cosmological principles. It is now recognised that the complex form of the Mingtang elaborated in the Han texts was not architecturally feasible; however this did not deter a number of Han and later rulers from ordering Mingtang to be built, for as Wu Hung explains, in building a Mingtang they considered that they were realising a harmonisation of the human with the cosmic order.59 The Mingtang provides a vivid example of a newly emerging understanding of how to interpret and act upon the world. “Among the elite of the third and second centuries BC design and epistemology coalesced in a new idea of tu ... [in] a conception of knowledge in which diagrams functioned together with the written word to reveal a universal plan—at once cosmic and divine”.60 The world was constituted and shaped by cosmic energies and processes whose principles of transformation were being formulated ever more systematically by the philosophers and technical specialists of the time, in terms of a theory of transformations based on yinyang or wuxing (five agents) correspondences. Humans inhabited “an encoded world that sages decoded and made accessible to society in material form”, namely as tu. Tu were microcosms: they depicted the cosmic and divine pulses and patterns, and they provided a framework for human comprehension, interpretation and manipulation of these patterns.61 Primal images of cosmic principles revealed to the sage kings of antiquity and translated into diagrams also included the hexagrams of the Book of Changes (see below), and the Luoshu (Luo River writing) and Hetu ࣾቹ (Yellow River chart). These legendary cosmic diagrams were, like the Mingtang, debated and reconstructed by Han scholars, and they too continued to provoke debate and speculation throughout imperial times. They were considered by early scholars to be the source of nonary cosmography, and later came to be regarded as “the paradigms ... of all tu”.62 ——— 58 Henderson 1994: 212. 59 Wu Hung, this volume, and see also Dorofeeva-Lichtmann, this volume. The
plan of the mausoleum from Zhongshan bears some resemblances to the reconstructed layout of Han versions of the Mingtang (Dorofeeva-Lichtmann, n. 51). 60 Harper, this volume: p. 186. 61 Ibid. 62 Henderson 1994: 213. For a fuller review of the literature on the Hetu-Luoshu
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Donald Harper suggests that the philosophical preoccupation with tu, and the proliferation of tu-like objects or images in tombs of the period, represent an unprecedented dialogue between technical specialists and the elite. “New cosmological ideas arose from divination and astrology, and new ideas about universal knowledge occupied a middle ground between the mantic wisdom of the specialists and the intellectual programs of the philosophical masters (zhuzi 壆).”63 In his analysis of the images in two manuscripts discovered in the 168 BC tomb at Mawangdui, Harper discusses the elaboration in various domains of communication of a set of signs (“paradigmatic patterns”) that allowed people to perceive natural phenomena as part of a universe that was knowable, communicable, and applicable to human affairs. 64 Late Warring States and Han tombs have yielded a wide range of images and objects of this nature, produced by technical experts to serve the elite.65 The tombs have also yielded a great number of hitherto unknown written texts on the arts of divination, healing and the prolongation of life, many of them illustrated.66 Among the illustrated manuscripts recovered from Warring States or Han tombs, some depict what Harper calls “paradigmatic drawings or patterns”, stylised images or signs that appear sometimes in astrological or mantic documents, sometimes as talismans, or banners, or tokens. They appear to have operated equally effectively in magicoreligious or administrative contexts. In one astrological manuscript recovered from Mawangdui the drawings are paired with a text which ——— see Lackner (1990: 136–139), Reiter (1990: 314), Dorofeeva-Lichtmann (2001/ 2005), and the literature cited by Behr, this volume. Nonary layouts, formed by the division of a square into three rows of three smaller squares, were a frequent structuring device found not only in cosmography but also in the legendary “well-field system” (jingtian fa ѩ⬄⊩: the character jing consists of a three-by-three square) supposedly typical of land allocation in villages in high antiquity, and in the “nine provinces”, jiuzhou бᎲ, nine square regions into which the empire was said to have been divided during the reign of the legendary emperor Yu (see below). 63 Harper, this volume: p. 170. 64 See also e.g. Peterson (1982: 91 ff.) on how the Han commentary to the Book of Changes, the Xici zhuan, implies that “cosmological processes are intelligible and humans can adjust their conduct on the basis of that intelligence”. 65 Li Ling (2000) lists the whole range of magical tu so far discovered from the period. 66 As Harper has suggested, the proportion of occult works found in the tombs compared to that of more secular or philosophical texts strongly suggests that the occult arts preoccupied the ruling elite more than the philosophical questions debated in the canonical texts written or compiled at the time, even though it is the latter that were established as canonical during the Han and passed down to posterity in an unbroken textual tradition.
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explains how to use them for divinations; this text explicitly refers to the drawings as tu.67 Other tu-like cosmographs of the period include divination boards (shi )ڤ,68 and the various plane and solid layouts for hemerological calculations discussed by Kalinowski. One particularly potent and widely-used cosmograph devised at this time was the so-called “cordhook diagram”, consisting of a square defined by two lines intersecting at their centre, with other lines forming right-angles at each corner of the square. This diagram constituted “a schematic device representing the five sectors of the world, the five agents and the four seasons”; the Xuangong tu خ୰ቹ (Diagram of the mysterious palace) chapter of the Guanzi ጥ was also organised according to the symbolism of the five sectors.69 Another characteristic cosmic layout of the period was the “TLV” motif, found on many bronze mirrors and used for the layout of the board for liubo ք໑, a game of chance much in vogue among members of the elite. A third was the diagram of the “nine palaces” (jiugong ୰), in which the layout of the nine palaces was ingeniously conflated with that of the five agents.70 Such cosmograms led the user on an itinerary through space which also encoded the passage of time, patterned by the dynamics of cosmic forces and by shifts in orientation. Sometimes the cosmographic layout consisted of patterns of lines, like the game-boards; sometimes the pattern formed by lines was richly decorated with largely abstract motifs, like the bronze TLV mirrors; and sometimes the layout was achieved through an oriented arrangement of written characters, with or without a framework of drawn lines, like the calendrical and hemerological tu discussed by Kalinowski. Similar cosmographic layouts can also be found in written, or written and illustrated documents of the period. Vera Dorofeeva-Lichtmann shows that the Chu Silk Manuscript (4th or 3rd century BC) followed the layout of a divination board. It is “a rare example of a text that bears the clear stamp of a certain operational function. This text is characterised by an attribute that demands a certain action while reading it—rotating the manuscript or a circular movement by ——— 67 Harper, this volume. 68 A circular disc representing the Heavens, marked with astral and planetary
configurations, was mounted by a central pin on a square board, representing the Earth, marked with the compass directions; Stephenson (1994: 526–527). 69 Kalinowski, this volume: p. 141. 70 Ibid.
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the reader or user around it, or a combination of these actions.”71 The original version, Dorofeeva-Lichtmann suggests, might have been written on bundles of bamboo slips or on wooden tablets, thus facilitating the successive changes in orientation which were a key element in the significance of the document.72 Considering the importance of movement in creating the meaning of documents of this kind, Dorofeeva-Lichtmann proposes that the term jing ᆖ in the title of the document Shanhai jing ՞௧ᆖ should be translated not as “canonical work” but as “itinerary”.73 This work, compiled no later than the beginning of the first century BC, contained “a comprehensive and systematised [verbal] description of the inhabited world”.74 It was taken for granted by later Chinese scholars that such a text must originally have been illustrated with drawn maps, as it would have been in their day, and that the maps had subsequently been lost. However Dorofeeva-Lichtmann argues that drawn maps were unnecessary: in its original form the written text itself was so configured as to lead its readers through an itinerary that was the conceptual equivalent of a map, albeit a map of a highly symbolic type representing the “world ordering travels” of the legendary sage emperor Yu. The term tu also acquired a range of more secular connotations during the Warring States and Han dynasty, as new forms of tu were incorporated into the repertory of government. It is to be noted that the meaning of tu as “to plan”, first attested in the bronze plaque from Zhongshan where it signified the planning of a ritual space, had also acquired a more secular, administrative significance by the Han. The dictionary Shuowen jiezi ᎅ֮ᇞ( ڗExplanation of writing and explication of graphs), compiled ca. 100 AD, defined tu as “picturing things that are difficult to plan” hua jinan ye ૠᣄՈ.75 A plan in this context was not a diagram or blue-print for construction, but an algorithm for political action. ——— 71 Dorofeeva-Lichtmann, this volume: p. 246. 72 Dickhardt (2003) offers a stimulating discussion of the importance of move-
ment and other sensory experiences in the production of significant spaces. 73 Its title should thus be translated “Itineraries of mountains and seas” rather than “The classic of the mountains and the seas”. Manipulation of a diagram by the reader, and the re-orientation in space, this time not of the whole tu but of certain segments, are also a key feature of such mathematical procedures of demonstrationcalculation as “mending the void with the excess”, yi ying bu xu ҹⲜ㺰㰯, expounded by Liu Hui ᖑ in the third century AD and analysed by Volkov. 74 Dorofeeva-Lichtmann, this volume: p. 217. 75 Our translation is somewhat different from that of Sivin and Ledyard (1994: 26, n.6), often cited in later studies.
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Another form of tu that was institutionalised as a powerful tool of government during this period was the territorial map. Cordell Yee cites various textual references indicating that maps, called tu or ditu چቹ, were being produced and used regularly in military affairs during the late Warring States. The Zhanguo ce ᖏഏ (Stratagems of the Warring States), a text that may date to the third century BC, de scribes the politician Su Qin ᤕ convincing the king of Zhao to join an alliance to attack the more powerful state of Qin by saying: “I have examined a map [tu] of the empire, and according to it, the territory of the princes is five times that of the Qin”.76 The Sunzi ୪ (Master Sun’s [Art of war]), believed to date to the fourth century BC, includes a chapter on “Topography” (dixing ;)ݮچwhile it does not explicitly mention maps Yee maintains that their use can be inferred. The Guanzi ጥ ([Book of] Master Guan), parts of which date to the third century BC, does refer explicitly to use of maps (ditu) by military commanders and contains a chapter of that name. A passage in the Han Feizi ឌॺ ([Book of] Master Han Fei), from the third century BC, suggests that maps were vital to state security and that giving up your map to another ruler was tantamount to giving up your state. And other texts of the late Warring States like the Xunzi ಃ ([Book of] Master Xun), parts of which are third century BC, and the Guoyu ഏ (Discourses of the States), perhaps ca. 300 BC, highlight that maps served as symbols of institutional integrity and political continuity; they aided not only spatial but also moral understanding, “functioning in part as guides to moral behavior”.77 The Zhouli ࡌ៖ (Ritual forms of Zhou), compiled in the first century BC, discusses maps as crucial documents of state, used not only to establish a ruler’s claims to territory, but also to chart natural resources such as mines, to locate mountain ranges, rivers and roads, to set up cadasters and adjudicate land disputes.78 Other texts of the period refer to tushu ቹ (maps and documents) or to tuji ቹᤄ (maps and archives) as essential to the administrative and symbolic function of the state.79 From the Han dynasty on, the central government always included offices for documenting and mapping the heavens as well as its earthly territories. Celestial maps were even more potent political and symbolic tools than terrestrial maps: the emperor ruled by the man——— 76 77 78 79
Yee 1994: 74. Ibid: 73, 74. Ibid: 75. Ibid: 77, Reiter 1990.
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date of Heaven, and unless he understood the celestial phenomena and could predict and respond to celestial anomalies disaster would result. Astrology and celestial maps thus played a key part in legitimising political power.80 Terrestrial mapping, as the Zhouli suggests, offered many essential if more mundane advantages to administrators, not to mention the symbolic powers mentioned earlier. It became recommended practice for officials to compile local gazetteers (fangzhi ֱ )ݳof the administrative units under their jurisdiction; these contained pertinent economic, social and topographic information and were usually accompanied by a series of maps. Copies of the local gazetteers were sent to the capital and used to compile comprehensive gazetteers of the whole empire. Local gazetteers apparently date back to the Han, and the bibliographical section of the Suishu ᙟ (History of the Sui, compiled in the seventh century AD) “lists nearly 140 geographic works, including gazetteers and maps”.81 What physical tu in the category of maps have survived from this period? The earliest surviving astral charts date back to Han-dynasty tombs, and several fine star maps from the Tang or Five Dynasties (sixth to tenth century AD) have been discovered in the grottoes of Dunhuang. 82 One remarkable artefact that can be considered a tu since it was a model of the heavens was the design of the city walls of the Western Han capital at Chang’an, built between 194 and 190 BC in the shape of two major constellations. The ideal Chinese city was square, enclosed between straight walls. But in the case of Chang’an the southern city wall, about 6 km long, followed the outline of the Southern Dipper, nandou ত֯ (Saggitarius), and the northern wall, about 7 km long, that of the Northern Dipper, beidou ( ֯קUrsa Major).83 As for territorial maps, the oldest that have survived to date are seven wooden boards excavated from a tomb in Gansu, dating to ca. 239 BC and belonging to an officer in the Qin army. All seven depict different parts of a strategic region around a key pass into the state of Qin; six have maps painted on both sides. A Han tomb at the same site, dated between 179 and 141 BC, yielded a small fragment of a map drawn on paper. And from the Mawangdui tomb of 168 BC came three silk maps of the Changsha region. All these maps are ——— 80 Stephenson 1994. 81 Yee 1994: 89; and also 71–75. Fangzhi were not compiled for all regions of
China during the early dynasties; coverage started to become more complete during the Song (see below). 82 Stephenson 1994. 83 Stephenson 1994: 524, fig. 13.5.
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planimetric, and the styles of execution suggest some conventions for the notation of topographical features.84 Other Han tombs, and several of the Dunhuang caves, contain murals of what Yee calls “maps as paintings/paintings as maps”: they show buildings and features of the landscape in elevation and include human and animal figures like a painting, but they also contain planimetric elements—in other words they are both pictorial and cartographic.85 Here there is a similarity with murals in estate-owners tombs of the same period, which depict captioned scenes of different farming procedures executed in the style of decorative paintings.86 Are these pictorial renderings of cities, estates and farming scenes tu? We argue that they are, in that they were intended to transmit the functional details of the tomb occupant’s customary surroundings or sources of wealth and well-being to the world beyond the grave, to encode them so that they could be realised (in Ames’ term) in the afterlife. Although during the print era every field of technical knowledge generated graphic forms of tu, the range seems to have been rather more restricted before the Song dynasty. To some extent this may simply be due to the failure of fragile materials, or of mundane objects not sufficiently valued to be included in noble burials, to survive over long periods. The medieval images and documents that survived in the Buddhist grottoes of Dunhuang, including early woodblock prints of calendars, almanacs and sutras, often represent more plebeian or monastic concerns than the aristocratic tombs that are the main source of artefacts in the central regions of China. Several of the hemerological tu analysed by Kalinowski come from Dunhuang, including the only one of his twelve examples actually to bear the label tu. From the Dunhuang evidence it is quite clear that tu associated with divination, healing, astrology, the calendar or popular religious symbolism were in regular use among commoners as well as the elite throughout the medieval period. It can be shown that some images from this graphic repertoire were transmitted for centuries almost unchanged, an example being the signs of the zodiac as depicted in a privately printed calendar for the year 877, which reappear in printed works of the Yuan and Ming,87 and it is likely that this period contributed a number of iconic tu which achieved wider dissemination ——— 84 85 86 87
Yee 1994: 37–45. Yee 1994: 147–153. A good compendium of these images is Hayashi (1977). Chia 2002: 57.
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during the print era (see below). As Volkov notes, however, this was also a period where many tu must have been lost, for the state imposed strict controls over the use and possession of any tu that it considered might be turned to cosmo-political use. The Tang Code of 653 imposed two years of forced labour on any private household found in possession of such works as the Luo River Writing or the Yellow River Chart; similar bans were imposed by subsequent dynasties right up to the Song, leaving only restricted lists of divination works that provided procedures for the indispensable and legitimate calculations of dates for marriages and funerals.88 In certain technical fields where tu later figured prominently, for example mathematics, it appears that tu in the sense of drawn figures inserted in the text were not used by early writers. The author of the Jiuzhang suanshu ີጩ (Nine chapters on mathematical procedures) makes no reference to in-text figures, but Liu Hui’s Ꮵᚧ commentary of ca. 263 contains explicit reference to diagrams. Some historians have proposed that in medieval times cut-out paper figures or solid models were used in conjunction with the text to demonstrate certain procedures, although none have survived as physical objects. 89 Alexei Volkov argues that Liu Hui provided coloured diagrams, drawn on paper and bound together separately from the text, which illustrated general principles through specific examples (see below). At another level, just as the textual configuration of the Shanhai jing provided its readers or users with a map-like experience, so too it can be argued that the arrangement of a work like the Jiuzhang suanshu constituted a tu (a structured progression or set of algorithms) in itself.90 Text-as-tu was also used as a structuring device for exegesis or spiritual training in Daoist and Buddhist texts as early as the medieval period. Hermann–Josef Röllicke demonstrates that the Avatamsaka–sûtra, the foundational text of the Huayan ဎᣤ School of Buddhism, was compiled so as to form a textual mandala. Röllicke lays out for us the structure of the mandala-diagram which led the reader on a journey of awakening, sketching out a rhythmic flow of thoughts through confined corridors of time. An extraordinary achievement of the sutra is to take the reader through a process of awakening which is textually graded in time and space, while extinguishing all consciousness of grades. Thus the structure of the text ——— 88 Volkov, this volume. 89 Ibid. 90 Chemla and Guo 2004.
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anticipates its own doctrine, namely the all-presence of confined portions of verbally exposed Dharma anywhere in the universe.91 Another early form of text-as-tu was the biao । or table, literally a laying-out of signs. By late imperial times the terms biao and tu were often used interchangeably for tabular arrangements of data that facilitated information management. The earliest uses of the form were historiographical, and date back to pre-imperial times. The great Han historian Sima Qian ್ᔢ, author of the Shiji ಖ (Historical records, completed ca. 90 BC), claimed to have invented biao as a way of displaying historical information. But a find of bamboo strips in Anhui in 1977 included 200 strips collated as chronological tables; they record events between roughly the ninth century and the end of the third century BC and predate the Shiji by about a century. Sima Qian elaborated two forms of biao, one with time, the other with place as the organising principle. Griet Vankeerberghen notes that while textual historical narrative is necessarily selective, biao are inherently exhaustive and permit the dramatic representation of geographical or chronological dynamics. Sima Qian’s tables dramatically highlight how the consolidation of imperial rule correlates with the decline of the feudal families—as Vankeerberghen remarks, the visually suggestive layout of a table can carry considerable rhetorical force. Many late imperial biao were devised as tools of statecraft (see below). Sima Qian’s biao, however, were inherently subversive, offering a subtle visual challenge to the new political structures of the Han imperial state.92 In the transmission of technical knowledge about the body, Vivienne Lo notes that among the archaeological finds of documents from the Han dynasty there are tu, and there are texts, but so far there are no examples of illustrations being paired with explanatory text. The forty-two images in the so-called Daoyin tu ᖄ֧ቹ, “Guiding and pulling chart”, discovered at Mawangdui, depict a form of gymnastics designed to rejuvenate aging bodies and to ease discomfort. Some have short captions naming the posture depicted, or indicating what ailment it is good for. Unillustrated texts recovered from another roughly contemporary burial seem to correspond rather well to the concept of the body and of therapy suggested by the technical ——— 91 Röllicke, this volume. 92 This is probably not true of the chronological biao in later dynastic histories;
nevertheless, many would doubtless repay critical analysis from some of the perspectives suggested by Vankeerberghen.
INTRODUCTION
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drawings of the Daoyin tu. But in the case of the lacquer figurine from a tomb at Shuangbaoshan in Sichuan, sealed in 118 BC, it is not easy directly to relate the understandings of the body it suggests to any single existing text of the period. However by medieval times we find straight pairings of text and tu, for example “mediaeval moxacautery loci charts discovered in the cache of manuscripts at Dunhuang, and in the Hama jing ᓚᝂᆖ (Toad Canon) bring together simple textual instructions with practical illustration.”93 The bibliographical sections of the early dynastic histories list numerous works with tu in the title, but almost none have survived.94 It is not easy to be sure just what form of tu they contained, or what the relation was between tu and text. The works on healing just mentioned are among the relatively few tu-like artefacts surviving from early or medieval times that display the tu-text interplay which was to become standard in the print era, namely a direct pairing of twodimensional graphic images with text. On the other hand in the preprinting era other forms of tu-like artefacts were common, including “paradigmatic patterns” and two- or three-dimensional cosmic models, all apparently usable independently of linear written text, as well as characters arranged (with or without other graphic elements) in diagrammatic or schematic form, and written texts containing no graphics but structured as tu in themselves. The flowering of the print era naturally marked an important transition in what we might call the “tu culture” of China. Woodblock printing was already quite a well-known medium by late medieval times, used as early as the eighth century to produce sutras, religious images, calendars, dictionaries, primers, books on geomancy and divination, and other documents where the rapid production of multiple copies offered an obvious practical or religious advantage. Woodblock printing lends itself both to the reproduction of images and to the organisation of text into structured patterns (for example the layout of calendars or tables), so it is not surprising that tu of various kinds feature in the few early printed documents that have survived.95 A true publishing industry, based on woodblock printing, began to ——— 93 Lo, this volume: p. 384. The Hama jing was probably not compiled till the early Tang, but it contains materials that are quite consistent with Han ideas about the uses of acupuncture and moxibustion to exorcise evil spirits and to protect spirit and qi; correct orientation of the patient while undergoing needling was an important consideration (Lo 2001). 94 Volkov, this volume. 95 E.g. Tsien 1985: 146–159.
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develop in the tenth century. Now every field of technical knowledge began to generate its own tu, many of which rapidly entered general circulation, not least because printing greatly facilitated the production of encylopedias, compendia and other collections that included illustrated materials from a range of fields of technical knowledge. But a negative effect of the woodblock medium was that it was much easier for printers to make more or less direct copies of earlier images than to create new ones. A number of tu which entered the iconographic repertory in the early print era were the original creations of writers or woodblock carvers of the Song and Yuan; some dated back to the pre-print era. Although new tu were created during the Ming and Qing in a number of technical fields, all too often publishers simply picked more or less appropriate illustrations from earlier works. Technical drawing never became a specialised skill, let alone a critical discipline, in China—and this, as Peter Golas argues, was a definite impediment to technological creativity. The social history of print culture in China followed a different path from Europe. 96 The earliest uses of printing in China were largely popular and religious, and it was only after a couple of centuries that the medium’s potential for scholarship was realised. In the tenth century several Buddhist and Daoist foundations decided to go beyond printing individual sutras and religious ephemera for distribution to their congregations, launching ambitious projects of critical scholarship. The first complete printed edition of the Tripitaka was produced between 971 and 983 in Sichuan. Other editions of the Tripitaka, and a printing of the complete Daoist corpus, followed. In the late 980s the Song state also took the plunge into print culture. The National Academy undertook a critical edition of the Confucian classics, to which was soon added a critical edition of the seventeen dynastic histories, begun in 994 and completed in 1061. As well as these milestones of orthodox scholarship, the Song state also printed all kinds of technical works that it considered would aid good government and promote the welfare of the general population. Government offices, central and local, printed and distributed dictionaries, anthologies and technical works, including treatises and technical handouts on farming and textile technology, which were circulated to local magistrates so they could develop the rural economy in their district. In 1088 the Office of Medical Administration ——— 96 The thumbnail sketch of the early history of printing that follows is based principally on Tsien (1985).
INTRODUCTION
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ordered the printing of a small-character edition of the medical classics and collected prescriptions (cheaper and more convenient than the standard large-print versions) to be sold at cost by local governments to practising physicians. The official printing offices also produced forms and documents to facilitate administration, including tax registers, census figures, maps and the legal code. The Jin, Liao and Yuan governments too made extensive and creative use of printing, for scholarly and for administrative purposes. Governments also printed documents that could be used to educate ordinary people, providing instruction both in material technologies like farming or medicine, and in moral practices like ritual and filiality (see below). From the beginning of the Song commercial and private publishing houses kept pace and competed with the official printing offices.97 By the late Song popular genres included works on ritual, farming, medicine and materia medica, treatises on geomancy and other forms of divination, collections of philosophy, poetry and biji (personal notes on miscellaneous topics), and historical studies. Works intended for a more popular readership, including household encyclopedias and illustrated fiction, started to appear in the late Song. From about 1100 on, guides to studying and pocket-sized cribs that could be smuggled into the official examinations sold like hot cakes.98 Many of the technical works were illustrated with tu99 (the illustrations in collections of fiction, as mentioned earlier, were referred to not as tu but as hua or xiang).100 One type of printed tu that apparently became common fairly early in the Song and whose popularity never ceased to grow throughout imperial times was the star-chart.101 Among other examples of Song usage of these charts, Needham cites Zheng Qiao who “advised chanting over portions of the Bu tiange on clear nights to familiarise oneself with the celestial patterns”, but “complained that the available printed star-charts were generally not to be relied upon ——— 97 Chia 2002. 98 Tsien 1985, Chia 2002. For government memorials, edicts and decrees at-
tempting to curb the abuse of such texts, see Chia (2002: 121–123). 99 See the list of subjects which Zheng Qiao records as having produced illustrated studies. As well as providing several reproductions of tu from the Song on, Lucille Chia discusses the technical production and choices of page layout for tu in the Song and in the Ming (Chia 2002: 52–62, 212, 217). 100 Bussotti, this volume. 101 Stephenson 1994. “By the Qing dynasty, the number of surviving star maps and celestial globes escalated to such a degree that it would take a separate essay to describe them in any detail” (ibid: 573).
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and hard to correct”.102 The number of Song and Yuan imprints that has survived what is almost a thousand years to the present is not surprisingly rather small. Nevertheless the texts that have survived, together with bibliographies, references, and copies or reproductions of early editions from later dynasties, provide a fair idea of what printed materials were available. Clearly printing helped circulate images of many kinds (both decorative hua and instructive tu) far more widely than before, contributing to the consolidation of an iconic repertory familiar to ordinary people as well as to the educated and travelled elite. Printed books were still too expensive for most, but multi-media visual circuits helped to popularise a number of images. Scenes depicting advanced farming methods were painted as murals on the walls of county magistratures. The scenes from the painted scrolls of the Gengzhi tu (Farming and weaving illustrated), for instance, were carved on stone tablets from which rubbings were made, and made into woodblock versions for printing. These forms of reproduction ensured their widespread diffusion.103 Another interesting multi-media pedagogical tool of the Song was the famous life-size bronze statues drilled with acupuncture points, commissioned from Wang Weiyi ׆൫ԫ, an officer of the Medical Board, in 1026 and finished the following year. The figures were designed as a teaching aid for medical students; it seems that one was placed in the Central Medical Institute (yiguanyuan ᠔ࡴೃ) and the other in a Buddhist temple at the capital. The acupunture points were covered with wax to conceal their location, and the figure was filled with water so that when the student needled the correct location drops of water would appear; furthermore “the figure was made in two halves, front and back, which could be fitted together to make one whole body”, and contained “the inner and outer viscera [which] were all complete”.104 In preparation for this stage of physical, three-dimensional learning, Wang Weiyi had compiled for the students a study book, also completed in 1027, consisting of a critical selection of written and illus——— 102 Needham and Wang 1959: 281. The Butian ge ℹ℠ (Song of the sky pacer) was a late sixth-century work by the poet Wang Ximing ⥟Ꮰᯢ that “gave a brief description of almost 300 asterisms and enumerated the stars in each”; these descriptions were verbal, not illustrated, but it was claimed that they corresponded to a third-century star map (Stephenson 1994: 532). 103 Bray, this volume. 104 Lu and Needham 1980: 131. A Ming version of the figure is shown in fig. 27, p.130.
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trated texts entitled Xinzhu tongren shuxue zhenjiu tujing ᄅᦷᎭԳ ⟿لಾ߁ቹᆖ (Illustrated classic for the use of the newly cast bronze men showing the acupuncture and moxibustion points).105 So here we have a multi-media system comprising model, tu and text, all of which were considered necessary components of the learning process. The growth and prosperity of the later Ming and high Qing supported a second dramatic expansion of the printing industry starting in the early sixteenth century. Books now reached new audiences of women, children and less privileged families, and bibliographies and publishers’ catalogues of the period indicate that new illustrated editions of earlier works sold well. Popular genres included primers, guides to the classics and to ritual, biographies of virtuous women, household encyclopedias and medical treatises. Many of these works were illustrated on the grounds that tu appealed to the semi-educated or illiterate while helping them to grasp ideas or information. But it seems that all levels of society had by now acquired an appetite for illustrated works, and in the highly competitive world of late Ming publishing editors seem often to have insisted on adding illustrations to any work that passed through their hands. Georges Métailié suggests that the set of rather rough illustrations to the first edition of the Bencao gangmu ءᖙጼ( ؾSystematic materia medica) by Li Shizhen ޕழੴ, published in 1596, was added by the publisher without consulting the author. 106 Another interesting case is that of the Lu Ban jing ᕙఄᆖ (Carpenters’ canon), a compilation of arcane craft knowledge about magical measurements, the taboos and rituals of different phases and types of construction, geomantic precepts, and a series of descriptions of how to build common items of furniture or joinery. Historians of crafts presume that this work originally served not as a how-to guide for young carpenters— who would have been trained through practical apprenticeship, not through studying books—but as an esoteric, holy text that would have been copied in manuscript and kept among the ritual paraphernalia of the carpenters’ guild. In the Jiajing era (1522–1566) an elegant illustrated woodblock edition of the Lu Ban jing was produced.107 Some ——— 105 An illustration from this work is shown ibid (fig. 28, p. 132). The work was considered so important that it was engraved on stone before 1030, and reinscribed by imperial order in 1443; ibid (133–134; 134 fig. 29) shows a section on the Song engraving. 106 Métailié, this volume; Haudricourt and Métailié 1994. See also Bussotti on the addition of images by publishers. 107 Ruitenbeek 1993.
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of the tu, for example those depicting talismans, charms and spells, probably came from the original versions of the text; others, for instance the pictures of items of furniture shown in typical domestic settings, were probably newly drawn; the geomantic diagrams appear to have been borrowed from illustrated encylopedias. The publisher of the Jiajing edition is less likely to have intended it for a readership of carpenters than for wealthy people who routinely employed carpenters for building work.108 It would also have catered for a general interest among the leisured class of the period in how everyday objects were made. Craig Clunas has argued that the illustrated technical descriptions of the Tiangong kaiwu ֚ՠၲढ (Exploitation of the works of nature) by Song Yingxing ݚᚨਣ, first published in 1637, were likewise intended for entertainment rather than for practical instruction.109 Neither Peter Golas nor Donald Wagner would agree that this was Song Yingxing’s intention in writing Tiangong kaiwu, but we cannot presume that the publisher shared Song’s seriousness of purpose. As Wagner points out, the discrepancies between text and image in certain passages suggest that while some of the illustrations may have been drawn specifically to Song’s specifications, in others the publisher may have supplied a picture without reference to the written text. One interesting and unusual feature of the Tiangong kaiwu is that its illustrations, whatever their quality, were new, not reworked versions of earlier tu. But even borrowed tu could be assembled to new effect, as in Wang Qi’s ݆׆encyclopedia Sancai tuhui Կթቹᄎ (Illustrated compendium of the Three Powers) of 1609, one of the fullest collections of tu ever assembled (see below). Another great illustrated project of the period, still more ambitious in scope, was the Gujin tushu jicheng ײվቹႃ( ګComplete collection of graphics and texts, ancient and modern), commissioned by the Kangxi emperor in 1701 but only completed and printed under his successor, the Yongzheng emperor, in 1725. This colossal enterprise, which ran to some 800,000 pages, was printed in movable copper type, and the illustrations were all new versions rather than direct copies of the original prototypes. 110 Unfortunately no research has ——— 108 It was most important for a client not to antagonise the carpenters when they were building, and to have some knowledge of the construction process, for disgruntled carpenters could easily ruin the family fortunes by secreting unlucky objects or signs on ritually important parts of the house like the rafters. 109 Clunas 1997a. 110 Ledderose 2000: 140 ff.
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been carried out specifically on the production of these tu, but we shall offer a few remarks on their qualities below. As the population and the economy expanded through the late Ming and Qing dynasties, the challenges of political control and effective administration grew. It is in the field of statecraft and administration that many of the most interesting innovations in late imperial tu occurred. Two scientific domains closely associated with statecraft were mathematical astronomy and water conservancy, both of which as Cordell Yee notes can be considered established disciplines in late imperial China, “following Stephen Toulmin’s two-tiered definition of an intellectual discipline as having a well-defined subject matter and an explanatory (or procedural) idea”.111 The science and politics of astronomy in late imperial China is a subject that has commanded sustained attention. From the perspective of tu, Stephenson provides a concise survey and evaluation of the star maps produced by the imperial bureau of astronomy, and discusses the impact of Jesuit uranography at the end of the Ming and into the Qing.112 The role of tu in state hydraulics was equally important but has so far attracted rather little specific attention. The management of such vast rivers as the Yangzi and the Yellow River generated a long tradition of official documentation, research and public works. Hydraulic policies and large-scale public works dated back to pre-Imperial times. During the Ming the tax grain transported along the Grand Canal from the rice regions of the south to the capital in Beijing was the lifeblood of the empire, but the steady silting of the Yellow River endangered the Qingkou intersection where the Canal crossed it, and by the second half of the sixteenth century it was clear that a still vaster and more comprehensive system of water management was required than the existing system of dykes and flood basins. Pan Jixun ᑰࡱ (1521–1595) was first appointed as river commissioner in 1565 and “is credited with establishing the paradigm of hydraulic management that would dominate Yellow River engineering for the next three centuries”.113 Using a multimedia approach that included detailed maps at different scales as well as historical data on floods and public works, and a survey of previous memorials, ——— 111 Yee 1994: 96, n.2. 112 Stephenson 1994: esp. 540–555 and 568–578. 113 Dodgen 2001: 18. Dodgen traces the history of the specialised bureaucracy in
charge of managing the Yellow River from the Ming dynasty through to the midnineteenth century.
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edicts and policies, Pan attempted to grasp the complex hydraulic principles at work in order to “craft a system in which the force of the river was harnessed to do the work of man”.114 The preface to the Siku quanshu edition of Pan’s study, the Hefang yilan ࣾԫᥦ (General view of the control of the Yellow River, prefaced 1590), comments that “although changes in methods were afterwards necessary to fit changing circumstances, yet experts in river control always take this book as a standard guide”. 115 Pan’s use of sophisticated maps and charts has seldom been the focus of analysis in the various studies that refer to his work, except for a recent paper by Amelung.116 Clearly they would merit further study given the impressive impact of Pan’s technical analysis.117 Other notable statecraft trends in the production of tu in late imperial China include the elaboration of new charts and tables designed to improve administrative precision or to increase expert command over large and unwieldy bodies of information and procedure (discussed below in Typology). A salient trend in the official use of tu during the Qing dynasty was the production of symbolic representations of the dynasty’s authority to rule. As foreign rulers the Manchu emperors were especially anxious to show themselves to be good Confucians and ardent supports of the Chinese moral and ritual order. Among the tu they deployed to reinforce their image as wise rulers committed to the welfare of the common people were four new versions of the Gengzhi tu ౙ៣ቹ (Ploughing and weaving illustrated), a set of scenes of rural labour first composed by a Song magistrate, Lou Chou ᑔ㙭, in the 1130s. The images of the Gengzhi tu were as much invocations of a harmonious and productive social order as depictions ——— 114 Ibid. 115 Ibid: 20. The Siku quanshu was compiled between 1773 and 1782. 116 E.g. most recently Vermeer (1987), Yee (1994: 131–134), Dodgen (2001 pas-
sim), Elvin (2004: 137 ff.), Yee (1994: 98–99, Figure 5.2 reproduces portions of Pan Jixun’s charts in Hefang yilan). Amelung (2000) pays explicit attention to the role of maps in hydraulic management and policy. 117 My thanks are due to Ramon Guardans for his insights into Pan’s methods of analysis and conceptualisation of dynamic processes. One key long-term failing of Pan’s system, as Dodgen remarks, was that “as the state arrogated to itself more and more complex technical tasks, it failed to anticipate the fiscal or bureaucratic consequences. A weak tax system and an ad hoc approach to technical training proved inadequate to the job of financing, managing, and maintaining the Yellow River system”; Dodgen (2001: 22). Elvin adds ecological considerations, and notes that “the mass mobilization of unpaid labor was not feasible under the Qing to the same degree as it had been in previous dynasties” (Elvin 2004: 123).
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of advanced technology.118 Other tu that served to reinforce the symbolic authority of the regime included the elaborate ceremonial plans for the reception of foreign visitors or tributaries to the Qing court, and these in turn are closely connected to the symbolically powerful liturgical tu that prescribed the annual cycle of court rituals.119 The boundaries of the Chinese empire were greatly extended by the military and diplomatic campaigns of the early Qing emperors, who also put great effort into drawing all the non-Chinese inhabitants of far corners or remote enclaves of the empire into the imperial fold. Maps were important symbolic as well as military and administrative tools in these campaigns. 120 The government also commissioned compilations of illustrated descriptions of aboriginal, non-Han populations, for instance the “Miao albums” or “Illustrations of the hundred Miao tribes” (baimiao tu ્ۍቹ). Historians like Hostetler have identified such projects as part of a colonial enterprise. Unlike earlier travellers’ tales of exotic and monstrous beings these albums, Hostetler argues, consisted of accurate verbal and visual ethnographic observations of the kind that would assist an administrator in governing such a population.121 At the end of the Ming and in the early Qing the Jesuits had introduced the knowledge and equipment used to produce maps in Europe (mathematics and astronomy; sextants, quadrants and theodolites). But as Iwo Amelung notes, whereas the impact on Qing mathematics and astronomy was profound, the impact on Chinese cartographic practices was negligeable. It seems that Chinese cartographers misunderstood the principles of such key features of Western cartography as the meridian-based grid, and in fact a mid-sixteenth century atlas, Luo Hongxian’s ᢅੋ٣ Guangyu tu ᐖᝨቹ (Enlarged terrestrial atlas, completed ca. 1555) “was reprinted almost unchanged as late as 1799, and probably was the most popular map available in China up to this time”.122 Only with the shock of the first Opium War of 1839–1842 did Qing rulers, officials and intellectuals eventually feel the urgency of acquiring maps which possessed the same powers as the maps of the colonialist Western nations who threatened to overwhelm them; only in the 1880s was a systematic national survey ——— 118 119 120 121 122
Bray, this volume. Hevia 1995, Bastid-Bruguière 1996. Hostetler 2001, Smith 2001. Ibid. Amelung, this volume: _p. 688.
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using Western methods initiated. Amelung discusses the resources mobilised for the ambitious large-scale surveys of the 1880s and 1890s, and the benefits Chinese officials hoped to reap from “modern” maps, as part of the often reluctant drive towards transforming China into a modern nation.
TU: A TYPOLOGY AND SOME DEBATES The attention of Chinese thinkers focused essentially on two distinct types of tu, those which revealed or explained cosmic processes and were thus endowed with symbolic or ritual power; and those which represented or organised secular information or knowledge, whose power was by and large didactic. Although Chinese discussions of tu seldom formulated or even acknowledged the differences between them, it is usually immediately apparent which type of tu is at issue. Broadly speaking, Section I of this book, The power of order: tu as symbolic mediation, addresses the first category of tu; the cases discussed include several instances where a complex structuring of written words was in itself the tu. Section II, Picturing reality? Tu as technical illustrations, discusses the second category. As we have seen, tu of both kinds were subjects of reflection in the literature of the late Warring States and Han. Philosophical texts discussed powerful primal images like the Mingtang and the Hetu, and historical records or discussions of statecraft indicated that tushu, “maps and records”, were considered essential tools of government. The popularisation of woodblock printing stimulated a new surge of reflection, among Song and later intellectuals, on how tu of different types functioned. The intellectual impact of printing on the Song literati elite was dramatic. With the routinisation of printing “changes in the ways of learning, remembering, reading and writing and in the ways that text could be collated in a stabilized and easily replicable form began to affect all areas of learning”.123 Among the new cognitive and communicative possibilities that interested Song literati were the contributions that tu could make to scholarship and to the diffusion of knowledge. They were especially interested in the balance of power between tu and verbal expression. ——— 123 Chia 2002: 8.
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The relation between tu and text was an ancient and enduring debate in Chinese philosophy. The Xici zhuan ᢀႚ (Commentary on the attached verbalizations), the early Han commentary on the archaic document known as the Yijing ࣐ᆖ (Book of Changes), attributes to Confucius the following views on the importance of the graphic image in conveying complex knowledge: The master said: [It is well known that] writing does not bring out exhaustively what is said, and what is said does not bring out exhaustively what is thought. That being so, is it the case that the thinking of the sages [which the Changes supposedly represents to us] cannot be [fully] perceived? The master said [in response to this question]: Sages set up figures (xiang ွ) [rather than rely on words] in order to bring out exhaustively what is thought. They set out hexagrams (gua ࠳) in order to bring out exhaustively the actual circumstances and the false.124
The graphic conventions of the figures and hexagrams in the Book of Changes constituted a system of metaphysical notation (supposedly invented by the ancient sages) that elegantly codified the forces and dynamics of cosmic change and their translation into human emotions and actions.125 These cosmic principles were matters so complex that words alone were inadequate to encompass them126—yet the diagrams themselves would elude human interpretation without the sagely verbal counsel that was paired with them.127 The daoxue ሐᖂ or neo-Confucian philosophers of the Song were especially interested in revealed tu. These included the trigrams and hexagrams of the Changes, and indeed the very structure of the Book of Changes which, as Lackner notes, they considered to be the quintessential tu. Wang Bo ׆ড (1197–1274) echoed the Xici zhuan: “the meaning(fullness) of one single tu can not be exhausted by millions of words”.128 Whether or not through divine revelation, the daoxue philosophers contributed a number of new and highly influential cosmograms to the repertory: Zhou Dunyi ࡌཉᙲ (1017–1073) built his ——— 124 Peterson 1982: 98–99. The Xici zhuan was traditionally attributed to Confucius, but is now dated to the early Han dynasty (third or second century BC); ibid: 69 ff. 125 Ibid: 95. 126 In his Preface to his commentaries, illustrated with diagrams, on the mathematical classic Jiuzhang suanshu, Liu Hui quotes the Xici zhuan; Volkov, this volume. 127 Ibid: 94, “The third claim”. 128 Lackner, this volume: p. 345.
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metaphysics around the “diagram of the supreme ultimate” (taiji tu ֜ ᄕቹ), an image which he created under divine inspiration. Shao Yong ३ሸ (1011–1077) was the first to render into graphics another primal image, the “River diagram” (hetu ࣾቹ), in the form in which it has come down to us today.129 Zhu Xi ڹᗋ (1130–1200) made copious use of exegetical diagrams in his expoundings of the Confucian canonical texts. As Lackner demonstrates in his paper, these diagrams were not considered to be illustrations supporting a verbal argument—rather, they were themselves the argument, and indeed they could stand alone without verbal explanation. An analytical tu could constitute an explanation, shuo ᎅ, in itself.130 Here we observe an analogy with Sima Qian’s biao, designed to structure understanding in such a way as to convey a moral or political message at no point made explicit in the accompanying text, and with the processual diagrams devised by Liu Hui as a form of mathematical explanation. The daoxue philosophers of the Song were principally concerned with two sub-sets of what we might call “transformative” tu. The first set consisted of primal forms that were at the origins of the cosmos, images of fundamental dynamisms revealed to humans and translated into diagrams. The second were exegetical devices, configurations of script or graphics patterned in such a way as to elucidate ancient wisdom; through their very form they expounded cosmograms or canonical works, or important insights into processes of cognition or of knowledge formation. Lackner notes that many of these exegetical diagrams were stemmatic in form, similar to the genealogical charts which starting in the Song became increasingly popular as claims to social status. In both cases the tu consisted essentially of abstract orderings of space/time. The person who engaged with the tu followed the transformative trajectory laid down by the patterning of the tu, which was intended to reflect the fundamental patterning of the cosmos or of certain forms of wisdom. (Röllicke and Lackner discuss the Buddhist and Daoist contributions to the formation of this epistemological-ontogenetic tradition.) In following these paths, the observer was transformed (acquiring knowledge and/or understanding, conforming with the natural flows of the cosmos), or effected a cos——— 129 Clunas (1997: 107, and 106–108) more generally on late imperial imagings of he tu. Ibid: 30, fig. 5 shows a Ming version of 1599. 130 A concrete example of a tu that is in itself a shuo is the geomantic compass, which first gained currency during the Song. The compass is a cosmograph that translates a landscape and plots it in terms of a formal cosmic grid; Henderson (1994: 217).
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mic transformation (as in the drawing of talismans, or the performance of Daoist rituals such as the “steps of Yu”).131 The acquisition of knowledge and of the capacity to put that knowledge into action was conceived as a spatial and temporal experience folded into the tu. Yet although they played a considerable role in the formation of Song thought, it seems the daoxue philosophers did not theorise about how the tu which they used so creatively should be constructed.132 As shown in the previous section, transformative tu have a pedigree that stretches back into high antiquity.133 The earliest examples of cosmograms included talismans and charms,134 as well as divination materials 135 and hemerological tu. 136 The charms, talismans, spells and astrological charts from this tradition of tu have continued in popular use right through to the present day. As just mentioned, the more elevated and intellectual forms of cosmogram were the object of intense debate during the Song dynasty, and as the Song philosophers developed their repertoire of metaphysical diagrams they made strenuous efforts to purge them of magical connotations. Although they never rose to quite such philosophical prominence again, intellectuals continued to work with these metaphysical cosmograms right through late imperial times—often as an alternative perspective that co-existed in their world-view with new cosmologies adopted (and adapted) from the West. As Richard Smith notes: Recent research, including my own on the Yijing (Classic of Changes), has shown that support of Jesuit mathematics, science and technology by scholars of “evidential research” did not necessarily undermine inherited assumptions about cosmology and cosmography. Kaozheng-oriented individuals such as Jiang Yong (1681–1762), for example, might enthusiastically endorse “Western learning,” yet cling tenaciously to the old correlative cosmology, including explanatory devices such as the Hetu (River Chart) and Luoshu (Luo Writing).137
As well as cosmograms and exegetical diagrams, more straightforwardly representational, illustrative tu also had an important epistemological role to play in the philosophical projects of the Song ——— 131 On the “steps of Yu” see Harper n.39. 132 Lackner, this volume. See also Clunas (1997: 105), on this tradition of phi-
losophical tu and its Ming exponents. 133 Dorofeeva-Lichtmann, Wu Hung, this volume. 134 Harper, this volume. 135 Venture, Behr, this volume. 136 Kalinowski, this volume. 137 Smith 2001: 12 and 1998: passim.
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daoxue philosophers. Illustrative tu played a key role in the project of gewu ढ, the investigation of phenomena (ranging from plants to history) which paved the way to understanding the fundamental principles that directed Heaven, Earth and Man. Tu also figured in classical studies which aimed to recover the true forms and meanings of the foundational canonical works. In both domains, an important step towards understanding was the correct pairing of “name and referent”, mingwu ټढ.138 Tu were considered to contribute to a full understanding of all the classics, but were particularly important as exegetical devices for those which discussed rank and ritual, namely the Zhouli ࡌ៖ (Zhou rituals) and the Liji ៖ಖ (Record of rituals). Here images helped recreate the embodied understanding and emotions imparted through the correct practice of liturgies and the manipulation of ritual paraphernalia. Sometimes the reconstructions were technological in nature. In about 1235 Lin Xiyi ࣥݦၝ completed a study of the Kaogong ji ەՠಖ (Records on investigating crafts) section of the Zhouli, an ancient work which provided rather cryptic textual descriptions of the construction of carriages, tools, vessels and other artefacts supposedly used at the Zhou court. His study, entitled Kaogong ji jie ەՠಖᇞ (Kaogong ji explained), included drawings to accompany every scholarly explanation.139 Tu were also needed to provide accurate representations of the natural species mentioned in the Shijing ᇣᆖ (Book of poetry), to bring to life important historical episodes, and—in a somewhat different approach to recapturing the past—in antiquarian studies which catalogued collections of ancient bronzes and other treasures.140 In works of this type the philological explanation of each archaic term was usually directly paired with an illustration (invariably captioned tu) of the object or phenomenon in question—in other words, these studies took the form of tupu ቹᢜ or illustrated registers.141 In a well-known essay entitled Tupu lüe ቹᢜฃ (A brief account of illustrated registers), completed ca. 1150, the twelth-century histo——— 138 Elman 2002. 139 The great scholar Dai Zhen ᠈䳛 repeated this exercise, in the light of subse-
quent archaeological and antiquarian discoveries, in his Kaogong ji tu 㗗Ꮉ㿬೪ (Illustrated Kaogong ji) of 1746, and in ca. 1805 Cheng Yaotian ⨸⬄ produced a further illustrated study entitled Kaogong ji chuangwu xiaoji 㗗Ꮉ㿬ࡉ⠽ᇣ㿬 (Brief notes on the manufacture of the objects in the Kaogong ji). 140 Chia 2002: Appendix A lists examples of illustrated studies of the classics. Bussotti, this volume, discusses illustrated catalogues of antiques. 141 For two fine examples of Song tupu-type entries to studies of the classics, see Chia 2002: 54, Fig. 9 Part I.
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rian and philosopher Zheng Qiao ᔤᖱ (1104–1162) penned an eloquent rationale of tupu as the only truly effective way to transmit any form of technical skills or knowledge.142 As quoted at the beginning of this Introduction, Zheng Qiao begins the Tupu lüe with an analysis of the respective roles of text and image in conveying knowledge.To suggest their respective roles he proposes an analogy: “the images (tu ቹ) are the warp threads (jing ᆖ) and the written words (shu ) are the weft (wei ᒮ)”.143 Obviously warp and weft are both indispensable to the structure of cloth. But since the warp threads are the long, strong threads that run longitudinally through a fabric giving it shape and strength, Zheng is suggesting here that images play the primary role in framing understanding, while the written text plays an epistemological role similar to that of the weft thread, weaving back and forth through the warp threads to form the detailed patterns of the cloth. The jing-wei terminology also invokes the cognitively hierarchical relationship between a canonical text and the commentaries or apocrypha written later to elucidate it. 144 The jing-wei relationship also included spatial networks, as in the Zhouli, where jing is used to refer to the principal north-south routes of the capital city and wei denotes the secondary east-west routes that crossed them, completing a grid of location and communications.145 Jing precedes and frames wei, and while wei varies over time, jing cannot be changed. Zheng Qiao’s jing-wei contrast146 thus implies that while images and words work together to convey the full range of meaning, it is the image which is prior, and which establishes the fundamental matrix of understanding—an interpretation fully in accord with the tu-practices of other daoxue philosophers of the Song. Zheng Qiao’s essay discusses the interweaving of tu and text in the form of tupu—registers where each item within a category is described by an illustrative graphic image, tu, paired with a written ex——— 142 Zheng Qiao was fascinated by issues of categorisation and the effective arrangement of knowledge; his most influential work was the Tongzhi 䗮ᖫ (Comprehensive treatises) encyclopedia, which included the Tupu lüe as well as a treatise on bibliography proposing a novel twelve-division classification of knowledge. Zheng also wrote a monograph on the six rules of formation of written characters, and a fivevolume recensus of earlier materia medica, the Caomu wailei 㤝串 (Alternative classification of plants, completed ca. 1161), intended to correct the confusions that had arisen in earlier Song compilations. 143 Tongzhi j. 71/837a. 144 Lackner, this volume. 145 Dorofeeva-Lichtmann, this volume. 146 For more details on how Zheng elaborated the distinctions see Lackner’s contribution.
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planation, shu or shuo.147 Zheng Qiao lists sixteen technical fields in which tupu are essential for conveying the embodied, practical skills essential for the passage from study to action: such skills include building houses; casting ritual vessels; discerning between primary and secondary effects when setting the levels of taxes; and grasping the significance of the topography laid out in a map. Without tu, declares Zheng Qiao, practical or concrete knowledge (shixue ኔᖂ) degenerates into empy words.148 Despite Zheng Qiao’s ritual lament that attitudes towards tu had degenerated since the Han he was able to list a number of contemporary tupu in his bibliography, for as we have just mentioned illustrations of this representational kind played a central role in Song daoxue scholarship, as they did in statecraft. Tupu continued to be a popular format for technical works through the Yuan, Ming and Qing. Perhaps one of the finest examples of the tupu as applied in the field of technology is the Nongqi tupu (Illustrated register of farming tools) which forms the centrepiece of the Nongshu (Agricultural treatise) completed by the agronomist Wang Zhen in 1313.149 Another notable enterprise intellectual organised in tupu form is Wang Qi’s encyclopedia Sancai tuhui (Illustrated compendium of the Three Powers) of 1609, an ambitious attempt to cover all human knowledge, organised under the three general rubrics of Heaven, Earth and Man (see below). Most of the tu which Zheng Qiao argued were necessary to convey practical or concrete knowledge fall into a different epistemological category from the symbolic diagrams discussed in Part I of this collection. The tu which form the focus of Part II, Picturing reality? Tu as technical illustrations, are mostly representational (if not necessarily “realistic” in the modern Western sense): depictions of the human body and its functions, of territory, of plants or of machinery. Although the representations are (as any representation must be) selective, they consist of a sort of point to point imaging—an illustration in other words—of a concrete object or phenomenon. In his discussion of cosmograms Lackner raises Peirce’s distinction between image and diagram: an image contains many aspects of the signified in the signifier, a diagram is restricted to selected structural aspects of ——— 147 Zheng Qiao uses shu, written text, but other writers use shuo, explanation; see for instance Lackner, Bray, this volume. 148 837c. Ironically Zheng Qiao makes his argument entirely in linear text. 149 Bray, this volume.
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the signified. In this respect many of the tu in our second category are in fact hybrids, containing both structural and non-structural, material and moral elements. More to the point, perhaps, unlike the transformative tu, the tu in this second broad category were not designed to draw viewers into the image and so to guide them along an ordered trajectory through space and time. They were technical devices whose perusal, in conjunction with a textual explanation, was intended to provide the basis for action on the world, rather than constituting a transformative process in itself. With these representational tu the observer remains outside the image and comprehension can be achieved in a more flexible fashion: understanding emerges as the eye roves back and forth freely over the image, or between the image and the explanatory text. With this kind of tu it is sometimes difficult to say where “technical” or “functional” illustration ends and “decorative” illustration begins; as already mentioned, the same image may fall into one category or another depending on context.150 At the same time there is also considerable scope for abstraction within this category. We might mention the simplification into visual tropes of certain botanical types;151 the highly stylised renderings of acupuncture channels152 or of coroners’ charts;153 and the radically different conventions in the maps produced for merchants, sailors, land-owners or magistrates. 154 The level of abstraction reaches its limit in such graphic images as mathematical diagrams155 or administrative charts and tables.156 One could certainly make the case that these last two forms of tu, since they involve guiding the mind through the ordering of space, fit better in the category of tu addressed in the first section of the book. But as objective representations designed to facilitate direct action in or on the world, we feel they belong, or evolved to belong, in the second half with the more clearly “illustrative” tu.157 Technical tu in the representational category are also very ancient; ——— 150 See for example the papers by Bussotti, Métailié, and Bray. Of course our first class of tu was not immune to such transformations: cosmograms like the hexagrams or the TLV diagram were frequently used as decorative motifs. 151 Bussotti, Métailié, this volume. 152 Kuriyama 1999. 153 Despeux, this volume; see also Hegel (2002). 154 Brook 1994; Clunas 1996; and Amelung, this volume. 155 Volkov, this volume. 156 Will 2003. 157 The texts and tu of geomancy, or siting, which is so clearly a form of applied cosmology, form a similarly ambivalent or mixed category.
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early examples include the “Guiding and pulling chart” and the lacquer figurine, both from the early Han dynasty, discussed by Vivienne Lo. But although written texts of the period have been discovered that provide context for interpreting the figurine and the images in the chart, in neither of these cases are the representations named as tu or paired with any written explanation.158 In the domain of agriculture we also find that early texts make no reference to any kind of table or illustration, although they were written at a period when figurines and murals depicting farm tools and activities abounded. Only in the Song dynasty do we find the first pairings of text and image, in other words the first appearance of agricultural illustration.159 Similarly, the original text of the Jiuzhang suanshu ີጩ (Nine chapters on mathematical procedures, a work compiled in the first century AD on the basis of earlier mathematical writings) “does not refer anywhere to figures or to other forms of visualisation. The first references to visual aids in ancient Chinese mathematics are found in the [third-century AD] commentaries to the Classics, as if figures etc. were linked to the activity of exegesis”. 160 The early mathematical commentators refer to two- and three-dimensional figures in their explanations of mathematical procedures and Volkov argues that Liu Hui’s written commentaries on the Jiuzhang suanshu were accompanied by a separate work, containing a corresponding series of coloured diagrams illustrating the various procedures, shu , by which each problem could be solved. The processes of spatial transformation that underpinned such operations as “mending the void with the excess”, yi ying bu xu אઆᇖဠ, highlight fundamental differences between the theoretical premises of axiomatic mathematical traditions like the Euclidian, and non-axiomatic traditions like the Chinese. Volkov suggests that it was only in the early Song, with the advent of woodblock printing as a readily available format for the inscription and circulation of technical works, that diagrams and figures began to be inserted into the mathematical texts themselves. However this should probably not be seen as a simple translation of existing practices into a new medium. Volkov argues for a radical ——— 158 The images in the “Chart” are labelled, very simply, with the names of the positions they represent, but textual explanations of the positions have to be sought in separate documents (Lo, this volume). 159 Bray, this volume. 160 Chemla 2004: 34.
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epistemological break between the use of figures in the early mathematical works and in works dating from the Song and later. The earlier “conceptual diagrams” constituted a form of demonstration in themselves, featuring the interrelationship between geometric and algorithmic-algebraic features of the objects under consideration; but starting in the Song many mathematicians began to use diagrams simply as illustrations of geometrical objects. We might say that by and large, some time after the Tang, mathematical tu shifted from our first category of transformative, exegetical tu to our second category of representational tu. Representational tu certainly predate the Song, but they came to real prominence during that era thanks to the popularisation of woodblock printing.161 Because the state had adopted printing as one of its key tools of government, many new tu of this type were developed for statecraft purposes. Sometimes tu and text were intended to communicate knowledge between experts or to help professional training: examples include officially produced administrative maps; the paintings of plants and other materia medica commissioned by the emperor as a central resource for medical practitioners throughout the realm;162 the modular architectural drawings of the Yingzao fashi ᛜ ທऄ( ڤNorms and models for building) which served as a handbook for managers of official construction sites ranging from palaces to stables around the empire;163 the illustrated acupuncture manual and bronze figures designed by Wang Weiyi; 164 the maps, sketches of equipment and extraction processes, and taxation tables developed for the administration of the salt industry (a government monopoly);165 and the technical drawings of farming tools in Wang Zhen’s ׆ᄙ Nongshu ል (Agricultural treatise).166. Another dimension of statecraft which first came to prominence during the Song was the use of tu for popular pedagogy. The kings and emperors of the Warring ——— 161 Lucille Chia notes that tu were very common in Buddhist printed works dating back to the Tang; however it is difficult to assess how prevalent tu might have been in non-Buddhist imprints pre-Song because so few have survived (Chia 2002: 337, n.89). 162 Unschuld 1986: 53 ff. 163 Compiled by Li Jie ᴢ䁵 (1035–1110). In 1097 Li, who was serving in the Department of Construction, was ordered to re-edit an earlier manual of building standards. He presented the Yingzao fashi, in 34 chapters, to the emperor in 1103. The work has survived in a revised printed edition of 1145. See Ledderose 2000: 132 ff; also Chen Mingda 1981, Glahn 1984, Guo 1995. 164 Lu and Needham 1980: 131. 165 Vogel 1999 and forthcoming. 166 Bray, this volume; Wang Zhen’s treatise was completed in 1313.
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States and Han used cosmograms as the visual symbols of their claims to power. Late imperial ruling elites devised a new range of representational tu for pedagogical purposes, demonstrating their moral worth by educating the common people. When the daoxue philosophers declared that tu conveyed profound levels of understanding that went beyond words, they were by and large treating tu as a form of communication between fellow intellectuals. Only men of learning would be able to profit from the sophisticated cosmograms of Zhou Dunyi and his colleagues. The same was true of the mandala texts analysed by Röllicke, whose wisdom was only available to Buddhists who were highly literate and educated. But tu, frequently of the representational type, were also widely used to convey knowledge and understanding to the uneducated, whether illiterate or semi-literate; here the rationale was that tu conveyed the essentials, yao , simply and accessibly. Among the earliest printed tu were Buddhist images that were distributed to general congregations. But starting in the Song we see the educated elite making systematic use of tu, considered to be an effective means for transmitting secular knowledge to ordinary people, along with other media that were considered to be pedagogically effective such as simple verse. Illustrative tu were enthusiastically adopted by late imperial statesmen and rulers as a tool of governance and pedagogy. Print and other media combined in such endeavours. Improving or inspiring scenes were sometimes painted on the walls of palaces or magistrates’ courts. Along with simple texts or adaptations into easily memorised forms like ballads, tu were used to popularise what the state believed were essential forms of knowledge for the common people: herbal prescriptions for common complaints, improved farming methods, moral principles and the essentials of ritual. Representational tu also served the pedagogical purposes of the daoxue philosophers. One example is the Jiali ୮៖ (Family rituals), compiled by Zhu Xi ca. 1169. This handbook was intended as an accessible liturgical handbook for ordinary families that would encourage the widespread adoption of orthodox ritual practices and values. It is not certain that the earliest versions were illustrated, but the work soon became immensely popular (not least because it quickly received imperial endorsement), and tu depicting key ritual layouts are a crucial element of some of the earliest surviving printed editions.167 ——— 167 Ebrey 1991.
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With the second print revolution of the sixteenth century it became common for publishers to include illustrations in almost every work. Yet, notes Craig Clunas, “when one looks at the titles of Ming books [it is noticeable] how rarely, rather than how often, the presence of illustration is signalled in the work’s title”. Of the nearly 10,000 works listed in a recent bibliography of Ming editions, Clunas calculates that just over seventy fall into the category of tujie ቹᇞ or tushuo ቹᎅ (illustrated explanations), while another 120 or so are works of illustrated (xiang ቝ) drama or fiction.168 Tu were everywhere by the mid-Ming, but nobody was paying much attention. Did people now just take tu for granted, or had the terms of reference shifted with the ubiquity of images, creating what Clunas calls a crisis of representation? Despite the respect paid to earlier philosophical debates that had placed tu at the centre of understanding, as Lucille Chia notes, in most late imperial imprints tu were very definitely considered secondary to the text by the authors, publishers, woodblock designers and carvers who produced printed works. By the mid-Ming, when it seems that almost every work that was printed contained illustrations, most literati believed that the real meaning of a book lay in the words. Chia argues that this view had considerable impact on the design of many tu: “the simpler and more schematic certain tu were, the more efficiently they served to clarify the text”.169 At the same time, although the text was considered primary by the producers of books, it was certainly not uncommon for the consumers of books to look at (or “read”) images or diagrams in preference to the text.170 In the case of popular dramas, histories or morality works, the books “were not only read privately by individuals but also read aloud to a listening audience to whom the pictures [usually mediocre to crude images drawn from a stock repertoire] would be shown. In addition, the caption placed on either side of the illustration was often a catchy couplet that would be recited aloud and memorized”.171 In the case of fiction Chia surmises that the illustrations may often have “served as visual distraction, in the sense of both entertainment and relief from the often hard to read text below”, whereas in technical publications such as “physiognomy works, medical works, and household ency——— 168 169 170 171
Clunas 1997: 34. Chia 2002: 61; see also Clunas 1997: 33 ff. Chia 2002: 61. Ibid: 242.
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clopedias, the pictures not only illustrate the text but also can function somewhat independently as pictorial references for a “reader” who dispenses with the text because the person is illiterate or because the image (possibly with captions) supplies adequate information”.172 Tu could also help readers find their way around a work, or they could serve as mnemonics, for instance in reading primers, where individual words were paired with illustrations of the objects to which they referred. The intellectual debates about the nature and powers of tu during the Song had made no attempt to distinguish between different types of tu: for the daoxue philosophers the crucial contrast was between tu and written, linear text. But during the Ming and into the Qing we see different contrasts coming to the fore. The famous sixteenth-century cartographer Luo Hongxian ᢅੋ٣ (1504–1564) drew an interesting distinction between the epistemological bases of the two different types of tu that we have just proposed. Some tu including maps, Luo said, had to be based on measurement, so that they could serve as an accurate guide to official action. But other tu, for instance acupuncture charts or the Daoyin tu ሐ ֧ቹ, “Guiding and Pulling Chart”, that Luo included in a manual that he wrote on preserving health (weisheng ᓡ)س, conveyed a reality that could not be measured. What was important in acupuncture charts was to indicate the relative positions of the needling points. In the Daoyin tu the main function of the tu was to provide a metaphoric vision of an immortal in a perfect state of health to which the practitioner could aspire.173 Luo classified the Daoyin tu in his manual as revealed tu, like the Taiji tu: he received them from an immortal whom he had encountered on his travels.174 The epistemological distinction that Luo proposes corresponds rather neatly to a broader division of elite knowledge and its visual applications, already apparent in the different types and functions of tu being produced in the Song or even further back in the Warring States and Han, namely the distinction between statecraft skills applied to government or public service, and the scholarly or private practices of self-cultivation. The two projects were theoretically ——— 172 Ibid: 207. 173 This is the same mode of operation that Lo hypothesises for the Han daoyin
tu that she discusses. 174 Rogaski 1999, cited Vogel, forthcoming. Luo Hongxian wrote a manual called Weisheng zhenjue: xian chuan sishijiu fang (True formulas for guarding life: forty-nine prescriptions transmitted by an immortal).
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complementary, for good government was considered to be rooted in the personal virtue of members of the literati class from whom public servants were recruited, while educating the common people in orthodox values was one of the first duties of a wise and responsible ruler. Zhu Xi’s “Family rituals” were initially intended for private use, as a manual that families of reasonable means could use to ensure that their daily behaviour and ceremonies adhered to orthodox Confucian practice. The founding emperor of the Ming used the “Family rituals” as a tool of governance, declaring that all families, however humble, must conform to its prescriptions for the conduct of marriage ceremonies. Tu depicting templates for the correct ritual design of domestic space played an important role in diffusing orthodox values through every level of society during the late imperial period.175 The private techniques of self-cultivation were also a preparation for public office. They ranged from the study of philosophy and the classics to the practice of medicine (considered a duty for filial sons and responsible patriarchs), and of exercises to maintain health and prolong life and mental acuity. From there to the cultivation of leisure and refinement was but a step. During the late Ming tu and texts that served projects of self-cultivation, refinement and leisure proliferated. For example in 1591 the Hangzhou merchant and connoisseur Gao Lian ᖷ published Zunsheng bajian ᙅسԶጧ (Eight discourses on the art of living), a compilation which included advice on reading, collecting and art appreciation, along with illustrated sections listing the furnishings and appurtenances of a refined life and demonstrating several types of weisheng technique. Although some of the tu were probably adapted from earlier publications, some appear to have been designed or at any rate directly commissioned by Gao Lian himself, including for example his various ingenious inventions for picnics, notably a cunning multi-tiered basket for keeping wine warm, the description and tushi ቹ( ڤdesign, blueprint) of which were later incorporated into the section on “useful objects”, qiyong ᕴش, in the Sancai tuhui, published only a few years later in 1609.176 Another good example of tu used in the service of leisure and refinement is the illustrated collection Xinshang bian ࣲ ᓾᒳ (For pleasure), a compilation by Shen Jin ާ੍, completed in 1511 and reprinted several times, including a popular expanded version printed ——— 175 Bray 1997, ch.3. 176 Zunsheng bajian 232, 233; Sancai tuhui, Qiyong 12/28, p. 1347. On Gao
Lian see for instance Clunas (1997: 118–119).
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during the Wanli era (1573–1620). Among the many works included, on topics such as the collection of antique jades, tea-drinking, luteplaying, hygienic exercises and a variety of games, was a short treatise entitled Yanji tu ᗊԷቹ (Illustrations for arranging low tables), attributed (dubiously) to the Song author Huang Bo’en ႓ ܄ (1079–1118). Michela Bussotti suggests that the Yanji tu, which contains only tu without text, could be a form of solitary mathematical game, but more probably represents another kind of game in which a host could display his social and symbolic artisty through cunning arrangements of the tables at parties. A large number of the illustrated sections in the Xinshang bian deal with games, demonstrating the importance of these “unproductive activities” in the creation of late imperial social networks.177 In the rich, dense networks of visual culture of the prosperous late Ming and Qing we also see cases of tu, originally functional or didactic depictions of technical themes, being translated into decorative motifs,178 and conversely, we see a growing snobbery about tu. During the late Ming many well-off people aspired to refinement, while members of the elite were determined to maintain their distinction. Understanding the nuances of material objects was as important in this struggle for status as it had been for the Song classical scholars striving to recapture the authentic meaning of ancient practices, hence didactic tu figured prominently in the guides to leisure activities, connoisseurship and self-cultivation of the period. It is probably no coincidence that we now see the educated elite beginning to disparage tu and to give the term new nuances. At a time when paintings and decorations of all kinds abounded, freely available to anyone who could afford the price, the appreciation of the essence of fine painting, designated by the term hua, was singled out as a sign of true aesthetic refinement. During the Song and Yuan dynasties, “realistic” styles of painting were still given serious critical consideration. By the late Ming literati painters liked it to be thought that they had abandoned representational painting in favour of nearly abstract landscapes that “portrayed impressions”. It is interesting that the terms in which a literati painter like Gong Xian ᔃ (1619–1689) chose to contrast the genres were tu, for representational paintings likely to please the vulgar, and hua for what he considered true art. Tu were ——— 177 Bussotti 2002. 178 Images from the Gengzhi tu, for example, were used to decorate vases, plates,
screens and wallpaper; see Bray, this volume.
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the work of anonymous painters who were paid for their work like any other craftsmen, while hua were the creations of well-known and revered artists, and were definitely not classed as trade goods.179 In the late Ming, then, we see contrasts being drawn between tu and hua which equate the former with representation through vulgar mimesis, the latter with evocation through refined metaphor. Hua are accessible only to the educated elite, while tu can be understood by anyone. This is a very different formulation of the tu-hua distinction from that formulated by the Tang critic Zhang Yanyuan ്৯ (fl. 847–874), in his tripartite distinction between tu, trigrams and diagrams that inscribed abstract principles, shu, written characters that conveyed cognitive values, and hua, paintings that represented visual forms. 180 It is also quite different from the tu-hua distinction proposed by Wu Hung in his study of how iconographic systems were deployed during the Han. Wu Hung contrasts tu and hua as two fundamental semiotic systems, both used to represent the universe, neither aimed at mimesis. They were complementary iconographies, each designed to reveal a different set of essential characteristics of the universe. The semiotic system of tu, embodied by the Mingtang tradition, worked through diagrams, developing an abstract cosmological vocabulary of geometric shapes, orientations, colours and numerology. It was closely associated with the imperial court of the early Han, and with the symbolic consolidation of imperial rule. The system of hua, embodied in the bas-relief sculptures of the Wu Liang family’s memorial shrine (late second century AD), used a pictorial language of figures, icons, allusions, and narratives drawn from history and mythology. This iconography was associated with the Confucian scholars and their families who became increasingly influential as critics of the centralised imperial regime during the Later Han.181 By the Ming, then, refined consumers were inclined to put a pejorative spin on tu, implying that it was a mode of visual communication inferior to high art, hua. Another equally important trend in late Ming thought, however, was concerned with tu in the more classic sense of technical images that benefited society, and with their role in statecraft. During the late Ming and Qing, as noted earlier, the chal——— 179 Clunas 1997: 184 ff. Clunas notes that even the most esteemed scholar-artists of the period received some form of compensation for most of their work, and produced works across a range of genres, some more distinguished than others. On the anonymity of tu as opposed to hua see also Vogel, forthcoming. 180 Eugene Y. Wang 1998. 181 See also Powers 1991.
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lenges of government brought statecraft concerns and the importance of shixue, concrete or practical studies, to heightened prominence. We have already mentioned Luo Hongxian’s assertion that accuracy was essential for statecraft documents such as territorial maps. Timothy Brook describes what he sees as a revitalisation of cartography in the mid-sixteenth century, initiated by Luo Hongxian’s revival of a grid system that had fallen out of use since medieval times, which he refined to produce “a universal collection of regional maps”, the Guangyu tu ᐖᝨቹ (Enlarged terrestrial atlas, completed ca. 1555). 182 Ye Chunji ᆺਞ֗ (1532–1595), a county magistrate, was an acquaintance and disciple of Luo. Appointed to Huian County in Fujian in the 1560s, Ye set to work planning his administration using the gazetteer compiled by a distinguished predecessor in the late 1520s. But he found this gazetteer insufficient on various counts and decided that he must give priority to updating its contents, especially the maps. Ye left an account of the steps he took to remedy the situation, which included carefully noting the discrepancies between maps of local areas; sending out clerks to produce improved maps; and cross-checking the results for fit and consistency. Ye Chunji’s goal was to produce accurate maps that encoded precise territorial knowledge, maps that would be used “as one technology among several to organize knowledge efficiently”. He was aware that maps did not offer a suitable format for encoding all the types of territorial information useful to a magistrate, so he devised charts and text to accompany the map of each township. The text summarised the main characteristics of the township, the five charts (biao ।) showed: (1) human settlements and structures; (2) lijia household categories; (3) population figures (male, female, adult, child); (4) arable land; and (5) taxes. The data compiled in the charts were collected specifically for the occasion rather than being taken from the archives.183 Ye was just one magistrate of his period who contributed to the elaboration of a new set of norms and procedures for the compilation of local gazetteers, later spelled out in a well-known magistrates’ handbook of the late Ming which emphasised the need for accurate, up-to-date maps and information for “planning one’s administration”. Brook notes that these procedural conventions continued to be refined during the first century of the Qing; “nonetheless, the gazetteer by the late Ming had ——— 182 Brook 1994: 9. Yee (1994: 59 ff.) offers a critical analysis of the Guangyu tu in the context of Ming cartography together with an evaluation of Luo’s grid system. 183 Brook 1994: 13.
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become a recognizable genre, communicating local knowledge within general categories”.184 The quest of Ye Chunji, a relatively obscure minor official, to generate a system of accurate local knowledge displayed in easily accessible formats, highlights the extent to which the commitment to statecraft philosophy and techniques had penetrated the ranks of the official class by the mid-sixteenth century. “Perfect action [was] predicated on perfect knowledge, and the impairment of knowledge [caused] the impairment of action.”185 Tu, both illustrative and diagrammatic, had a key role to play in shixue, here conceived as “practical studies” whose goal was better government. There are clear analogies between the goals and methods embodied in Ye Chunji’s maps and charts and Pan Jixun’s studies of the hydrological characteristics of the Yellow River. Both highlight important characteristics of shixue in the service of government: shixue strove to identify principles of dynamic, systemic change through studies which included the specific, accurate documentation of natural phenomena in their social and historical context. Pan Jixun’s Hefang yilan is remarkable in that its goal was to work at multiple timescales: as an effective basis for routine management, for improved engineering of hydraulic works, and for planning long-term policy.186 Not all exponents of shixue invested in the creative use of tu, however. One notable figure in “practical studies” at the end of the Ming dynasty was the polymath statesman Xu Guangqi ஊ٠ඔ (1562– 1633). 187 Like many of his contemporaries, Xu believed that new administrative responses to the military, economic and social threats besetting the late Ming regime could best be generated through shixue. Xu was one of a group of officials of the period who engaged enthusiastically with the Western sciences and techniques brought to the Ming imperial court by the Jesuits, though not all converted to Christianity like Xu. Perceiving the potential of this new knowledge for practical improvements at every level of government, Xu became familiar with Western astronomical equipment and observation methods as he worked on calendrical reform, and he also collaborated closely with Jesuit colleagues on translating treatises concerning mathematics, astronomy and mechanics, all of which contained tech——— 184 185 186 187
Brook 1994: 6, emphasis added. Ibid: 7. See the discussion of Pan Jixun above. Jami et al. 2001.
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nical illustrations designed according to conventions quite alien to Chinese graphic traditions. It has frequently been observed that Chinese artists and woodblock carvers were very selective in their adoption of Western visual and graphic techniques, including perspective or cross-hatching. It is also notable that Western originals of technical drawings were never copied exactly, but—like the text that accompanied them—were essentially translated.188 The works that Xu helped publish were no exceptions. Xu Guangqi did not imagine that an influx of Western practical knowledge would suffice in itself to save the empire. The problems facing the late Ming had to be understood in the context of Chinese history and institutions, its resources and the demands made upon them. The wide range of new measures and policies Xu proposed drew on his extensive historical researches in the national archives of the Hanlin Academy, on enquiries he conducted in his extensive travels throughout China, on experiments that he conducted himself, and on intensive debate with colleagues on key administrative topics like water-control. Although it is Xu’s work in fields influenced by Jesuit science that have commanded most attention, the work which Xu himself considered his greatest contribution to shixue and to the preservation of the Ming was one that owed nothing to Jesuit science, namely his great treatise on agronomy, the Nongzheng quanshu ልਙ ٤ (A complete treatise on agricultural administration), published posthumously in 1639 by a group of admiring disciples as part of a last-ditch effort to save the dynasty. The published work was lavishly illustrated, not surprisingly since it included the Yuan agronomist Wang Zhen’s Nongshu (Agricultural treatise)—a highly original piece of iconography—in its entirety.189 It also included the complete text and illustrations of the Taixi shuifa ֽ۫ऄ (Hydraulic machinery of the West), a study of pumps, screws and related machinery that Xu had produced with Sabatino de Ursis in 1612. (This section is in no way integrated into the rest of the work, however, and the machinery it describes was never adopted in China.) There are one or two new illustrations in the section on hydraulics, including templates for labour tallies and one or two drawings of tools. Xu also added a long final section on famine foods in which were included two illus——— 188 Bussotti provides a brief critical analysis in her paper. See also Edgerton
1985.
189 See Bray, this volume, on the originality of the Nongshu illustrations. The Nongzheng quanshu versions differed only in the most minor details.
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trated works in tupu form: Zhu Xiao’s ڹ㒺 Jiuhuang bencao එء ౻ (Famine-relief flora) of 1406 and Wang Pan’s ׆ᒙ Yecai pu ມလ ᢜ (Treatise on edible wild plants) of 1524. All the novelty of Xu’s approaches is conveyed through text.190 It could be that Xu would have devised new graphics if he had lived long enough to see his magnum opus into print. As it is, the work offers a dramatic contrast with Song Yingxing’s Tiangong kaiwu, published two years earlier in 1637, in which almost all the images were new. Xu’s templates for tallies used to organise paid or corvée labour are, however, good examples of another category of administrative tu that drew increasing attention in late imperial times. Administrative forms and tables were not new. Catherine Despeux’s study of autopsy charts traces their history back to 1211. This was when the first woodblock engravings showing the back and front of the human skeleton were designed as models that the expert ostensor used both to check and to note missing or damaged bones and points of injury in the reconstruction of the causes of death. The completed forms were included in the legal file. Despeux shows that there were progressive if not dramatic improvements to these charts over the centuries, driven not by advances in medical knowledge and practice but by the cumulative experiences of forensics. These representations of the body were diagrams, not pictures, notes Despeux, designed to serve administrative not therapeutic needs. By 1770 one driving quest was to find anatomical norms and standards and to represent them in the charts in such a way as to avoid judicial error—and to minimise the discrepancies between the anatomical sketches and the texts that accompanied them. A new study was commissioned at court, and there were lively debates about how standards should be established, many involving the commentaries of specialised secretaries or judges who worked closely with the ostensors. But only in the late nineteenth century did a judge named Xu Lian bring an expert draughtsman (hua jiang ဎٰ) with him to autopsies to make drawings based on direct observation. As a result, the autopsy charts that Xu published bore rather little resemblance to those of 1770. Although they showed a few signs of Western graphic influence, for example a “timid” introduction of perspective, Xu Lian’s anatomical drawings remained very different from Western anatomical ——— 190 On Xu’s highly successful blueprint for locust prediction and control, based on comparative historical and geographical analysis, and on his signal achievements in the introduction of new crop plants, see Bray and Métailié (2001).
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representations, even though these had been known and admired in China since they were first introduced by the Jesuits in the seventeenth century. One reason, argues Despeux, is that the Vesalian tradition, though based on the dissection of corpses, aimed to represent living bodies. Chinese therapeutic medicine also focused on living bodies, but conceptualised them from the perspective of the circulation of energies. Chinese physicians felt that Western representations of bones, muscles, nerves and organs were irrelevant to the physiological processes which most interested them. Chinese judges and ostensors, on the other hand, were interested only in dead bodies and trauma, so again the relevance of Western anatomy to their work did not become apparent until very recently. Another form of administrative tu which flowered in late imperial times was the table. Tables were referred to either as tu or as biao during the Qing. The tradition of inherently political tables, by Sima Qian, like other forms of tu was facilitated by the medium of print. A late imperial example of a biao with similarly forceful moral import to those of the Shiji, but here designed to uphold the claims of the regime in power rather than to subvert them, is the table (here called tu) showing the orthodox transmission of political power to the Ming ruling family, included in the Sancai tuhui of 1609.191 Biao were also a powerful tool for the organisation of administrative knowledge. A recent study by Pierre-Étienne Will analyses the role of tables in improving access to the Qing penal code. The official penal code was a huge and complex compilation of laws and amendments. Magistrates had to deal with a constant flow of cases and were expected to make appropriate judgements rapidly, under penalty of fines or even punishments. By the Qing, magistrates routinely employed professional financial and judicial consultants to help them keep abreast. The first legal manual arranged in tables appeared in 1734; there was a steady flood of similar handbooks for the next twenty years, but then no more appeared till 1824. But in the interval another genre of manual appeared: an administrative encyclopedia in table form which did not simply facilitate access to specialist categories of knowledge, but conveyed a sense of the organising principles, the underlying rules and procedures.192 The prefaces of these manuals always claimed that they were intended for newly appointed officials, but Will observes that the works in fact presumed a fair degree of ——— 191 Illustrated in Clunas (1997: 106, fig. 60). 192 Will 2003: 95, 111 ff.
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experience with the rowdy atmosphere of the courtroom. He suggests that the manuals were intended as everyday tools for seasoned administrators who needed to make quick decisions under pressure, avoiding appeals or rejections. It is relevant here that the tables were designed wherever possible to lay out all the key information so that it could be seen at a single glance, rather than having to turn the page as was so often the case with more traditional shuo-tu arrangements.193 Disagreeing with William Skinner’s classic argument that the late imperial bureaucracy failed to keep pace with rapid population and economic growth, Will suggests that technical aids like these tu or biao, and a growing cadre of aides including professional technical consultants and trainee magistrates, 194 allowed the imperial administration to meet expanding demands without significant increases in the number of official posts.195 Henderson sees the seventeenth century as a turning point in literati attitudes towards tu. This was the period when both shixue, concrete studies, and kaozheng ەᢞ, evidential enquiry, crystallised as the guiding philosophies of responsible scholarship. The late Ming revival of geographical studies, discussed earlier, criticised the geographical principles that had predominated since the Song dynasty, where the map itself was not so much a precise record of a given locality as a general visual guide for arranging information contained in the accompanying text. 196 Instead, says Henderson, geography became “a precise field of evidential inquiry” and “an important element of concrete studies” intended for practical application in such fields as land reclamation and hydraulic works. Such scholars, says Henderson, used and conceptualised the term tu “not as cosmological diagrams but as realistic maps”.197 There was a significant shift in intellectual mood, Henderson believes, where some leading scholars rejected the order and abstract tidiness of Song cosmology with its emphasis on balance. Whereas formerly anomalies had been considered dangerous aberrations from the natural order, by the early Qing they were seen not as a source of evil but as a significant part of that order. It was important not to try to smooth over the details of irregular and complex phenomena but to examine their significance. Hen——— 193 Ibid: 122, 125; see Métailié, Table 1, for contrast. 194 Candidates who had qualified by passing the examinations but had not yet
been allocated to a post. 195 Ibid: 147. 196 Henderson (1994) and Brook (1994) both draw this contrast. 197 Henderson 1994: 224.
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derson gives the example of Yan Yuan ᠱց (1636–1704), who argued that “proper moral cultivation could begin from any point on the moral map, not just the mean position”, and indeed put together a set of moral maps that he included in his Cunxing bian ࢤژᒳ (Treatise on preserving the nature) “as a guide to show how those with different endowments or propensities might improve their moral stance”.198 Repudiating the visions of coherence that inspired great Song thinkers and artists, many Qing scholars and painters were more inclined to agree with the cosmological critic Zhang Huiyan ്༡ߢ (1761– 1802), who stated that “the ways of heaven are invariably uneven and irregular”.199 Henderson lists a series of distinguished Qing scholars, including the mathematician and astronomer Mei Wending ම֮ቓ (1633–1721), who criticised what they saw as the unnaturally neat models of European cosmology and astronomy. Their solution was to document and analyse anomalies, discrepancies and irregularities, while acknowledging that any model they developed to explain them could have only temporary validity.200 One consequence of this critique of regularities was a growing interest in the specificities of locality. This fostered new ideas about the importance of regional or local microenvironments and their impact on natural processes, expressed in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries in such fields as medical theory.201 Tu played a central role in these philosophical disputes. Henderson argues that Qing scholars’ evidential critique and rejection of the authenticity and validity of the Hetu and Luoshu cosmograms, which had played such a pivotal role in the formation of Song philosophy, “was a major episode in the intellectual history of the era ... [that] did more to subvert cosmology and cosmography in the traditional mode than did any other affair in the intellectual history of late traditional China”.202 Yet the great cosmographic tu continued to exercise fascination and power among other late imperial intellectuals, and their appeal to the imperial house remained untarnished. The great imperial encyclopedia Gujin tushu jicheng (Complete collection of graphics and texts, ancient and modern) of 1725 devotes more space to materi——— 198 In his work of ca. 1700 entitled Yi tu tiaobian ᯧ೪ṱ䕼 (Systematic critique of the diagrams associated with the Book of Changes); quoted Henderson (1994: 225). 199 Quoted ibid: 225. 200 Ibid: 226, 227. 201 Hanson 1998. 202 Henderson 1994: 224.
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als on the Hetu and Luoshu than to some of the individual Confucian classics, and for many respected scholars these tu were still “among the primary sources of order in the world, as important in this regard as the books of the Confucian canon”. Eminent theoreticians from Wang Fuzhi ֛׆հ (1619–1692) to Kang Youwei ൈڶ (1858– 1927) continued to write on the Mingtang. Such attention to geometric cosmography, as Henderson notes, was “not simply an aspect of the traditional worldview or solely a matter for cosmographical speculation. Even as late as the nineteenth century, political reformers in China and Japan proposed to establish squared administrative districts as a prelude to a reign of virtue, or at least the improvement of government”, assuming “that the geometrization of political districts was an important aspect of serious political reform”.203 Even within the late imperial rubric of shixue, “concrete” or “practical studies”, it is not always easy to separate the material, symbolic and moral dimensions of the knowledge produced, or of the administrative or didactic uses to which it was put. In many of the technical works from the late imperial period discussed in Section II the role of the tu was directly informative. Usually the design of the tu was closely and specifically linked to the text and it was intended to complete, complement or clarify the information it contained; sometimes text was written to explain the technical details of the image. Yet many of these functional, technical tu also worked at another, more evocative or allusive level. Writers on the high-art forms of painting, hua, stressed their power to move those who contemplated them, to generate powerful emotions, to evoke the gentle warmth of autumn sunlight or to strike fear in the heart and set one’s limbs trembling.204 Although late imperial aesthetic theorists belittled tu by comparison to hua, often dismissing them as fit only for women or simpletons, there is no doubt that many tu were, like hua, intended to elicit a rather precise emotional response. This is particularly obvious in morality works. Just as an image in a primer was intended to conjure up the corresponding word, so the illustrations of moral episodes that featured in collections of exemplary stories, almanacs and household encyclopaedias were intended to stimulate appropriate feelings of filiality, respect and affection, or disgust for bad behaviour.205 ——— 203 Ibid: 213, 207. 204 Kerlan-Stephens 2002: 77. 205 Moral works for women and children were usually illustrated, for example Lü
Kun’s ਖസ Guifan 䒠㆘ (Standards for women) or the various collections entitled
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Such moral concern frequently spilled over into the composition of more obviously technical works. The painting and poems of the Gengzhi tu ౙ៣ቹ (Pictures of farming and weaving), produced by the Southern Song magistrate Lou Chou ᑔ㙭 in the 1130s, depicted the main processes of local methods of rice-farming and sericulture, often in considerable technical detail. However Bray argues that although these tu accurately portrayed advanced techniques and so could be used to instruct farmers in improved practices, perhaps the main purpose of their composition was to convey a moral message, to remind members of the ruling class how hard poor farmers toiled to produce the rice and silk upon which the imperial order, and the wealth of the landlord class, depended—and to elicit suitable feelings of gratitude and respect. In 1696 when the Kangxi emperor penned his own preface to a new version of the Gengzhi tu that he had commissioned, he too reminded his readers of the hardships suffered by the common people in order to produce the grain and cloth they took for granted. In a recent study of the oeuvre of Song Yingxing ݚᚨਣ (1589– 166?), the author of the famous work Tiangong kaiwu ֚ՠၲढ (usually translated as “The exploitation of the works of nature”) which describes all the main productive activities and crafts of the period, Dagmar Schäfer argues that this work too should be seen as a moral and metaphysical statement as much as a technical treatise. Schäfer remarks that, unlike several other famous authors of technical treatises, Song Yingxing could not claim any practical experience with crafts or technology. She also notes that Song had originally intended to include in the Tiangong kaiwu (published in the same year as four other much shorter treatises on metaphysical, scholarly and political themes) additional chapters on the observation of natural phenomena and on musical tones. She deduces that Song’s interest in productive techniques did not coincide with modern definitions of “technology”: It must be considered that for Song the documentation of technical details merely served as an approved means to an end—as it was able to carry his main belief: that it is the congruence of knowledge and action which ought to shape man’s world.
The translation she therefore proposes for the title Tiangong kaiwu is ——— Riji gushi ᮹㿬ᬙџ (Stories for daily notice); Raphals (1998) and Chia (2002: 235, 236, 242).
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“Heaven, work and the inception of things”.206 Peter Golas, however, believes that Song’s rationale for his composition of the Tiangong kaiwu was “the idea that technology involved human beings employing their skills to make useful the resources provided by nature”, tying in with “the neo-Confucian idea of man as the co-creator rather than merely a creature of the universe”.207 This humanist perspective, says Golas, explains the striking differences between the tu of the Tiangong kaiwu and those in Wang Zhen’s Nongshu of 1313: the Nongshu illustrations highlight the technical details of the implements or machinery and seldom show people, but the Tiangong kaiwu illustrations focus on craftmen or workers engaged in the processes of using the tools. As Golas remarks, although the emphasis on process is unusual and often revealing, “this is not a view likely to encourage consistent emphasis on precise construction details of the tools and machines”.208 In early modern Europe the producers of scientific graphics progressively removed human operators from their representations of experiments or technical procedures, representing them as formal, abstract processes. At another level of objectivisation, the language and iconography of science increasingly strove to divest themselves of subjective emotions and sensuality. It might be supposed from the late imperial debates around tu and hua that a similar process was at work here too, a divergence between the subjective, allusive, metaphoric operations of hua and the down-to-earth, factual operations of tu. Yet Robert Hegel very convincingly argues that the texts which accompanied coroners’ charts in the legal case reports of the Qing dynasty worked as emotional narratives. The chart itself (discussed in detail in the paper by Catherine Despeux) was filled in by the magistrate himself during his examination of the corpse, aided by the coroner and the clerk of the criminal section; in the chart were recorded the objective details of the wounds inflicted. Then depositions were taken from the accused and from witnesses describing the circumstances which led up to the crime and the details of how it unfolded. The depositions charted the dynamics of an emerging emotional crisis and its violent outcome, and were thus a necessary dimension that explained both the nature of the injuries inflicted, and also the social and psychological circumstances. This was essential to a proper ap——— 206 Schäfer 2005: 54. 207 Golas, this volume, p. 585, and ibid, n. 77, quoting Fong (1992: 75–76). 208 Ibid; see also Bray on the Nongshu illustrations.
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preciation of the crime and a proper judgement of its severity.209 Luo Hongxian’s distinction between the cognitive operation of maps and of the tu used in treatises on acupuncture and on techniques of hygiene or self-cultivation (weisheng) was discussed earlier. Luo Hongxian argued that acupuncture charts operate by presenting the relative positioning of points of action, while weisheng diagrams operate through sensual metaphor. These explanations demonstrate strong epistemological continuities with the health-related images and therapeutic texts from the early Han that Vivienne Lo analyses in her paper. She concludes from her analysis that as early as the Western Han the bodily images and operational mechanisms of therapeutic medicine and of self-cultivation techniques were and must be recognised as distinct. Already in the early Han, Lo sees: ... a dialectic between exercises to preserve and enhance health and the treatment of disorder ... Where self-cultivation is solitary practice and aims at perfecting the physiology of the body the records naturally generate a lyrical and animated body imagined through metaphor, not just a passive object upon which we construct realities. By appealing to the animal images the daoyin forms engage all the senses of the self-cultivator, not just the visual, but through imagination, both movement and mood. In contrast as the body increasingly becomes the subject of professional observation it is, inevitably, silenced and contained within its visibly perceived boundaries, or other such boundaries that are amenable to the physician’s control.210
What is fascinating here is the transmission of this dialectic of knowledge, and of its visual and verbal representations, right through the imperial era. Yet even if therapeutic medicine generated “a passive object upon which [the physician] constructs realities”, the importance of metaphor and allusion in scientific and technical language and imagery, even in late imperial times, should not be underestimated. Shigehisa Kuriyama’s discussion of the “haptic knowledge” involved in the pulse-taking of therapeutic medicine reminds us that in the Chinese tradition poetic metaphor was a legitimate technical language for conveying complex natural realities. Referring to Chinese writings on the pulse, John Floyer wrote in 1707 that “Europeans excel in reasoning and judgement, and clearness of expression ... Asiatics have a gay luxurious imagination”.211 The key Chinese terms for describing the ——— 209 Hegel 2002. 210 Lo, this volume: p. 413, emphasis added. 211 Quoted Kuriyama (1999:62).
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pulse have remained stable since they were first laid out by Wang Shuhe ( ࡉ ࠸ ׆210?–286?) in the Maijing ౧ᆖ (Classic of the pulse), but the descriptions were continually elaborated by later physicians. The language of the pulses worked through simile and metaphor, not through definition. A rough pulse was described as “like sawing bamboo” or “like rain-soaked sand”. The Classic describes a floating pulse thus: “If one lifts the finger, there is abundance, if one presses down, one finds insufficiency”; the Ming physician Li Shizhen ޕழੴ elaborated: “[It] is like a subtle breeze blowing across the down of a bird’s back. It is quiet and whispering, like falling elm pods, like wood floating in water, like scallion leaves rolled lightly between the fingers”. As Kuriyama points out, here the goal of language was not to define facts but to convey sensual perceptions. The metaphors guided the novice to grasp the subtle differences between twenty-four basic variations in the pulses so that he could confidently classify the whisperings experienced under his fingers. As an aid to categorising his sensations, the novice referred to illustrated charts. To anyone not familiar with the haptics of Chinese pulse-taking, such tu appear crude and almost devoid of informational content. To anyone trained in the haptic traditions, the images serve as a mnemonic that economically yet forcefully evokes the qualities and the dynamics characteristic of each pulse.212 In the Chinese tradition most physicians, astronomers, producers of maps or writers of farming treatises were not specialised technical professionals but broadly educated scholars, trained to express themselves in poetry and painting. This was certainly an important factor militating against the progressive separation between technical drawing and art which played such an important role in the emergence of modern science in the West.
THE CRAFT OF TU: MEDIUM AND DESIGN Here we briefly address the question of how tu were produced, in what media and by whom, and we outline a comparison of the production of technical graphics in China and the West. The tu discussed by our contributors include artefacts of bronze, wooden blocks, wooden strips, paintings, engravings on stone and ——— 212 Ibid: 84, figure 13.
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woodblock prints. The majority of tu are two-dimensional, but there was some disagreement between the co-editors as to whether only two-dimensional artefacts could or should be considered tu. Vera Dorofeeva-Lichtmann was inclined to exclude three-dimensional artefacts from the category. Francesca Bray, taking into account the arguments of Keightley, the importance of three-dimensionality in the hemerological artefacts discussed by Kalinowski, the existence of such tu-like objects as the early star-maps painted on the inside of domed roofs, and the hypotheses of Volkov and of Chemla concerning early mathematical models for demonstrations, would argue instead that whereas early tu could also be produced in three-dimensional forms, the passage to print culture encouraged the restriction of the term to two-dimensional expression. The flexibility of several of the principal media in which tu were produced has also to be borne in mind. Silk, wooden or bamboo strips and paper can all be considered as media that essentially constitute a plane surface for inscription and for reading. Yet all can be rolled, folded or cut to form objects or patterns in three-dimensional space—or, in the case of scrolls for example, to offer presentations that unfold in chronological sequence. Dorofeeva-Lichtmann herself argues that in the case of archaic “maps” like the Shanhai jing the act of viewing or reading required the wooden strips carrying the text to be rearranged; this allowed the reader to experience significant shifts in orientation as well as sequences in time. But three-dimensional layout and chronological sequencing seem to have figured less frequently in the design of later tu, with a tendency in the print era to reduce them to one plane surface completely visible at a single glance. Nevertheless we might suppose that even in late imperial times there was still some significance to the use of such proxies for multidimensionality and diachronicity as tu laid out in sequence over several pages. Yet here we have to bear in mind the possibility of conflicting interests between author and publisher. It seems that in many printed works containing tu their ordering, layout, and spatial combinations with text were dictated by convention or publishing convenience. Zheng Qiao stated that “in order to study, the scholars of antiquity required that the tu be placed on the left and the text, shu, on the right”. 213 In primers 214 and in other works that followed the tupu ——— 213 Tongzhi j.71/837a. 214 Clunas (1997: 112, figure 62) shows a fine example from the mid-fifteenth
century.
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(illustrated register) format where there was room for several entries on a page, for instance the Sancai tuhui, this recommended layout was followed. In other technical works designed as tupu, including the Nongshu (Agricultural treatise) by Wang Zhen discussed by Bray, text and corresponding tu are carved on the right and left side of a single block. Once the paper is folded to make up into a book, however, the text is on the first fold of the printed page and the image on the second, so that the reader has to turn the page to look at the tu. In the case of the Tiangong kaiwu, the pictures are grouped at the end of each chapter. Michela Bussotti and Georges Métailié both discuss the wide range of layouts to be found not only in printed but also in painted technical works. Acknowledging that having to turn the page or go to the end of the chapter to look at the tu reduces their functional value, Bussotti remarks that this is a choice determined by printing convenience rather than by the technical weaknesses of the wood-block medium or the ignorance of the craftsmen. Focusing on studies of plants, Métailié lists a wide range of variations in the placing of the tu. In one or two cases all the images are placed at the beginning or end of a chapter or of the book; generally, however, texts and pictures were placed close together, though often it would be necessary to turn one or more pages to get to the picture. Sometimes elements in the illustrations would be numbered and referred to specifically in the text. “However, in the great majority of texts, there are no explicit textual references to the pictures, as if their mere presence was enough.”215 The visual quality of the illustrations was not necessarily directly related to their technical value. Sometimes very crude drawings of plants could effectively indicate the key characteristics that distinguished them from similar plants (very useful in the case of manuals showing famine foods); in others artistic elegance belied the poor quality (or lack) of observation. Sometimes the choice of illustrations was so arbitrary that it seems they must simply have been added by the publisher to sell the book. As Métailié remarks, it seems that by the Ming and Qing authors felt free to use illustrations in whichever way they chose, which suggests that in these contexts tu had no ritual dimension at all. Just as we have to consider how tu worked in conjunction with linear text, so we also need to think about other clusters of multimedia information. How did models, for instance, connect? It seems that in ——— 215 Métailié, this volume, p. 491; emphasis added.
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ancient and early imperial China distinctions but also communicative connections were made between tu and xiang ွ/ቝ (image, likeness),216 as well as between the tu and hua discussed by Wu Hung. It is possible that other terms for, or types of, graphic or solid representation, for instance shi ( ڤthe term denoting divination board, which also had the more general meaning of “template, model”), or mo ᑓ (also “model”), were used in conjunction with or in place of tu to convey technical information in ancient times; this is suggested, but in the current state of knowledge cannot be proved, by Lo in her analysis of the lacquer figurine. A much more recent example is the eleventh-century bronze acupuncture models produced by Wang Weiyi of the Medical Board to help train students. These models were simply referred to as xuewei tongren ۯلᎭԳ (“the bronze men with the acupuncture needling positions”); thus neither the term tu nor any term denoting “model” was used, even though the figures were in essence a three-dimensional map that charted the relative positions, wei, of the acupuncture points. As mentioned earlier, the students practised with the models but they were first expected to study a text containing tu. The treatises with their combination of text and tu were thus expected to prepare the students for a first stage of material action; the bronze men provided a medium for testing their booklearning and gaining a first level of embodied experience before moving on to human patients. Even after the popularisation of printing not all tu were printed: as discussed in the papers by Bussotti, Bray and Métailié the media of paintings, murals and carvings also figured prominently in the imagecircuits that helped form the visual cultures of the Song and later. Cordell Yee discusses the use of jiehua , “ruled-line paintings” involving the use of ruler, square and compass as well as brush, in cartography. The jiehua technique began around the sixth century AD, but although initially it was admired as a genre of fine painting, by the late Song the technical procedures involved had begun to clash with high artistic ideals. But the technique survived in the realm of tu because it was so well suited to architectural drawing. It seems that building plans were sometimes designed using jiehua during the Song, while city plans and other maps of architectural constructions continued to be produced using the straightedge technique through to the nineteenth century.217 ——— 216 See Keightley (1998), in his comments on Harper. 217 Yee 1994: 122 ff.
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While the advent of a print culture did not lead to the abandonment of all earlier forms of tu, it reshaped many of the ways in which tu were conceptualised. Woodblock printing offered distinctive opportunities for graphic representation, and for placing tu in relation to text. Yet in some domains of knowledge it can be shown that printing led to the impoverishment or elimination of certain patterns of thought. Volkov argues that the mathematical tu of printed editions of the classical mathematical texts no longer presented arguments, but merely illustrated the forms discussed in the text. Furthermore the ubiquity of two-dimensional tu in the print era led many scholars to project their own norms and expectations onto the past. Projects for the critical reconstruction of ancient classical texts led late imperial scholars to propose what they imagined were reconstructions of the original tu included in canonical works. Yet as Dorofeeva-Lichtmann demonstrates, in the case of the “maps” of the Shanhai jing, Qing scholars’ everyday experience of tu rendered them unable to perceive that the text between their hands constituted a map-like experience in itself. Who designed tu, and how were they executed? Many of the mantic and magical tu of early China were the apparatus used by “technical specialists”, fangshi ֱՓ. Harper suggests that the graphic vocabulary of these specialists and of scholars began to merge during the late Warring States. The artefacts and motifs of the aristocratic and royal burials of the period were presumably produced by the technical specialists routinely employed by members of the ruling class. The burial chamber of the first emperor of unified China, Qin Shihuangdi ࡨ০, was surrounded and protected by a magnificent model of the universe: All the country’s streams, the Yellow River and the Yangzi were reproduced in quicksilver and by some mechanical means made to flow into a miniature ocean. The heavenly constellations were shown above and the regions of the earth below.
Shihuangdi put his chancellor Li Si ޕཎ in charge of planning and constructing his tomb, but we may presume that the details of this gigantic cosmogram were designed not by Li Si himself but by technical specialists.218 On the other hand in the pre-print era the philosophers who wrote on cosmology and on primal diagram must have ——— 218 Shiji, quoted Ledderose (2000: 52 ff.). Shihuangdi began plans for his burial as soon as he ascended the throne of Qin, at the age of 13, in 247 BC.
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drawn their tu directly into their manuscripts themselves, to be passed down, like the text, in manuscript copies. When it comes to the great cosmograms developed by the Song philosophers, clearly they too drew the original versions of the diagrams themselves, and these drawings provided the basis for the subsequent engraving onto woodblocks. Images like the Taiji tu, with its dramatic symmetries of black and white, have the appearance of being designed directly for woodblock. Tu of this diagrammatic type were relatively simple to draw and required no special skills to translate into woodblock for publication. Generally speaking, the observational and graphic quality of representational tu was high in the Song and Yuan dynasties. We know little about how woodblock tu were designed and by whom, either in the Song and Yuan or later, though Michela Bussotti provides a detailed description of the technical procedures involved in their production.219 It seems reasonable to suppose that in the earlier printing era, during the Song and the Yuan, not only were there fewer readymade images in circulation for woodblock carvers to copy from than during the Ming and Qing, but also greater attention was paid to accurate observation in the design of tu, and greater care was taken in translating non-woodblock originals into woodblock form. Golas has argued that the forty-seven technical illustrations in the Xin yi xiang fa yao ᄅᏚွ࿇ (New armillary sphere and celestial globe system essentials), compiled by Su Song ᤕቈ in the early 1090’s to describe the construction of his famous clocktower, were “unique in the history of Chinese representations of technology; no other machine or apparatus in traditional China ever received even remotely similar detailed visual treatment”.220 Others note that Song or Yuan paintings and woodblock illustrations of such subjects as water-mills, textile apparatus, chain-pumps or human skeletons show a degree of technical precision that is seldom found in later representations of the same objects.221 Wang Zhen we are told made drawings based on his direct observation of tools and machines, which he had workmen disassemble and ——— 219 See also Chia 2002: 52 ff. 220 Golas 1999: 49. 221 Kuhn (1987: ch. 3) discusses paintings of mills, Despeux paintings showing
skeletons. Golas notes the pertinent observation by historians of art including Michael Sullivan and James Cahill that after several centuries of efforts by painters to achieve greater precision and realism in their work, the late Song marked a significant shift away from realism in painting.
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reassemble so that he understood their structure. The magnificent paintings of mills or other technical subjects of the period, often cited as the acme of accurate technical observation in China, are realistic in approach, showing only what the eye can see. Unlike them Wang’s drawings (and the matching text) take deliberate steps to highlight the details of technical structure. His tu are true technical illustrations, presenting “a schematic representation of a technological principle”.222 Among Wang Zhen’s innovative representations are: a drawing of a winnowing-fan that cuts away the casing to show the mounting of the fan inside; drawings of water-mills that also use cut-away to show the mechanical connections between the components situated on the different floors of the mill, from the water-race up to the grinding-stones, sifters or bellows; and a drawing of a silk-reel in which all the main working parts are labelled by name, and explained in the accompanying text. Wang Zhen intended his work for wide circulation in print, and the graphic style of his tu takes full advantage of the woodblock medium, without apparently suffering in the translation from the author’s manuscript.223 It seems that Song Yingxing may have faced greater difficulties in the process of illustrating the printed edition of the Tiangong kaiwu. In Peter Golas’ study of the capacities and limitations of technical illustration in late imperial China, he explores who the illustrators might have been, the economic factors affecting illustration, and how the illustrative styles reflect Song’s philosophy of technology. Golas suggests that Song intended his work much as Wang Zhen had his treatise on farming, namely as a work that an official could show to an experienced craftsman, providing sufficient information to construct an experimental version of a machine hitherto unknown in the locality. Even on purely stylistic grounds it is clear that more than one workshop was involved in the production of the woodblocks for the first edition. Golas stresses the remarkable technical precision of Song’s text, not always matched by that of the illustrations, and argues that “rather than being disconcerted by mistaken or incomplete portrayals of the technology in the illustrations, he was probably satisfied when the illustrations generally succeeded in providing essential information that he understood could not be conveyed by the text ——— 222 Kuhn 1977. 223 Bray, this volume. The earliest surviving edition of the Nongshu is from
1530, but experts believe that the illustrations were very close to the originals.
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alone”. 224 Golas presents us with a picture of an author who is in control of his knowledge but in less than perfect control of his illustrators. Donald Wagner has a very different view. He believes that Song based much of his technical text on earlier sources, most of which were reliable, but which he did not always understand correctly. Focusing on the sections on iron-working, Wagner distinguishes between three cases. In one illustration and text match perfectly; in the second the text gives an accurate account of one method while the picture accurately portrays another process; in the third, the picture simply has nothing to do with any likely real methods of the period, presumably because Song misunderstood his source. Wagner’s paper underlines the importance of looking at just how familiar the author and the illustrator were with the technical process that was being illustrated, both through personal experience and through knowledge of other written or illustrated sources. In some cases where original illustrations were reworked for later editions technical details were distorted or quite brazenly hidden behind a wisp of cloud or a swirl of water where the woodblock designer failed to understand the mechanisms involved.225 And yet this trend was not invariable. In Chen Menglei’s ຫኄሼ Gujin tushu jicheng ײվቹ ႃ( ګComplete collection of graphics and texts, ancient and modern) of 1726, for instance, several of the reworked Tiangong kaiwu illustrations show greater technical accuracy than the original Ming illustrations (see below). Yet, as Samuel Edgerton shows in his comparative study of technical illustration, in the case of Agostino Ramelli’s 1588 engraving of a complex mechanical windlass, first rendered by a Chinese woodblock engraver in Johannes Terentius’ and Wang Zheng’s ׆ᐛ collection of translations of European works on mechanical design entitled Qiqi tushuo ࡛ᕴቹᎅ (Illustrations and explanations of strange devices, 1627), and subsequently reworked in the Gujin tushu jicheng, the Gujing tushu jicheng version is even more fanciful and incomplete than the Qiqi tushuo illustration. The difference may lie in the fact that the woodblock designers for the Gujin tushu jucheng were likely to have laid eyes on the apparatus discussed in the Tiangong kaiwu, but not on the European machinery, which was never adopted in China. The ease with which woodblock lent itself to copying was probably one key factor standing in way of the professional specialisation ——— 224 Golas, this volume, p. 587. 225 Edgerton 1985.
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of draftsmen and of innovation in techniques of representation. By late imperial times, although great artists (or lesser artisans capable of imitating their style convincingly) were often commissioned to design original, attributed hua for woodblock editions, the majority of the images used in works illustrated with tu were not original creations. There was no sense that tu or any subset of tu formed graphic categories with any special technical requirements, nor that the craftsmen who produced these tu required any special training or experience. Hans-Ulrich Vogel argues that one distinction between hua and tu in late imperial times was that the former were attributed, the latter always anonymous. 226 In fact many printed hua were anonymous as well, and some tu were attributed, for example the diagrams of the Song philosophers, and the scenes and poems of the Gengzhi tu in their various renderings right through to the late eighteenth century. In the case of the Gengzhi tu, emperors themselves contributed to the tu by inscribing them with poems of their own composition. But we do indeed know frustratingly little about the designers and carvers of the majority of tu. As a medium that facilitated the reproduction of existing images, woodblock printing made it particularly tempting for authors to delegate the design or choice of illustrations, and for publishers to insist on cheap copies rather than new images. As Bussotti demonstrates, there is no inherent reason why the woodblock medium could not be used to produce graphics of great technical sophistication and accuracy, and she provides examples of the subtlety and cognitive creativity achieved in late imperial woodblock images. But most of these fell into the category of hua; meanwhile the techniques of technical illustration seem to have stagnated. The Jesuits made available graphic techniques which played a key role in the development of scientific and technical illustration in post-Renaissance Europe, such as shading or hatching to show volume, the use of perspective, or standardised graphics to represent common forms or mechanical components. But none of these seems to have attracted much interest in China until the late nineteenth century.227 As Golas and Amelung demonstrate, the development of shared graphic norms and conventions which played ——— 226 Vogel, forthcoming. 227 Edgerton 1985. Several Qing court artists were admired for their mastery of
Western perspective. In the 1690s the Kangxi emperor commissioned Jiao Bingzhen ⛺⾝䉲 to paint a version of the Gengzhi tu using Western perspective and everyone was delighted with the result. But it did not add in any significant way to the technical accuracy of Jiao’s depictions; Bray, this volume.
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such a powerful role in the advancement of knowledge in the West was largely absent in late imperial technological tu and in cartography, though some standardisation of graphic representation did emerge in the genres of adminstrative tu discussed by Despeux and Will. As Donald Wagner suggests, the graphic lineages of tu in specific technical fields would repay further study. Often it is impossible to trace an individual image back to its origins, yet it is fairly obvious that the illustrator was drawing from a repertoire of conventional images that he had perhaps been taught as an apprentice, or had copied from a pattern-book or from an earlier illustrated work on a similar subject. This was a time-honoured practice among book illustrators in late imperial China just as it was in Europe in the early period of print-culture.228 An interesting case is the Shinzoku kibun 堚ঋಖ ፊ (Recorded accounts of Qing customs) of 1799, an account of everyday life and practices in the cities of Southeast China commissioned by the Governor of Nagasaki and based on extensive interviews with Chinese merchants from the region. The woodblock illustrations were produced by Japanese artesans who had been trained by a Chinese master. One striking feature of the work is that the majority of the delightful full-page or double-page illustrations are completely original, and show contemporary scenes and settings that correspond closely to the specific locales and settings described by the merchants in the text. However most of the illustrations of individual items, types of furniture or farming tools for example, were copied from centuries-old Chinese prototypes, and had presumably been transmitted to Japan through works like the Sancai tuhui or the Gujin tushu jicheng.229 Many Chinese book illustrators drew on a repertoire of traditional components even when they were creating new images, or they might change one or two key details of an existing image in order to fit a new textual context. Katherine Carlitz gives the example of a woodcut portraying a standing woman. In the version illustrating a romance she is holding a letter in her hand; in the version illustrating a moral tale of virtuous women she holds a knife that she is using to slice flesh from her arm to make restorative soup for her sick fatherin-law. (The former, intended to entertain and give pleasure, is a hua; the latter, didactic in purpose, is a tu.) Some illustrators of fiction ——— 228 Hegel 1998. 229 Bray 1997: 65–67.
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“drew on the work of major figure and landscape painters to weave even conventional elements (now exquisitely drawn) into unified compositions with a new narrative power”.230 More frequently, however, as Bussotti shows, repeated scissor-and-paste assemblage, like straightfoward copying, led to a progressive degeneration of the quality and accuracy of the original image. Bray shows how the original Nongshu version of a tu depicting a chain-pump degenerated in technical quality as it was copied for reproduction in two late-Ming works, the Tiangong kaiwu and the Nongzheng quanshu. Yet in technical tu as in aesthetic hua copying did not always mean degeneration: contrary to received opinion, Golas shows that in several cases the Qing copies of the original Ming illustrations to the Tiangong kaiwu were not only stylistically more elegant, but also technically more accurate and informative. In deciding to design new illustrations for the Tiangong kaiwu, Song Yingxing was perhaps making a more subversive choice than would be immediately apparent viewed from a purely technological perspective, opening the way to a social realism that was seldom seen in tu of the period—perhaps in part because direct copying of images was an inherently intellectually as well as visually conservative technique. An example: orthodox representations of textile production during the late Ming and Qing continued to represent women working reeling machines and looms, even though with the expansion and commercialisation of the textile industry men had generally replaced them in these tasks. The original Ming illustrations of Tiangong kaiwu, and the Qing reworkings, are unique in showing men reeling, weaving and mounting the looms, thus accurately reflecting a social reality frequently deplored by the orthodox as a reversal of the natural order, a non-traditional gender division of labour occluded in all the other depictions of textile production of the period.231 The comparison with the role of technical representation in China and Europe in the early modern period is inevitable, because of its perceived key role in the development of Western science and society. In Europe from the Renaissance we observe a steady development of observational techniques and of corresponding graphic conventions for recording natural or technical knowledge—geometric diagrams and Cartesian coordinates, Vesalius’ anatomical charts, diagrams of machinery or botanical drawings, to mention just a few. ——— 230 Carlitz 1991: 120. 231 Bray 1997: ch. 6.
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As technical graphics and text entered an era of professionalisation and of consistent, critical efforts at improvement, they quickly came to constitute a system of differentiated, specialised and highly effective codes of communication. The development of such specialised technical and scientific styles of graphic representation is acknowledged to have played a key role in the emergence of modern science and technology. Indeed it has been argued that the privileging and disciplining of vision that underpinned the search for such methods is a characteristically western—and uniquely efficacious—approach to investigating and portraying the world. Unlike in Europe, in the Chinese tradition of technical representation we observe no systematic attempts to improve the accuracy of observation or effectiveness of imaging. Nor did norms or conventions of representation emerge in most fields. Given that tu as a concept covered a much broader range of technical knowledge than science and technology as they emerged in Europe, we should not perhaps be surprised at this lack of coordination. Yet at least in the domain of the technical fields associated with statecraft, the absence of standardisation is somewhat curious, especially viewed in the context of rather carefully standardised governmental and administrative practice. Obviously late imperial officials saw potential for tu as tools for maintaining norms and increasing efficacy in some areas. The tables developed to provide algorithms or flow charts for magistrates faced with the huge complexities of the Qing legal code, like the autopsy charts and the new forms of map discussed by Despeux and Amelung, show conscious efforts by officials to incorporate graphic design into the devising of more effective management techniques in sub-sets of the vast, overarching domain of statecraft knowledge that officials were expected to master for administrative competence.
*
*
*
Throughout Chinese history statecraft knowledge made use both of “transformative”, diagrammatic tu and of “representational”, illustrative tu. So, too, did the technical fields associated with personal selfcultivation and health, or with mantic practices. “Tu studies” have tended to focus on one category of tu or the other, depending on whether the specific topic is more closely related to cosmology and its applications or to domains of knowledge that we now classify as
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“science” and “technology”. But we have argued here that tu of both classes had a conceptual unity in Chinese thought: what distinguished a tu from other forms of graphic expression, and gave it its peculiar powers, was that it was an encoding of knowledge that served as a template for action. We have argued in this Introduction for an inclusive approach acknowledging the whole spectrum of tu, and of the technical fields which generated tu, rather than a selective focus on small sub-sets which often risks distorting our picture of what was considered technical knowledge, and of how tu were deployed in a specific technical setting. From our perspective, the comparison of Eastern and Western technical graphics retains its interest but acquires a new breadth, more akin to the studies of visual cultures and of the circulation of images and knowledge that are proving so fruitful in Western intellectual history.232 The more inclusive approach to tu that we advocate also provides a framework for what R. Bin Wong calls “symmetrical comparison”, focusing greater attention on what it was that Chinese graphics were designed to do rather than what they failed to do or to become. Acknowledging the full range of graphics belonging to the category of tu also permits us to formulate new questions. What types of tu are characteristic of a particular field of technical knowledge? How did they convey the philosophical preoccupations and practical goals of the specialists working in that technical field? How did they function cognitively as graphics, alone or in conjunction with other media? We hope that the Typology proposed in this introduction has been suggestive in this respect. Equally significantly, perhaps, we have argued that the presence of tu signals a technical field, so that recognising the full range of tu may cast interesting new light on how technical knowledge was conceived and expressed in China, and how different fields of technical knowledge were related and articulated. This reframing of technical knowledge and its uses is hinted at in many of the papers included in this collection, but a fuller exploration awaits future research.
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——— 232 Stafford (1993), to cite just one example.
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Center. ——. 2002a. “Text and tu in Context: Reading the Illustrated Page in Chinese Blockprinted Books.” In: Drège 2002, pp. 241–276. CLUNAS, Craig. 1996. Fruitful Sites: Garden Culture in Ming Dynasty China. Durham: Duke University Press. ——. 1997. Pictures and Visuality in Early Modern China. Princeton: Princeton University Press. ——. 1997a. “Luxury Knowledge: the Xiushi lu [Records of lacquering] of 1625.” Techniques et culture 29/1997 special issue, De la Chine et des Andes, pp. 27– 40. DICKHARDT, Michael. 2003. “Creating and Representing Sacred Spaces as Processes of Symbolic Mediation: A Theoretical Introduction from a Cultural Anthropological Perspective.” In: Creating and Representing Sacred Spaces, eds. Michael Dickhardt and Vera Dorofeeva-Lichtmann. Göttinger Beiträge zur Asienforschung 2-3: pp. 7–33. DODGEN, Randall A. 2001. Controlling the Dragon: Confucian Engineers and the Yellow River in Late Imperial China. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. DOROFEEVA-LICHTMANN, Vera. 1996. “Political Concept behind an Interplay of Spatial ‘Positions’”, in: Chemla and Lackner (eds.), pp. 9–34. ——. 2001/2005. “Spatiality of the Media for Writing in Ancient China and Spatial Organization of Ancient Chinese Texts.” Göttinger Beiträge zur Asienforschung 1 (2001): 87–135. Revised as “Spatial Composition of Ancient Chinese Texts”, in: History of Science, History of Text, ed. Karine Chemla (Boston Studies in History and Philosophy of Science). London – Dordrecht – Boston: Kluwer Academic Publishers, pp. 3–47. DREGE, Jean-Pierre ed. 2002. Dossier: Texte et image dans le livre illustré chinois. Special section in Bulletin de l’École française d’Extrême-Orient 89: 237–326. EBREY, Patricia Buckley. 1991. Chu Hsi’s Family Rituals: A Twelfth-Century Chinese Manual for the Performance of Cappings, Weddings, Funerals, and Ancestral Rites. Princeton: Princeton University Press. EDGERTON, Samuel Y., Jr. 1985. “The Renaissance Development of the Scientific Illustration.” In: Science and the Arts in the Renaissance, ed. John W. Shirley and F. David Hoeniger. Washington: Folger Books, pp. 168–197. ELMAN, Benjamin A. 1984. From Philosophy to Philology: Intellectual and Social Aspects of Change in Late Imperial China. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard East Asian Monographs. ——. 2002. “Jesuit scientia and Natural Studies in Late Imperial China.” Journal of Early Modern History: Contacts, Comparisons, Contrasts 6.3 (Fall 2002): 209– 232. ELVIN, Mark. 2004. The Retreat of the Elephants: an Environmental History of China. New Haven: Yale University Press. FONG, Wen C. 1992. Beyond Representation: Chinese Painting and Calligraphy, 8th to 14th Century. New Haven: Yale University Press. GLAHN, Else. 1984. “Research on the Yingtsao fa-shih.” In: Chinese Traditional Architecture, ed. Nancy Shatzman Steinhardt. New York: China Institute of America, pp. 47–57. GOLAS, Peter J. 1999. “The Emergence of Technical Drawing in China; the Xin yi xiang fa yao and its Antecedents.” History of Technology 21: 29–63. ——. 2001. “Technological Illustration in China; a Post-Needham Perspective.” In: Science and Technology in East Asia; the Legacy of Joseph Needham, ed. Alain Arrault and Catherine Jami. Turnhout, Belgium: Brepols, pp. 43–58. GUO, Qinghua. 1995. “The Structure of Chinese Timber Architecture: Twelfth-Century Design Standards and Construction Principles.” Ph.D. diss., Chalmers Uni-
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LEDDEROSE, Lothar. 2000. Ten Thousand Things: Module and Mass Production in Chinese Art. Princeton: Princeton University Press. LI Jianmin ޕ৬ا. 2001. Sisheng zhi yu: Zhou Qin Han mai xue zhi yuan liu ڽᜢհ Υࡌዧ౧ᖂհੌ . Taibei: Academica Sinica. ——. 2001a. “Shushu – la divinazione: Introduzione all’arte dei pronostoci.” In: Chemla et al 2001, pp. 116–119. LI Ling ޕሿ. 1993. Zhongguo fangshu kao խഏֱە. Beijing: Dongfang chubanshe [repr. 2000]. LLOYD, Geoffrey and Nathan SIVIN. 2002. The Way and the Word: Science and Medicine in Early China and Greece. New Haven: Yale University Press. LO, Vivienne. 2001. ‘Huangdi Hama jing (Yellow Emperor’s Toad Canon).” Asia Major 14.2: 61–99. LU Gwei-Djen and Joseph NEEDHAM. 1980. Celestial Lancets: a History and Rationale of Acupunture and Moxa. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. NEEDHAM, Joseph with WANG Ling. 1959. Science and Civilisation in China. Vol. III. Mathematics and the Sciences of the Heavens and the Earth. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. PETERSON, Willard J. 1982. “Making Connections: ‘Commentary on the Attached Verbalizations’ of the Book of Change.” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 42.1: 67–116. POWERS, Martin J. 1991. Art and Political Expression in Early China. New Haven: Yale University Press. RAPHALS, Lisa. 1998. Sharing the Light: Representations of Women and Virtue in Early China. Albany: SUNY . REED, Christopher A. 2004. Gutenberg in Shanghai: Chinese Print Capitalism 1876– 1937. Honolulu, University of Hawai’i Press. REITER, Florian C. 1990. “Some Remarks on the Chinese Word t’u ‘chart, plan, design’.” Oriens 32: 308–327. ROGASKI, Ruth. 1999. “Efficacy and Accuracy in Luo Hongxian’s tu”, paper presented at the 9th International Conference on the History of Science in East Asia, Singapore. RUITENBEEK, Klaas. 1993. Carpentry and Building in Late Imperial China: A Study of the Fifteenth-Century Carpenters’ Manual Lu Ban Jing. Leiden: Brill. Sancai tuhui Կթቹᄎ (Illustrated compendium of the Three Powers). 1609/1970. Wang Qi ݆׆. Facsimile edition, Taipei: Chengwen Press, 1970. SCHÄFER, Dagmar. 2005. “The Congruence of Knowledge and Action: the Tiangong kaiwu and its Author Song Yingxing.” In: Chinese Handicrafts Regulations of the Qing Dynasty: Theory and Application, ed. Hans-Ulrich Vogel, Christine Moll-Murata and Song Jianze. Munich: Iudicum, pp 35–60. SIVIN, Nathan and Gari LEDYARD. 1994. “Introduction to East Asian Cartography.” In: Harley and Woodward 1994, pp. 23–31. SMITH, Richard J. 1991. Fortune Tellers and Philosophers: Divination in Traditional Chinese Society. Boulder, Co.: University of Colorado Press. ——. 1996. Chinese Maps. Hong Kong, Oxford, New York: Oxford University Press. ——. 2001. “Maps, Myths and Multiple Realities: Images of the ‘Other’ In Late Imperial China”, paper presented at the European and North American Exchanges in East Asian Studies Conference, “De l’image à l’action : la dynamique des représentations visuelles dans la culture intellectuelle et religieuse de la Chine / From Image to Action: The Dynamics of Visual Representation in Chinese Intellectual and Religious Culture.” Paris, September 3–5, 2001. STAFFORD, Barbara Maria. 1993. Body Criticism: Imaging the Unseen in Enlightenment Art and Medicine. Cambridge, Mass: MIT Press.
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STEPHENSON, F. Richard. 1994. “Chinese and Korean Star Maps and Catalogs.” In: Harley and Woodward 1994, pp. 511–578. TSIEN, Tsuen-hsuin. 1985. Science and Civilisation in China, Volume V, Part 1, Paper and Printing. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Tupu lüe ቹᢜฃ, ca. 1150, Tongzhi ຏ ݳj. 71/837–840, by Zheng Qiao ᔤᖱ; Taipei [?] Xin Xing Shuju, no date, 10 vols. (Collection: Guoxue jiben congshu). UNSCHULD, Paul. 1986. Medicine in China: A History of Pharmaceutics. Berkeley: University of California Press. VERMEER, Eduard B. 1987. “Pan Chi-hsun’s Solutions for the Yellow River Problems of the late 16th Century.” T’oung Pao 73.1–3: 33–67. VOGEL, Hans Ulrich. 1999. “Illustrations (tu) and Explanations (shuo) of Traditional Chinese Salt Production and Salt Administration”, paper presented at the 9th International Conference on the History of Science in East Asia, Singapore, August 1999. ——. Forthcoming. “Diagrams and Illustrations.” In: Enciclopedia Italiana, Storia della Scienza, addendum to “La scienza in Cina.” (see Chemla et al. 2001). WAGNER, Donald B. 2006. “Iron Production in three Ming Texts: Tie ye zhi, Guangdong xinyu, and Tian gong kai wu.” In: Studies in Ancient Chinese Scientific and Technical Texts (Proceedings of the 3rd ISACBRST), ed. Hans-Ulrich Vogel, Christine Moll-Murata and Gao Xuan. Zhengzhou: Daxiang chubanshe, pp. 173–188. WANG, Eugene Y. 1998. “What is tu (chart/picture)? Or what became of tu in medieval China?” Paper presented at the panel “Tu” (diagrams, charts, drawings) in traditional Chinese culture, Association of Asian Studies, Chicago. WILL, Pierre-Étienne. 2003. “La réglementation administrative et le code pénal mis en tableaux.” Études chinoises 22: 93–157. WONG, R. Bin. 1997. China Transformed: Historical Change and the Limits of European Experience. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. YEE, Cordell D.K. 1994. “Reinterpreting Traditional Chinese Geographical Maps”; “Chinese Maps in Political Culture”; “Taking the World’s Measure: Chinese Maps between Observation and Text”; “Chinese Cartography among the Arts: Objectivity, Subjectivity, Representation”; and “Traditional Chinese Cartography and the Myth of Westernization.” In: Harley and Woodward 1994, pp. 35– 70; 71–95; 96–127; 128–169; 170–202.
PART ONE THE POWER OF ORDER: TU AS SYMBOLIC MEDIATION
I. THE ORIGINS OF TU
LA REPRESENTATION VISUELLE DANS LES PRATIQUES PYRO-OSTEOMANTIQUES DE LA CHINE ARCHAIQUE1 Olivier Venture La célébrité actuelle de la ville d’Anyang provient en grande partie de la découverte au début du siècle dernier, dans la banlieue nord-ouest de la ville, près d’un village appelé Xiaotun, de milliers d’os et de carapaces de tortue sur lesquels figuraient des inscriptions datant de la fin de la dynastie des Shang (env. 1250–1300 av. notre ère).2 Ces inscriptions ne représentent pas les seuls témoignages écrits que nous possédions pour cette période, mais elles constituent néanmoins le corpus de textes le plus important.3 Les chercheurs ont rapidement constaté que les pièces en os et en carapace qui servaient de support aux inscriptions avaient préalablement été utilisées dans le cadre de pratiques divinatoires. Ces pratiques consistaient à faire apparaître sur les supports, sous l’effet d’une forte chaleur, des craquelures que des devins étaient ensuite chargés d’interpréter. Le travail des épigraphistes révéla que les textes qui accompagnent parfois ces pratiques sont des comptes rendus de divinations. Les découvertes archéologiques qui se sont succédé tout au long du XXe siècle montrent que cette forme de divination, que nous désignerons par le terme de pyro-ostéomancie, ne fut pas une invention des Shang, mais remonte beaucoup plus loin dans le temps.4 En revanche, l’ajout d’inscriptions sur les supports paraît bien être une innovation des devins Shang, innovation qui focalise jusqu’à aujourd’hui l’attention des chercheurs, pour la plupart, intéressés avant ———
1 Ce texte avait été présenté au colloque From image to action: the dynamics of visual representation in Chinese intellectual and religious culture (3–5.09.2001, Collège de France, Paris). La version définitive de cet article a été remise en septembre 2003. Je tiens à remercier Grégoire Espesset, Marc Kalinowski et Alain Thote pour leurs précieuses relectures du présent travail. Toutefois, j’assume seul l’entière responsabilité de cet article et des idées qui y sont formulées. 2 Sur les circonstances de la découverte, voir Lefeuvre (1975). 3 D’autres inscriptions contemporaines sur bronze, sur pierre et sur céramique sont aussi attestées pour cette période (Qiu Xigui 2000: 60). Pour une description d’ensemble de ces inscriptions, voir Venture (2002: 30–169). 4 Voir ci-dessous notre présentation des origines de cette pratique.
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tout par le contenu des textes.5 Mais l’ajout de caractères d’écriture sur les supports de divination est loin de constituer la seule modification que les devins Shang ont apportée à cette ancienne pratique. Une analyse chronologique des supports montre en effet qu’une des préoccupations majeures des devins était l’organisation de la disposition des inscriptions et des éléments visuels que constituent les craquelures en fonction de certains principes. C’est en cela que ces pratiques nous paraissent annonciatrices de l’utilisation des diagrammes (tu ቹ) telle qu’elle se développa dans les pratiques mantiques ultérieures. Pour mieux mettre en valeur les choix des devins Shang, et essayer de comprendre les relations existant entre la forme donnée à la pratique mantique et ses principes, il convient de replacer cette tradition dans le contexte d’une évolution générale des pratiques de pyroostéomancie depuis le Néolithique jusqu’aux alentours de notre ère.6
1. LES ORIGINES La pyro-ostéomancie est une tradition extrêmement ancienne en Chine, puisque les premières traces connues, qui ont été relevées à Fujiamen மኅ㐷, au Gansu, remontent aux environs de 3500 ans avant notre ère.7 Dès cette époque, les omoplates apparaissent comme le support privilégié de ces pratiques mantiques. On peut penser que ce sont avant tout des raisons techniques qui ont motivé le choix de ces os en particulier. Les omoplates présentent en effet à l’état naturel des parties assez planes, de très fable épaisseur, où des craquelures peuvent être obtenues relativement aisément sous l’effet de la cha———
5 Nous ne remettons pas en cause l’intérêt de telles études, mais regrettons seulement ici le fait qu’elles ont largement occulté des travaux qui auraient pu être menés sur les pratiques mantiques elles-mêmes. Pour une présentation du contenu des inscriptions dites oraculaires, voir Keightley (1978 et 1997). 6 Si les techniques des devins Shang ont suscité d’assez nombreux de travaux, les études spécialisées concernant les autres périodes sont rares. L’étude de Li Hengqiu (1981a, 1981b et 1982), sur laquelle nous nous sommes entre autres appuyé ici, fait figure d’exception. D’une manière générale, les supports de divination, lorsqu’ils ne portent pas d’inscriptions, ont assez peu intéressé les chercheurs. Cette absence d’intérêt se retrouve aussi dans les rapports de fouilles où les descriptions des os sont souvent peu précises (quantités pas systématiquement indiquées, absence parfois d’identification de l’animal auquel appartenait l’os, etc.), les reproductions sont généralement peu fréquentes, et lorsqu’elles existent, c’est presque toujours en petit nombre. Ces problèmes ont nécessairement limité notre travail d’analyse. 7 Zhongguo Gan Qing 1995: 293.
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leur.8 La découverte d’autres pièces antérieures à 2500 avant notre ère semble confirmer l’origine septentrionale de ce mode de divination.9 On soulignera toutefois qu’il reste alors un phénomène ponctuel et qu’il ne s’agit pas encore d’une véritable tradition. C’est là une des différences fondamentales par rapport à ce que l’on peut observer dans différentes régions de Chine à partir de 2500, et qui apparaît clairement comme un véritable phénomène culturel durable. En témoignent les nombreuses découvertes réalisées dans les vestiges rattachés aux cultures de Qijia 㥱ኅ (2100–1600) au Gansu, de Xiajiadian ᄐኅᐫ inférieur (2000–1500) dans le Nord-Est, de Longshan 㦖 ጊ du Shandong (2200–1900) et de Yueshi ጪ⍹ (1900–1700) dans le Shandong, de Longshan du Henan (env. 2800–1900)10 et de Erlitou ੑ㉿㗡 (env. 1700–1500) dans la région du cours moyen du fleuve Jaune. Certaines de ces cultures ont utilisé des méthodes très simples, semblables à celles qui étaient en cours avant 2500. Les personnes en charge de la divination se contentaient d’appliquer la source de chaleur (probablement un morceau de bois incandescent) directement sur un support n’ayant apparemment fait l’objet d’aucune préparation particulière. La disposition des différentes traces de brûlage ne suivait manifestement aucun ordre précis. Les traces sont en effet concentrées sur les parties les moins épaisses de l’omoplate soit au centre de ——— 8 L’utilisation de côtes aussi est attestée sur différents sites néolithiques, mais de manière ponctuelle. Voir par exemple Li Hengqiu (1981b: 44). 9 On a en effet aussi découvert des supports de divination très anciens en Mongolie Intérieure, sur les sites de Fuhegoumen ༄ࣾᄮ॰ (env. 2785 ±110) et de Zhaizita ንჃ (env. 3000). Voir respectivement Zhongguo Neimenggu (1964: 3 et pl. I.9), et Neimenggu yanjiusuo (1997: 303, fig. 26.1–3 et p. 304). Une découverte plus méridionale a été faite dans le Henan, sur le site de Xiawanggang Հ ൂ׆où un support de divination a été mis au jour dans une couche relevant de la culture de Yangshao ٛᏄ (env. 3800–3600). Voir Henan Changjiang 1989: 200 et pl. LIII. 8. Toutefois, on soulignera que la couche à laquelle appartient cette pièce date de la fin de la culture de Yangshao. Araki Hiroko (1999: 258) a avancé de manière convaincante l’hypothèse que l’objet pourrait en réalité provenir de couches supérieures du site appartenant à la culture de Longshan du Henan et dans lesquelles plusieurs supports de ce type ont été retrouvés. Pour une vue d’ensemble des découvertes depuis le Néolithique jusqu’au début de l’Age du bronze, voir la présentation d’Araki Hiroko (1999: 257–265). 10 Nous l’utilisons ici l’expression de “culture de Longshan du Henan” par souci de clarté, la “culture de Longshan” étant un terme évocateur même pour les personnes non spécialistes de la période. Toutefois, de plus en plus d’archéologues estiment qu’il s’agit d’une appellation trop large et préfèrent distinguer différents types, mais le nombre et le nom de ces types varient aujourd’hui encore suivant les auteurs. Au sujet des problèmes posés par l’appellation de “culture de Longshan du Henan”, voir la traduction par Alain Thote d’un article de Yang Xizhang (1988: 60–77).
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la palette de part et d’autre de l’épine. De telles pratiques sont en particulier attestées dans la culture de Qijia, où ce sont des omoplates de mouton, et de porc dans une moindre mesure, qui furent principalement utilisées [Fig. 1:1].11 Sur le site éponyme d’Erlitou, cette méthode que l’on pourrait qualifier de “primitive” a été pratiquée pendant environ deux cents ans, mais là essentiellement sur des omoplates de porc [Fig. 1:2]. 1
2
Qijia12
Erlitou13
Fig. 1: Traces de techniques primitives de pyro-ostéomancie sur omoplates.
D’autres cultures ont opté pour des pratiques moins simples, impliquant un travail préalable sur les supports. Ce travail visait à faciliter l’apparition des craquelures d’une part sur des os plus épais que les omoplates de mouton (par exemple: des omoplates de bovidé), et d’autre part sur des parties de l’omoplate jusqu’alors inutilisées (col et bords latéraux).14 Deux techniques furent alors employées, parfois en ——— 11 12 13 14
Au sujet de la culture de Qijia, voir Debaine-Francfort (1995). Voir Zhongguo Gansu 1974, n°2: 55, fig. 30. Voir Zhongguo shehui 1999, pl. 114.7. Les raisons du choix d’un autre animal que le mouton pourraient être liées à des traditions d’élevage différentes: essentiellement tournée vers les ovins dans le Gansu, et plus vers les bovins dans les plaines fertiles du cours inférieur du fleuve Jaune. Mais ces choix étaient sans doute aussi probablement liés à des considérations touchant au statut accordé à l’animal au sein des différentes cultures. Ceci pourrait expliquer un phénomène dont témoigne par exemple le site de Zhukaigou ڹၲᄮ, en Mongolie intérieure, qui fut en activité de 2000 à 1500 avant notre ère. L’étude de l’ensemble des ossements retrouvés sur ce site a montré que c’étaient avant tout des porcs et des moutons qui étaient consommés par les habitants. En revanche, on note une nette préférence pour les bovidés pour les pratiques ostéomantiques. Voir Huang Yunping 1996: 534.
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association, pour amincir les supports et ainsi faciliter la production de craquelures. La première consistait à racler la surface du support, la seconde à y creuser des cavités. Ces deux techniques sont en particulier bien attestées sur les supports retrouvés dans les vestiges de la culture de Xiajiadian inférieur. Sur certains supports, on a relevé de très grandes quantités de cavités disposées densément, mais sans ordre apparent [Fig. 2].
Fig. 2: Fragment d’omoplate de la culture de Xiajiadian inférieur.15
La superficie du support ainsi aminci était donc là relativement importante. Toutefois, ces cavités n’étaient pas toutes destinées à être brûlées, seule une partie d’entre elles l’était. Malheureusement, les descriptions des rapports de fouilles sont trop peu précises à ce sujet pour nous permettre de savoir si le choix des cavités répondait à un ordre quelconque. On voit donc qu’il n’y a pas eu dans le domaine des pratiques de pyro-ostéomancie une évolution globale et continue des techniques sur l’ensemble de ce qui constitue aujourd’hui le territoire chinois. Ainsi, les habitants du site de Erlitou, pourtant reconnus pour leurs innovations technologiques dans le domaine du travail du bronze,16 se sont contentés de méthodes de divination relativement archaïques, alors que des cultures moins avancées dans l’art de la métallurgie comme celle de Xiajiadian inférieur développaient parallèlement des méthodes relativement sophistiquées.17 ——— 15 Li Hengqiu 1981b: 44, fig. 10.1. 16 Au sujet de la culture de Erlitou, voir Thorp (1991). 17 On soulignera que la culture de Dongxiafeng ࣟՀ႑, considérée comme un
sous-groupe de la culture de Erlitou, a clairement choisi d’adopter des techniques de pyro-ostéomancie beaucoup plus complexes. Voir Zhongguo shehui 1988: 28, 49, 99, 146–147, 185 et 207. Cela nous incite à dire qu’il ne s’agit pas là d’un développement local et que l’apparition de ces techniques est sur ce site clairement liée à l’introduction de l’omoplate de bovidé en tant que support de divination. Or, comme
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Mais qu’ils relèvent de techniques rudimentaires ou complexes, aucun des témoignages de pyro-ostéomancie laissés par ces cultures ne révèle un quelconque souci de régularité dans la disposition des différents éléments (cavités ou craquelures) apparaissant sur les supports. Cette constatation s’applique aussi aux supports de divination retrouvés dans les plus anciennes couches des vestiges de la capitale que les Shang avaient établi à Zhengzhou entre 1500 et 1300 savant notre ère.18
2. LES SHANG On a exhumé du site de Zhengzhou de très nombreux supports de divination, témoignant d’une activité mantique plus importante que sur les sites antérieurs.19 Les techniques employées jusque vers 1400 y restent relativement simples. On note un travail au niveau du col, l’épine est généralement supprimée et la surface de l’os où se trouvait cette dernière est le plus souvent polie. Le brûlage s’effectue encore directement sur la surface, sans recours aux cavités. Ce n’est qu’après 1400 que l’on voit se développer, à Zhengzhou, un travail associant un amincissement de l’os par raclage sur une large surface et l’emploi de cavités [Fig. 3:1]. Dans la disposition des éléments, les archéologues ont observé que plusieurs supports datant d’une phase correspondant à 1450–1400 environ attestaient d’une volonté des devins d’organiser les traces de brûlages selon des axes linéaires [Fig. 3:2].20
——— à Erlitou, cette culture utilisait à l’origine essentiellement des omoplates de porc. 18 Pour une présentation récente du site de Zhengzhou et des découvertes archéologiques concernant les Shang d’une manière plus générale, voir Bagley (1999). 19 En 1953, 384 supports et fragments de supports (dont 9 en carapace, le reste en omoplate) ont été mis au jour sur le site de Erligang. Voir Henan sheng wenhua ju 1959. En outre, plus de 200 autres supports et fragments de supports ont été découverts sur l’ensemble du site de Zhengzhou entre 1953 et 1985. Voir Henan sheng yanjiusuo 2001: 174, 681 et 834. En comparaison, sur la plupart des sites antérieurs, le nombre de supports se compte généralement en unités, voire en dizaines d’unités pour les découvertes les plus importantes. 20 Voir Henan sheng yanjiusuo 2001: 681.
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1
2
1400–135021
1450–140022
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Fig. 3: Omoplates Shang à Zhengzhou.
Mais on ne retrouve pas ce phénomène sur les supports des phases suivantes au cours desquelles se sont développées les techniques complexes que nous avons évoquées ci-dessus. Une autre innovation des devins Shang de Zhengzhou connut une remarquable destinée. Au lieu d’utiliser des omoplates, ces spécialistes ont commencé à employer des carapaces de tortue, et plus particulièrement la partie inférieure de la carapace que l’on appelle “plastron”.23 L’introduction de ce support est, dans le cadre de cette étude, particulièrement intéressant. En effet, les plastrons de carapaces présentent une surface constituée de plaques agencées de manière symétrique de part et d’autre d’un axe allant de la tête à la queue de l’animal. Cependant, adopté à partir de 1450 environ comme support concurrent de l’omoplate, le plastron ne semble pas avoir immédiatement suscité une plus grande rigueur dans la disposition des points de brûlage. Quelques-uns de ces supports témoignent certes d’une volonté d’organisation, mais on est encore loin de la régularité naturelle présente dans l’organisation des plaques de plastron [Fig. 4]. ———
21 Henan sheng yanjiusuo 2001: 835, fig. 560.2. 22 Henan sheng yanjiusuo 2001: 682, fig. 467.5. 23 Le choix de ce support n’est assurément pas fortuit, car la carapace de tortue
est un objet qui jouissait depuis longtemps d’un certain prestige. On la retrouve en particulier dans les pratiques funéraires de différentes cultures indiquant qu’elle avait alors probablement une valeur religieuse ou magique. Voir Li Ling 1993: 54–56.
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1
2
1450–140024
1400–135025
Fig. 4: Plastrons Shang à Zhengzhou.
Au cours du XIIIe siècle, les Shang déplacèrent leur capitale dans le nord de l’actuelle province du Henan, près de Anyang. Là, vraisemblablement sous l’influence d’une tradition locale,26 les devins de la maison royale firent évoluer leur pratique d’une manière qui révèle une prise en compte plus importante de l’aspect visuel de l’objet. Ainsi, l’adoption de la technique de la “double cavité” a permis la normalisation de craquelures qui jusque là avaient tendance à s’étoiler dans tous les sens.27 Celles-ci prennent désormais la forme d’un “T” renversé, que les devins pouvaient orienter à leur convenance vers la droite ou vers la gauche (Ō ou ō). La seule variable visuelle, probablement utilisée par le devin dans son interprétation, était alors l’amplitude de l’angle entre les parties horizontale et verticale des craquelures.28 ——— 24 Henan sheng yanjiusuo 2001: 683, fig. 468.4. 25 Ibid., p. 837, fig. 561: 1 26 On a en effet retrouvé sur le site de Xiaqiyuan ՀԮূ, dans le Hebei (à moins
de 20 km au nord du site de Xiaotun) des supports de divination antérieurs au XVIe siècle témoignant de nombreuses innovations qui seront ensuite reprises et développées, à très grande échelle, par les devins de la cour des rois Shang. Voir Hebei sheng wenwu 1979: 199. 27 Ce point a déjà été souligné par Léon Vandermeersch (1980: 161). La technique de la “double cavité” consistait à creuser une petite cavité peu profonde sur l’un des bords latéraux d’une cavité de manière à influer ultérieurement sur la forme de la craquelure. Voir ibid., p. 287. 28 Nous devons ici reconnaître que nous ignorons encore aujourd’hui la manière exacte par laquelle les devins parvenaient à définir le caractère faste ou néfaste d’une divination. Si l’amplitude de l’angle des craquelures apparaît comme un critère vraisemblable de leur interprétation, il est probable qu’il en existait d’autres que nous
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Les plus anciennes pièces attribuées au règne du roi Wu Ding ᱞৼ des Shang (environ 1250–1192 avant notre ère)29 témoignent du fait que l’organisation des différents éléments apparaissant sur les supports ne s’est pas faite de manière brutale. Sur certains d’entre eux on observe qu’une partie des cavités est déjà disposée en colonnes, alors que d’autres présentent encore un désordre rappelant les pratiques antérieures [Fig. 5:1 et 5:2]. 1
2
3
Heji 19946 recto
Heji 19946 verso
Tunnan 2316 verso
Fig. 5: Omoplates Shang à Anyang.
Mais vers le milieu du règne de Wu Ding, la notion d’ordre semble s’être imposée pour les omoplates comme pour les carapaces et la disposition du texte commence également à être prise en compte. Sur les omoplates, les craquelures sont disposées en colonnes généralement calées au niveau du col du support (voir Fig. 5:3). Mais c’est sur les plastrons que la notion d’organisation des cavités (et donc des craquelures) a pris sa forme la plus aboutie. Sur les plastrons, deux types d’agencements sont alors attestés; nous les désignerons par les lettre A et B [Fig. 6].30 ——— n’avons pas encore réussi à identifier. 29 Dates indicatives données dans Xia Shang Zhou (2000: 88). 30 Au sujet de ces deux styles et de leurs liens avec la “mise en page” des inscriptions oraculaires, voir Venture (2001).
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A
B
Fig. 6: Dispositions des cavités sur plastron sous le règne de Wu Ding.
La disposition de type B est essentiellement basée sur un principe de symétrie, mais les cavités ne sont pas forcément alignées [Fig. 6:B]. Les textes que nous pouvons lire sur ces pièces nous apprennent que la symétrie était alors un principe de base de cette pratique divinatoire. Les devins présentaient généralement leur demande d’oracle sous la forme de deux prédictions parallèles. Ainsi on peut lire sur la moitié droite de la pièce 32 du Heji “le roi ne suivra pas Wang Cheng ᦸ” s’opposant (à gauche) à “le roi suivra Wang Cheng” [pl. I]. La symétrie est donc ici à la fois présente dans la disposition des craquelures et du texte, mais aussi dans la forme même du discours prédictif. Ce style de “mise en page” des plastrons fut abandonné à la fin du règne de Wu Ding. Les devins lui ont en effet préféré l’agencement de type A qui était pratiqué concurremment jusque-là. Celui-ci repose aussi sur un principe de symétrie. Mais ce qui domine avant tout ici c’est une impression d’ordre beaucoup plus grande, qui est due à l’utilisation d’alignements de colonnes (voir Fig. 6:A). Cette disposition a été adoptée pour l’ensemble des plastrons jusqu’à la fin de la dynastie. Or, on constate que ce choix n’est pas d’ordre esthétique, mais s’inscrit dans un ensemble de profonds changements ayant à cette époque touché la forme même des demandes d’oracles. 31 Si ———
31 Sur ces changements, voir Peng Yushang (1995: 228–246).
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dans le passé un texte pouvait fréquemment être associé à plusieurs craquelures, voire même plusieurs supports, ce phénomène devient de plus en plus rare. L’association d’un texte à chaque craquelure va de plus renforcer l’impression de régularité, comme le montre un fragment de plastron du Musée Guimet qui peut être daté d’entre 1190 et 1150 environ [pl. II]. On décèle en outre sur ce support la logique ayant présidé à l’orientation des caractères, selon qu’ils se trouvent sur la moitié droite ou sur la moitié gauche (disposition en miroir). Ce phénomène, qui atteint alors son apogée, a pratiquement été abandonné par la suite (sauf pour la graphie bu ඵ) comme en témoignent les pièces datant de la toute fin de la dynastie des Shang, entre environ 1100 et 1050 [pl. III]. Cette normalisation des éléments visibles sur le support (cavités, craquelures et textes) s’inscrit dans le cadre d’une évolution globale touchant non seulement les pratiques mantiques, mais aussi les pratiques rituelles dans leur ensemble. Parallèlement en effet, les sacrifices aux ancêtres ont été intégrés dans un cycle annuel précis et les demandes d’oracle sont devenues de moins en moins variées et de plus en plus formelles.32 Toutefois, l’évolution qui vient d’être retracée ci-dessus fut propre aux pratiques des devins de la cour des rois Shang. En dehors de ce cercle, la normalisation s’est manifestée de manière beaucoup moins rigoureuse, comme en témoignent par exemple les supports de divinations retrouvés dans les vestiges Shang de Daxinzhuang ᄢㄆ⩑ au Shandong,33 et même ceux découverts à la périphérie du site de Xiaotun, près de Anyang.34 Là officiaient des devins qui devaient certes prendre pour modèle les pratiques de la cour, mais sans atteindre la régularité des devins officiant pour le roi dans l’organisation graphique des supports.
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32 Au sujet du processus de normalisation des rituels voir Keightley (2000: 47–
49). 33 Voir Xu Ji 1995: 47–52. L’auteur de cet article insiste essentiellement sur les similitudes existant avec les pratiques d’Anyang. Cependant, il nous semble évident que les spécimens présentés dans ce travail se démarquent clairement de leur probables modèles. 34 Liu Yiman (1997) a été un des premiers chercheurs à mettre en avant cette particularité.
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1
2
Daxinzhuang35
Xiaotun36
Fig. 7: Plastrons Shang de tradition non royale.
Tout comme d’autres éléments culturels, les pratiques de pyroostéomancie Shang ont aussi connu un certains succès dans d’autres cultures. Cependant, leur diffusion s’y est traduite par des pratiques encore moins régulières que celles des zones Shang périphériques qui viennent d’être évoquées. Parmi les rares traditions prenant en compte l’aspect visuel et qui semblent s’être développées de manière indépendante, on relève en particulier le cas de celle attestée, à partir du début du deuxième millénaire avant notre ère et jusque sous les Zhou occidentaux, dans la partie occidentale de la péninsule du Shandong. Celle-ci repose sur un choix sensiblement différent dans l’organisation des cavités. L’unité de base est là une ligne horizontale de trois cavités liées entre elles.
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35 Shandong daxue kaogu zhuanye 1995: 24, fig. 23.1. 36 Zhongguo shehui 1987, pl. XLIV.3.
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Gaohuangmiao (Jiangsu)37
Yinjiacheng (Shandong)38
95
Fig. 8: Omoplates témoignant d’une tradition à part.
Malgré l’absence de données plus précises, cette particularité semble bien refléter une forme de divination qui repose sur des principes différents de ceux à l’œuvre dans les pratiques Shang où la symétrie revêtait une importance majeure. Après les Shang, les témoignages de divination sur os ou sur carapace sont beaucoup moins nombreux. Cependant, les quelques pièces retrouvées apportent des éléments de réflexion intéressants sur le rapport entre les principes de la pratique et sa forme.
3. APRES LES SHANG Les techniques utilisées par les Zhou au moment de la conquête sont beaucoup plus proches des pratiques de la cour des Shang que celles en vigueur dans les autres cultures au tournant du premier millénaire.39 En particulier, les plastrons présentent pareillement des cavités en colonnes serrées. ———
37 Yan Yiping 1978: 540, fig. 83. 38 Shandong daxue kaogu jiaoyan shi 1990: 252, fig. 166.2. 39 Des supports de divination contemporains des règnes des derniers rois Shang
ont été découverts, parmi d’autres plus tardifs, en 1977 à Fengchu Ꮥᠩ, au Shaanxi. Pour une présentation de cette découverte et des inscriptions, voir Xu Xitai (1987).
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1
2
Qijia, Shaanxi (1050–950 av. notre ère)40
Luoyang, Henan (1050–950 av. notre ère)41
Fig. 9: Plastrons des Zhou occidentaux.
De même, comme dans les pratiques royales Shang, certains supports sont inscrits. Mais contrairement à leurs prédécesseurs, les Zhou semblent avoir traité le texte comme un élément extérieur à l’organisation visuelle des supports. Aucun parallélisme, aucune régularité n’est perceptible dans le contenu ni dans la forme des inscriptions Zhou.42 Celles-ci semblent alors à ce point secondaires qu’elles finissent même par disparaître avant la fin des Zhou occidentaux. Seuls demeurent alors des anciennes pratiques Shang les principes de régularité dans la disposition des cavités. C’est du moins ce dont témoignent les rares fragments de plastrons retrouvés pour les périodes dites des Printemps et Automnes et des Royaumes combatants.43 ———
40 Wang Yuxin 1984: 345, fig. 300. 41 Zhao Zhenhua 1985: 376, fig. 5.2. 42 A ce jour, une seule inscription Zhou semble obéir à une certaine forme de pa-
rallélisme, mais celui-ci est loin d’être aussi manifeste que sur les pièces Shang. Voir Xu Xitai 1987: 119–121. Pour une présentation d’ensemble des inscriptions Zhou de Fengchu, voir Xu Xitai (1987). Pour les nombreux problèmes posés par ces pièces, voir l’article de Shaughnessy (1987) dont le titre explicite est malheureusement toujours d’actualité: “Zhouyuan Oracle-Bone Inscriptions: Entering the Research Stage ?” 43 Pour une description de quelques-uns de ces supports, voir Zhao Zhenhua (1985: 374–377).
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2
3
Houma (env. Ve siècle)44
Luoyang (env. Ve–IIIe siècle)45
Luoyang (env. Ve–IIIe siècle)46
Fig. 10: Fragments de plastrons des Zhou orientaux.
Privés de cette précieuse clef que constituaient les inscriptions, nous ne pouvons pas savoir si les principes qui sous-tendaient les pratiques de pyro-ostéomancie des Zhou étaient ou non différents de ceux élaborés par les devins Shang. On perçoit certes une constance dans la disposition régulière des cavités, mais on ne peut affirmer que celle-ci reflète une continuité des principes mantiques. On note par ailleurs que les Zhou semblent avoir progressivement abandonné l’omoplate, qui était alors sans doute considérée comme un support moins noble, moins raffiné.47 A partir de cette époque on ne trouve plus de traces de pyro-scapulomancie dans le monde chinois. En revanche, cette pratique a survécu dans certains groupes ethniques non-Han, comme chez les mongols, les Yi ᒸ ou les Naxi ⚊.48 Mais ces traditions ne peuvent être rattachées aux pratiques des Shang et des Zhou; les techniques employées sont beaucoup plus proches des celles des premières traditions néolithiques évoquées plus haut et aucune d’elles ne traduit un souci d’organisation des ——— 44 45 46 47
Shanxi sheng yanjiusuo 1993: 426 et pl. CCCIV.3. Zhao Zhenhua 1985: 377, fig. 6.4. Ibid., p. 377, fig. 6.5. Wang Chong ך׆, au premier siècle de notre ère, y fait d’ailleurs allusion sur un ton ironique dans un passage du Lunheng ᓵᘝ: Avec des omoplates de porc ou de mouton, on peut obtenir des craquelures. Avec des tiges de roseau ou des brins de paille, on peut obtenir des chiffres. Alors pourquoi utiliser l’achillée et la tortue ? “Bushi pian Խᆑᒧ”, édition Han Wei congshu ዧᠿហ, 1592, Réimp. Jilin daxue chubanshe, Changchun, 1992, p. 750–892: 866a). 48 Au sujet de la tradition mongole, voir Bawden (1958–1959), concernant celles des Naxi et des Yi, voir Wang Ningsheng (1986). On soulignera que dans la tradition mongole, les omoplates étaient directement déposées sur le feu.
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éléments apparaissant sur les supports. Dans le monde sinisé, c’est donc le plastron qui s’est imposé comme le support de pyro-ostéomancie par excellence. Les Chinois ont d’ailleurs développé à propos de cette technique mantique une véritable littérature spécialisée. Malheureusement, c’est à peu près à partir du moment où cette documentation apparaît que l’on ne trouve plus dans le matériel archéologique de traces de cette pratique.49 La confrontation est donc impossible. En outre, nombre de ces textes ont aujourd’hui disparu et ne nous sont connus que d’après leur titre dans les catalogues ou par quelques citations figurant dans d’autres textes transmis.50 D’après Li Ling, qui semble avoir eu accès à des manuscrits dont les plus anciens remontent à l’époque des Song (960– 1279), les représentations que l’on trouve dans ces ouvrages sont très éloignées des témoignages que nous avons décrits.51 Il estime que, parmi les textes transmis, les seuls reflétant véritablement des pratiques assez anciennes sont le Zhouli ⑥, le “Guice liezhuan” 㦟╷ ொ, chapitre du Shiji ผ⸥ consacré à la divination, et quelques mentions faites dans certains des Treize classiques.52 Mais, là encore, on relève de nombreuses références aux cinq agents ou au yin et au yang, ———
49 Des fragments de supports de divination en carapace présentant des cavités disposées de manière très régulière ont été découverts à Canton dans la tombe du deuxième roi du Nanyue ত။ datant de la deuxième moitié du IIe siècle avant notre ère. Voir Guangzhou wenwu 1991: 217–218 et pl. CCXXVI.2. Il serait tentant de considérer ces pièces comme des témoignages des pratiques mantiques des Han. Cependant celles-ci ne proviennent pas d’une simple fosse, mais se trouvaient à l’origine dans une boîte en laque qui avait été placée dans le compartiment de tête du cercueil du défunt. Cet ensemble, placé là comme un objet précieux, est peut-être un vestige d’une tradition plus ancienne et ne reflète donc pas forcément les pratiques de cette époque. La périphérie de ce royaume a aussi pu jouer un rôle dans la conservation de pratiques déjà obsolètes à la cour des Han. Par soucis d’exhaustivité, signalons enfin ces quelques fragments de plastrons qui ont été récemment exhumés à Mingyueba ִࣔ᧸, dans le district de Yunyang ႆၺ au Sichuan, et qui datent de la dynastie des Tang. Voir Sichuan daxue 1998: 106–107. On n’observe là aucune régularité dans la disposition des cavités. Les auteurs du rapport de fouilles situent d’ailleurs ces pièces dans un contexte d’habitat populaire (ibid. p. 109), bien éloigné de celui des pratiques qui nous préoccupent ici. 50 Ces deux sources posent des problèmes distincts. Premièrement, il est difficile d’être sûr du contenu d’une méthode uniquement à partir de son titre et tous les ouvrages de divination comprenant dans leur titre le terme de tortue, gui ᚋ, ne concernent pas forcément la pyro-chéloniomancie. C’est ce que montre par exemple un des textes exhumés en 1993 d’une tombe Han à Yinwan ձ, au Jiangsu. Pour une présentation de cette méthode, voir Liu Lexian (1999: 175–176). Deuxièmement, les quelques citations que l’on peut trouver de ces textes se rapportent essentiellement aux cinq agents ou à la théorie du yin et du yang. 51 Li Ling 1993: 58. 52 Li Ling 1993: 57–58.
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que l’on considère généralement comme des notions s’étant développées au cours du quatrième siècle avant notre ère.53 Des changements importants se sont donc produits dans les pratiques mantiques sous le règne des Zhou. Mais les supports retrouvés de cette période (voir cidessus) ne nous permettent pas de percevoir une manifestation visible de tels bouleversements. Parmi les rares représentations graphiques anciennes qui nous soient parvenues, il en est une qui figure aujourd’hui dans un manuel de divination par la tortue appelé La méthode de divination par la tortue de Wu Zhong (Wu Zhong bufa 藀ਛ ඵᴺ), inséré, au début du XVIIIe siècle, dans le Bufa xiangkao ඵᴺ ⠨ de Hu Xu ⢫ᾕ (1655–1736). Cette représentation de plastrons (Fig. 11) est instructive sur deux plans. Premièrement, elle montre, peut-être encore plus clairement que les textes, une distance par rapport aux pratiques révélées par l’archéologie. Deuxièmement, les schémas et les explications qui s’y rapportent donnent l’impression d’une pratique extrêmement abstraite plus influencée par les théories du yin et du yang et des cinq agents que par une tradition concrète de pyro-ostéomancie.
Fig. 11: Représentation de supports de divination en plastron (env. XVIIe–XVIIIe siècle).54
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53 Un tel constat nous invite à la plus grande prudence face à des travaux dans lesquels les auteurs essaient d’utiliser les textes transmis pour éclairer les pratiques Shang telles qu’elles nous apparaissent au travers des découvertes archéologiques. Pour un exemple d’une telle démarche, voir Liu Yujian (1992: 88–212). 54 Bufa xiangkao, Hu Xu, édition Siku quanshu. Réimp. in Siku quanshu shushu
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CONCLUSION Malgré ses limites,55 notre analyse des pratiques de pyro-ostéomancie dans la Chine archaïque nous aura permis de mettre en lumière certains aspects particuliers de la tradition Shang. Les devins de la maison royale ne se sont pas contentés d’introduire l’écriture dans les traditions mantiques existantes. Ils ont développé leur propre tradition en insistant plus particulièrement sur la mise en ordre des éléments visibles sur le support, se distinguant en cela de tout ce qui avait été fait jusque là et se faisait encore dans d’autres cultures. L’évolution a commencé à Zhengzhou, par des essais d’alignements réguliers des brûlures faites sur les omoplates. Mais l’étape la plus importante a sans doute eut lieu à Anyang lors du règne de Wu Ding. C’est là qu’en s’appropriant des techniques plus complexes de préparation des supports, les devins sont parvenus à une plus grande maîtrise du processus de production des craquelures. Parallèlement, la carapace de tortue que les devins Shang avaient adoptée comme nouveau support à Zhengzhou connut un important succès lors de la phase Anyang. Ce support permit en particulier aux devins Shang d’aller encore plus loin dans leur entreprise de mise en ordre de cette pratique mantique. Grâce aux inscriptions qui figurent sur de nombreux supports, on a pu constater qu’il existe un lien assez fort entre les fondements de la pratique mantique, dont la caractéristique majeure est le parallélisme, et la disposition des éléments sur le support. Si l’aspect régulier de la disposition des cavités et des craquelures a bien été repris par les Zhou, on ignore si les principes d’origine sont restés inchangés, car les rares inscriptions présentes sur certains supports de l’époque des Zhou occidentaux ne nous permettent plus de suivre la procédure. Mais dans les plus anciens textes consacrés à cet art, qui reflètent probablement des pratiques de la fin des Zhou, les techniques décrites paraissent très éloignées de celles des Shang, et ce, alors que les rares supports contemporains retrouvés indiquent plutôt une continuité. Il semble donc que les évolutions qui ont touché la pyro-chéloniomancie sous les Zhou ne se sont pas traduites de manière visible sur les supports. Le recours de l’élite Zhou à une forme de pratique divinatoire extrêmement proche de celle de la cour des Shang a probablement été ——— congshu ٤ᑇហ, Shanghai guji chubanshe, Shanghai, 1990, vol. 6, p. 849–981. 55 Voir ci-dessus, note 4.
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fortement motivé par la volonté de s’approprier un élément de légitimité supplémentaire contribuant à renforcer leur nouveau pouvoir. On note d’ailleurs qu’avec le temps, les témoignages de pyrochéloniomancie se raréfient et les inscriptions disparaissent des supports. La concurrence d’une autre pratique mantique doit sans doute être évoquée; la cléromancie, ou divination par tirage au sort, dont le Livre des Mutations constitue l’exemple le plus célèbre. Des traces de cette pratique sont attestées dans le matériel archéologique sous la forme de suites numériques dès la fin des Shang.56 Alors que sous les Shang les techniques de pyro-ostéomancie semblent avoir été au centre des spéculations théoriques des devins dont elles suivaient l’évolution, elles paraissent avoir, sous les Zhou, été dépassées par ces spéculations. La cléromancie reposait sur des objets plus simples (tiges d’achillée, jetons etc.) et était mieux à même, sans doute, de s’adapter aux évolutions théoriques successives. Il resta toutefois de la pyro-chéloniomancie le prestige d’une pratique royale qui poussa par exemple les empereurs Wu Di des Han et Wang Mang à la remettre à l’honneur.57 Mais ces tentatives n’ont pas abouti à la résurrection d’une tradition difficilement conciliable avec la complexification des théories divinatoires développées dans le milieu des devins. 58 Finalement, dans la représentation proposée au début du XVIIIe siècle par Hu Xu, la carapace de tortue n’apparaît plus que comme un support de prestige sur lequel est tracé un cadre rectangulaire, semblable à une feuille de papier vierge, où la disposition des craquelures n’est pas spécifiée, mais où apparaissent en revanche, disposées sous une forme de diagramme, les indications se rapportant aux principes du yin et du yang et des cinq agents.
REFERENCES ARAKI Hiroko ⨹ᧁᣣํሶ. 1999. “Zhongguo xinshiqi shidai de bugu jiqi shehui yiyi” ਛᣂ⍹ེᤨઍ⊛ඵ㛽␠ᦩᗧ⟵. In: Zhongguo Yin Shang wenhua xuehui ਛᲒᢥൻቑᦩ, Shangdai wenming yanjiu ઍᢥ⎇ⓥ. Pékin: Zhongguo wenlian chubanshe, pp. 257–281.
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56 Voir les références données par Li Ling (1993: 244–252). 57 Voir Liu Yujian 1992: 397–403. A ce prestige, s’ajoute aussi l’importance
symbolique accordée à la tortue en tant qu’animal. Au sujet de la pratique de la divination par la tortue sous les Han, voir Loewe (1988). 58 On notera d’ailleurs que dans les nombreux manuscrits concernant la divination découverts à Dunhuang, et qui sont datés d’entre le VIIe et le XIe siècle de notre ère, on ne trouve aucun traité de pyro-ostéomancie. Sur ces manuscrits et sur les pratiques mantiques qu’ils reflètent, voir Kalinowski (2003).
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BAGLEY, Robert. 1999. “Shang Archaeology.” In: The Cambridge History of Ancient China – From the Origins of Civilization to 221 B.C., éd. Michael Loewe et Edward L. Shaughnessy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 124–231. BAWDEN, C. R. 1959. “On the Practice of Scapulimancy Among the Mongols.” Central Asian Journal 4: 1–44. Bufa xiangkao ඵᴺ⠨[by Hu Xu ⢫ᾕ], 1990. Siku quanshu shushu congshu ྾ᐶ ోᦠᢞⴚฌᦠ. Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, vol. 6, pp. 849–981. [Réimp. de l’édition Siku quanshu ྾ᐶోᦠ]. DEBAINE-FRANCFORT, Corinne. 1995. Du néolithique à l’Age du Bronze en Chine du Nord-Ouest: la culture de Qijia et ses connections. Paris: Editions Recherche sur les civilisations. GUANGZHOU WENWU. 1991. Guangzhou shi wenwu guanli weiyuanhui ᑝᎺᏒᢥ‛ ▤ℂᆔຬᦩ et al. éd., Xi Han Nanyue wang mu ṽධ₺Ⴤ. Pékin: Wenwu chubanshe. GUO Moruo ㇳᴜ⧯, éd. 1978–1982. Jiaguwen heji ↲㛽ᢥว㓸, 13 vol. Pékin: Zhonghua shuju [ci-dessus abrégé en Heji]. HEBEI SHENG WENWU. 1979. Hebei sheng wenwu guanlichu ᴡർ⋭ᢥ‛▤ℂ⯪, “Ci xian Xiaqiyuan yizhi fajue baogao” ⏛❐ਅ৾၂ㆮဇ⊔ជႎ๔. Kaogu xuebao 2: 185–214. HENAN CHANGJIANG. 1989. Henan sheng wenwu yanjiusuo ᴡධ⋭ᢥ‛⎇ⓥᚲ– Changjiang liuyu bangongshi kaogu dui Henan fendui 㐳ᳯᵹၞㄐቶ⠨ฎ㓌 ᴡධಽ㓌, Xichuan Xiawanggang ᶲᎹਅ₺ፘ. Pékin: Wenwu chubanshe. HENAN SHENG WENHUA JU. 1959. Henan sheng wenhua ju wenwu gongzuo dui ᴡධ ⋭ᢥൻዪᢥ‛Ꮏ㓌, Zhengzhou Erligang ㈕Ꮊੑ㉿ፘ. Pékin: Kexue chubanshe. HENAN SHENG YANJIUSUO. 2001. Henan sheng wenwu kaogu yanjiusuo ᴡධ⋭ᢥ‛ ⠨ฎ⎇ⓥᚲ, Zhengzhou Shang cheng – yijiuwusan nian – yijiubawu nian kaogu fajue baogao ㈕Ꮊၔ – ৻ਃᐕ – ৻ᐕ⠨ฎ⊔ជႎ๔. Pékin: Wenwu chubanshe. Heji. Voir Guo Moruo. HUANG Yunping 赣⯄ᐔ. 1996. “Zhukaigou yizhi shougu de jianding yu yanjiu” ᧇ 㐿Ḵㆮဇ₭㛽⊛㐔ቯ⥜⎇ⓥ. Kaogu xuebao 4: 515–536. KALINOWSKI, Marc, éd. 2003. Divination et société dans la Chine ancienne. Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale de France. KEIGHTLEY, David N. 1978. Sources of Shang History – The Oracle-Bone Inscriptions of Bronze Age China. Berkeley–Los Angeles–London: University of California Press. ——. 1997. “Shang Oracle Bone Inscriptions.” In: New Sources of Early Chinese History: An Introduction to the Reading of Inscriptions and Manuscripts, éd. Edward L. Shaughnessy. Berkeley: Early China special monograph series n°3, The Society for the Study of Early China and The Institute of East Asian Studies, University of California. KEIGHTLEY, David N. 2000. The Ancestral Landscape – Time, Space and Community in Late Shang China (ca. 1200–1245 B.C.). Berkeley: Institute of East Asian Studies, University of California; Center for Chinese Studies (China Research Monograph 53). LEFEUVRE, Jean. 1975. “Les inscriptions des Shang sur carapaces de tortues et sur os – Aperçu historique et bibliographique de la découverte et des premières études.” T’oung Pao 61.1–3: 1–82. LI Hengqiu ᧘੧᳞. 1981a. “Bohai Yanya zaoqi wuzi bugu zhi yanjiu” ᷳᶏᴪፗᣧ ᦼήሼඵ㛽ਯ⎇ⓥ (1). Gugong jikan 16–1: 41–56. ——. 1981b. “Bohai Yanya zaoqi wuzi bugu zhi yanjiu” ᷳᶏᴪፗᣧᦼήሼඵ㛽ਯ ⎇ⓥ (2). Gugong jikan 16–2: 41–64.
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Planche I 1 plastron. Heji, 32, verso. (29 x 17,5cm); 1 plastron. Heji, 32, recto. (29 x 17,5cm)
LA REPRESENTATION VISUELLE
105
106
OLIVIER VENTURE
Planche II 1 fragment de plastron, Musée Guimet, MG–S3–3, recto (hauteur: 11,2 cm). D’après J. Lefeuvre, Collections d’inscriptions oraculaires en France. Taipei, Paris, Hongkong: Institut Ricci, 1985, p. 64.
LA REPRESENTATION VISUELLE
Planche III 1 plastron. Heji, 36639, recto. (20,5 x 10,5cm)
107
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II. TU AS MAGICO-RELIGIOUS SYMBOL
TIME, SPACE AND ORIENTATION: FIGURATIVE REPRESENTATIONS OF THE SEXAGENARY CYCLE IN ANCIENT AND MEDIEVAL CHINA Marc Kalinowski The sexagenary cycle is the most salient characteristic of Chinese chronologies and calendrical notations. It has traditionally been presumed that the application of this cycle to the numbering of days, which was already a widespread practice in the oracle-bone inscriptions of the Shang dynasty (13th–11th centuries BC), continued uninterrupted thereafter, and hence that it constitutes one of the surest methods for dating historical events and documents. Unlike the cyclical systems of the ancient civilisations of the Middle East, the Chinese cycle is not composed of a series of sixty separate terms forming the basis of a sexagesimal arithmetic. Instead it consists of twocharacter expressions, in which the first character is taken from a denary series (the ten stems, shigan Լե) and the second from a duodenary series (the twelve branches, shier zhi ԼԲ֭). Combining the two elements by running through six complete series of stems and five of branches forms a cycle of sixty units or “binomes”. Hereafter, I will designate the stems as “s”, the branches as “b” and the binomes as “n”, followed by a number corresponding to their position in their respective series (see Fig. 1). Thus the first binome (n1) represents the combination jiazi (s1–b1), the second (n2) represents the combination yichou (s2–b2), and so on through to the last (n60), which represents the combination guihai (s10–b12). One fascinating characteristic of the cycle is the way in which its use was progressively extended to the numbering of the other important divisions of time: years, months, and hours of the day. It thus formed a kind of combinatory algebra in which all the functions of time could be expressed in a single set of terms and subjected to the same chronological, divinatory and symbolic manipulations. What is more, the cycle’s use was still further extended to designate not just the divisions of time but also positions in space: celestial sectors, terrestrial directions, etc. This was accomplished at the price of dissociating the stem and branch elements of the binomes. Some oracle-
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bone inscriptions seem to indicate that days could be noted by a single element as early as the Shang, but these were probably abbreviations, since in most cases the second element can be deduced by referring to the other inscriptions on the piece.1 The spatial distribution of the ten stems and twelve branches marked the decisive point in the evolution of sexagenary notation towards the marking of position. In this context, stems and branches were assigned fixed positions on a schematic device representing the five sectors of the world (north, east, south, west, center), the five agents (water, wood, fire, metal, earth) and the four seasons. 2 The archaeological discoveries of the end of the 20th century have greatly expanded our knowledge of the various forms that such spatial designs took in the pre-imperial period and during the Han dynasty (206 BC–AD 220). The most common and characteristic diagram consists of a square defined by two lines that intersect at their centre, indicating the four directions—called the “two cords” (ersheng Բᢃ), and of right-angles set at each corner of the square thus formed—called the “four hooks” (sigou ራ).3 The twelve branches were arranged clockwise along the twelve end-points of the diagram, beginning in the middle of the Northern section (zi b1). The ten stems were laid out two by two along the cords, also clockwise, with the two middle stems (wu s5 and ji s6) placed in the central section (see Fig. 2). Given the conditions defined by the “cord-hook” diagram, assigning a specific position to any binome generally came up against the impossibility of fitting both of its elements into a single sector-agent. In other words, the spatial representation of the sexagenary cycle could only be effected at the expense of its ordering in time. Yet ancient and medieval manuscript sources show that such figurative representations (tu ቹ) of the sixty binomes did exist, even if they were few in number. In this article, I propose to go through these various tu, examining how the sexagenary cycle articulates with the layout of the diagrams in each case.4 ———
1 See for example the inscriptions on a turtle plastron discovered in 1991 at Huayuanzhuang–East (Liu Yiman and Cao Dingyun 1999: 274, 281 and 291–293). See also Keightley 2000: 40, n. 11. 2 Little is known about the process through which the spatial transposition of the elements of the sexagenary cycle was effected. The first certain traces of the use of the ten stems and twelve branches to designate orientations appear in the Zuozhuan (ca. 4th century BC). 3 This terminology appears in the Huainanzi ত (ch. “Tianwen xun” ֚֮ಝ), see Kalinowski (1998–1999: 138, and 139–145) for the various applications of the “cord-hook” diagram at the end of the Warring States and during the Han. 4 My enquiry will be limited to the materials brought to light by the archaeologi-
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TABLES AND ILLUSTRATED LISTS The earliest representations of the sexagenary cycle appear during the Shang period. They are found on the bones and turtle shells used in ritual divination by the elites of the period.5 Specialists generally tend to consider them as writing or engraving exercises, and this is obviously what many of them were.6 Yet, as David Keightley notes, given the extreme care taken to provide precise sexagenary notation of the days on which the charges were put to the oracle, some of these pieces may well have been engraved as reference tools for the diviners and scribes responsible for recording the results of divinations.7 The piece shown here may be of this type (Fig. 3).8 It is also the only one which is sufficiently well preserved to contain a complete list of the sixty binomes. The discontinuous layout of the text in a table of six columns, each containing ten binomes, is characteristic of all the lists inscribed on divinatory media during this period and reflects procedures that are specific to the notation of days in the Shang ritual calendar. From such tables, one can deduce that the scribes divided calendrical time into blocks of ten days, and this is broadly confirmed by the inscriptions, where the “sexagenary decade” (xun )ڲplays a preponderant role. 9 Similarly, given the regular sequence of stem elements in each ten-day period (jia s1 = day 1, yi s2 = day 2, etc.), the stem can be considered as the principal identifier of a day in the sexagenary calendar, and this too is confirmed in the oracle inscriptions where the use of stems to designate days is attested, whereas branches are almost never used.10 In other words, however rudimentary the layout of the text appears to be, it conveys information that would not have been available if the text was simply laid out in linear ——— cal discoveries of the last century: Shang oracle inscriptions for the archaic period, manuscripts from the Warring States and the Han for the ancient period, and manuscripts from Dunhuang for the medieval period. 5 These pieces are all to be found in volumes 5, 8, 10 and 11 of Jiaguwen heji 1978–1982, ed. by Guo Moruo. See especially heji 11730 to 11742, and 37986 to 38082. 6 Indeed, the majority of such pieces consist of fragmentary lists, usually of the first thirty binomes. On some pieces the same series is repeated twice (heji 38006) or three times (heji 38007). 7 Keightley 2000: 39, n. 7. 8 Heji 37986. 9 See Keightley 2000: 39–43. Later the term xun was applied to the division of the month into three “lunar decades”, at which point the six sexagenary decades were usually referred to as liujia ք( ظthe six [decades beginning with the stem] jia). 10 See above, n.1.
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and continuous form. The second document comes from the Dunhuang manuscripts (9th–10th century, Fig. 4).11 Here the list of sixty binomes is contained in a diagram consisting of a square formed by the eight trigrams. Inside the square is a central pattern of intersecting circles, enclosed within a circular ring picked out in red. The eight trigrams, which according to Chinese tradition represent the eight directions, are set at the corners and at the mid-points of the sides of the square. The sixty binomes are inscribed clockwise around the circular ring.12 According to the text on either side of the diagram, they are meant to facilitate the calculation of the binome that corresponds to the year of an individual’s birth. In fact, the diagram is unnecessary to perform this calculation since there is no functional link between the two elements in the figure (the diagram and the sexagenary cycle), except that the first binome (jiazi t1–b1) has been placed next to the most highly ranked of the eight trigrams: Heaven (qian , NW corner). Qian is also the first hexagram in the Book of Changes. Apart from its ornamental aspects, reminiscent of our own illuminated manuscripts, the diagram has an additional, symbolic level of meaning. Arranged as they are around the celestial circle, the binomes are marking the course of time along the eight directions represented by the eight trigrams, thus imparting a tangible cosmological reality to horoscopic data. The third document, also from Dunhuang, consists of a large square, the bottom part of which is missing (Fig. 5).13 In the central part of the square, a text laid out in columns demonstrates the method of calculating the “annual motion” (xingnian ۩)ڣ, an important feature of medieval horoscopy.14 On the outer perimeter of the square we see a list of the sixty binomes, arranged clockwise, with additional technical information under each binome. Finally, inscribed in large characters in the band between the inner and the outer edge of the square are the agents (wuxing ն۩) corresponding to the binomes two by two (jiazi s1–b1 and yichou s2–b2 = Metal, etc).15 ——— 11 Stein 6157. 12 To locate the binomes more easily, in each figure we have included the ordi-
nals corresponding to the first binomes of each ten-binome series (n1, n11, n 21, n31, n41, n51). Under each group of two binomes is indicated the one of the five agents (wuxing ն۩) associated with them according to the so-called method of “induced sounds” (nayin ଃ). 13 Stein 5772. The missing part includes binomes n53 (bingchen) to n8 (xinwei). 14 On the system of annual motion see Kalinowski (1991: 425–429). 15 That is to say, the corresponding agent according to the method of induced
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We may ask why this arrangement was chosen, given that the text could as well have been composed in linear form, starting with the preface, then the rest of the text, followed by the sixty columns corresponding to the sixty binomes. Should we see it as constituting a diagram with a special meaning, or is it simply a framework used to organise the layout of the text? At first sight the framework seems more likely: ultimately its absence would entail no changes in the overall presentation. However a closer look reveals that the thirty-first binome (jiawu, s1–b7) is placed exactly in the middle of the top side of the square, and in consequence the first binome (jiazi, s1–b1) must have been placed directly opposite, in the middle of its bottom side. This arrangement is reminiscent of the “cord-hook” diagram, and more generally of all the astro-calendrical devices containing the twelve branches, where the first (zi b1) is always placed at the bottom and represents North, the winter solstice, and the beginning of the astronomical year. So although strictly speaking we are dealing here with a frame rather than a diagram, the layout of the text is in fact significant, if only because of the symbolism of the five sectors of the world (wufang նֱ) attached to this type of representation. Moreover, this example is reminiscent of similar procedures in domains other than sexagenary horoscopy. The most celebrated example is the “Xuangong tu” خ୰ቹ (Diagram of the Mysterious Palace) chapter of the Guanzi ጥ, which today we know was also organised according to the symbolism of the five sectors (Fig. 6, see also Fig. 9a in Dorofeeva-Lichtmann, this volume).16 Another is the Shuihudi ጕॡ چmanuscript entitled Wei li zhi dao ٴհሐ (The way of the [good] administrator). A copy of part of this text, dating from the same period (second half of the 3rd century BC), has just been discovered at Wangjiatai ׆୮—Zhengshi zhi chang ਙࠃհൄ (Constant [rules] in the practice of administration). Not only is it laid out in a square, but it also has frames surrounding the different parts of the text (Fig. 7)17 ——— sounds; see n.12. 16 See Allan 1991: 102–103. 17 On the Shuihudi manuscript (3rd century BC), see Shuihudi Qinmu zhujian (1990: 165–176). There have so far been no publications on the Qin-period Wangjiatai document, so we must refer to the sketch made by Wang Mingqin and presented at the International Conference on Recently Discovered Manuscripts (Beijing University, 18–22 August 2000), see Wang Mingqin (2004: 39–42; see esp. p. 41 for the sketch reproduced in Fig. 7). The letters A, B, C and D designate the four parts of the text, which can be read by level (from BI to BXII, etc.), or by combining the same levels (for instance BI, CI, DI).
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The next representations we shall discuss are calendars. The oldest surviving pieces date back to the 3rd century BC. They show that it was then common practice to carry full-length calendars indicating, for each day of the twelve months, the corresponding binome. This is not surprising given the key role played by the sexagenary cycle in the calculation of time. Since the laying out of the binomes in the full-length calendars simply follows the ordering of the days in each month, there is no need to discuss it further here.18 We should however mention one particular type of calendar which seems to have thrived for a while during the 1st century BC in Northern China. What is different about these calendars is precisely that they were not organized in tables, with the twelve months as the horizontal axis and the numbered days as the vertical axis, but on the basis of the sexagenary cycle. The copy shown here was excavated in 1993 at Yinwan ձ in the modern province of Jiangsu (Fig. 8).19 It consists of a wooden tablet about 23 cm long and 7 cm wide, and corresponds to the calendar of 12 BC (Yuanyan yuannian ցց)ڣ. The sixty binomes are regularly and continously set out along the four sides, starting with the top right-hand corner of the rectangle: jiazi n1 to jisi n6 (top, width), genwu n7 to guisi n30 (left, length), jiawu n31 to jihai n36 (bottom,width) and gengzi n37 to guihai n60 (right,length). The lunar data (the number of the month and the number of days it contains: twenty-nine xiao ՛, or thirty, da Օ) are indicated on the narrow edges of the tablet, above the binomes corresponding to the month’s first day (shuo ). As for the solar data (solstices, equinoxes and beginnings of seasons), they are noted in small characters under the binomes of the days of the month to which they correspond for the year in question. This cunning design allows the complete calendar for a year, with all the solar and lunar notations needed to orient oneself in time, to fit on a tablet which is really quite small. The counting of days begins with the binome of the first day of the first month (at the bottom right: initial month, “I”, zhengyue ִإ, day jihai n36), and continues day by day anti-clockwise as far as the binome of the first day of the following month, situated on the opposite side (top left: intercalary first month, “I*”, runyue ၱִ, day jisi n6). The progression continues from month to month and from one side to the next of the tablet, ———
18 On the form of Qin and Han calendars, see Arrault (2002: 169–190) and Kalinowski (2002: 143–148). 19 See Liu Lexian 1998: 247–257. The months are marked by number with roman numerals, with an asterisk for the intercalary month (I*).
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coming to an end after six and a half circumvolutions (because of the intercalary month), on the last day of the twelfth month (renxu n59, day hui ඤ), and after having passed through the 384 days of this thirteen lunary-month year. Though the spatial design is highly technical, it also has a symbolic dimension, expressed through the arrangement of the lunary data. For a year which theoretically consists of twelve months of regularly alternating twenty-nine-day and thirty-day months (354 days), the even months will all be aligned on one width of the tablet, and the odd months on the other. Furthermore, the round of days will alternate between opposite lengths, with the binomes corresponding to the days of the even months on one side, and of the odd months on the other. This feature is reminiscent of the various representations of the seasonal cycle in traditional cosmology, which divide it into two periods, one Yin (even) and one Yang (odd). More generally, we can say that the role played by the sexagenary cycle in calendars of this type is related to its function as the underlying norm of astronomical cycles, and as the principle regulating the apparent diversity of time. Despite the absence of a frame or diagram, the layout of the text has been conceived with great attention. It is noteworthy that the division of the months into two groups of six along the widths of the tablet corresponds, firstly to the more or less regular alternation of one long and one short month (59 days = 60 – 1), and secondly to the theoretical gap of six binomes (or of thirty-six for intercalary years) between the sexagenary count and the calendrical year (360 – 354 = 6, or 420 – 384 = 36). Taking into account the rectangular form of the tablet, this articulation of the sixty binomes to the lunar year is both simple and technically functional. The representativity of the device is suggested by another calendar of the same type, dating to 55 BC (Wufeng sannian նᏕԿ )ڣand identical in every way to the Yinwan tablet, except for the necessary adjustments to match lunary and sexagenary elements in that specific year.20 The last document in this category that I shall discuss here comes from the manuscript Xingde ݮᐚ (Punishment and Virtue), discovered at the beginning of the 1970s at Mawangdui ್׆ഔ (Changsha, Hunan; 168 BC). It consists of a list of the sixty binomes written in a geometric grid (Fig. 9).21 The arrangement of the cycle in six col——— 20 This calendar is from Dunhuang (Jinguan ८ᣂ); see Liu Lexian (1998: 249). 21 See Kalinowski 1998–1999: 135–136. For reproductions with the transcrip-
tions of the three Xingde manuscripts from Mawangdui, see Chen Songchang (2001).
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umns of ten binomes, representing the six decades, is identical to that of the tables inscribed on bones or turtle-shells. The right-hand column contains the first decade, from jiazi n1 (s1–b1) to guixu n10 (s10–wb10), and so the series proceeds from top to bottom and from right to left. In the boxes corresponding to the binomes renchen n29, dingwei n44 and yimao n52, historical notations mention respectively the formation of the short-lived kingdom of Zhang Chu ്ᄑ (209 BC), the accession to the throne of the emperor Hui ༡ of the Han (194 BC) and the first year of the reign of Ying Zheng ᤢਙ, the future First Emperor, in the kingdom of Qin (246 BC). The list thus clearly functions as a chronological table whose special feature, just like the Han calendars inscribed on tablets, is its ordering by sexagenary principles. Thus the ordering of the historical events does not follow the chronological order of the dates at which they occurred.22 Contrary to what one might think, the geometric grid which contains the sexagenary table is neither a frame nor a decoration. We must understand it as an implicit figure, formed by a set of sixty “cord-hook” diagrams corresponding to the sixty binomes. On each diagram we see two round dots, grouped differently. These dots represent what the Chinese hemerological tradition calls “calendar spirits” (shensha 壀ᅉ), that is to say the mantic functions that will impart benevolent or malevolent properties to the positions they occupy. In the first year of the cycle (jiazi s1–b1), the first function (black dots), named Taiyin ֜ອ (the Great Yin), is located on the zi b1 (North) end-point of the diagram.23 It then moves clockwise, year by year, along the twelve end-points, from zi b1 to chou b2, yin b3 and so on, returning to its point of departure after six circumvolutions. Let us note that there is a functional link between the cycle of the years and the cycle of the movement of the Taiyin, since the branch which corresponds to its position in any year is identical to the branch element of the binome of that same year (jiazi s1–b1 = position zi b1, etc.).24 The movement of the second mantic function (white dots), named De ᐚ (Virtue), is more complex. It passes through the intersection ——— 22 Since King Zheng of Qin’s accession to the throne took place in the year yimao (n52) of the sexagenary cycle that preceded the cycle containing the two other dates (n29 and n44), it is noted in third position in the table. 23 That is to say in the middle of the lower part of the diagram; for the orientations of the “cord-hook” diagrams, see Fig. 2. 24 The Taiyin function here is equivalent to the later and better-known Taisui ֜ ᄣ (the Great Year), although the latter usually designates the complete binome, not just its branch element.
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and the four end-points of the two cords of the diagram in the order: East–Wood ĺ West–Metal ĺ South–Fire ĺ North–Water ĺ Centre–Earth.
In the five-agent theory, this is the opposite order to that of “mutual domination” (xiangsheng ઌ: Earth ĺ Water ĺ Fire ĺ Metal ĺ Wood). The first year (jiazi s1–b1) De is located at East-Wood, the second at West-Metal, and so on; after twelve revolutions among the five sector-agents, De returns to its original point of departure and a new sixty-year cycle begins.25 The relationship between this movement and the passing of the years is less obvious. We may set the stem elements of the annual binomes against the positions successively occupied by the function De to observe the following regularities: Position Wood–East
ĺ Years jia s1 (Wood Yang dominant) and ji s6 (EarthYin dominated)
Position Metal–West
ĺ Years yi s2 (Wood Yin dominated) and geng s7 (Metal Yang dominant)
Position Fire–South
ĺ Years bing s3 (Fire Yang dominant) and xin s8 (Metal Yin dominated)
Position Water–North ĺ Years ding s4 (Fire Yin dominated) and ren s9 (Water Yang dominant) Position Earth–Centre ĺ Years wu s5 (Earth Yang dominant) and gui s10 (Water Yin dominated)
What is important here is that the cycle of De is connected to the stem elements of the annual binomes, just as the revolutions of Taiyin are to the branch elements. In other words, the sexagenary table and the “cord-hook” diagrams are functionally interdependent, and it is sufficient to know the binome of any year to deduce automatically the position of Taiyin and De for that year.26 The complexity of the layout comes from the dual articulation of the text, firstly, with a surface level represented by the sexagenary table of the reign-years, and secondly, with a deeper level in which the stem and branch elements of the binomes are disassociated from each other and located, each according to its own cycle, on the positions defined by the “cord-hook” diagram. ———
25 For a more detailed study of the annual movement of the function De, see Kalinowski (1998–1999: 160–168). 26 For example, in jiawu years (s1–b7, n31), Taiyin will necessarily be on the wu branch and De will be at the East (jia stem). Similarly, if Taiyin is on wu and De is at the East, we can deduce that the binome of the year is composed of the branch wu and the stem jia (the stem yi, although it also corresponds to the East, must be excluded because the binome yi + wu does not exist).
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DIAGRAMS AND SCHEMATA Under this heading we shall first examine a figure from the same Xingde manuscript (Fig. 10).27 At the centre of the diagram is a circle divided by its diameter into two equal parts. Around the circle and connected to it by straight lines are eight squares of two types, one type corresponding to the four true directions, the other to the intermediate directions. The explanations provided in the manuscript indicate that this is a diagram—the earliest one known—showing the “nine palaces” (jiugong ୰). Under the four large squares, called “regular” (zheng )إpalaces, are inscribed the four agents which correspond to the four directions: North–Water at the bottom, South– Fire on top, East–Wood on the left and West–Metal on the right. The four small squares, or “odd” palaces (qi ࡛), located to the left of the regular palaces, are affiliated to the same agents: North–East = Water, South–East = Wood, South–West = Fire and North–West = Metal. The central palace (zhonggong խ୰) is itself divided into an upper and lower part. Thus, the layout of the nine palaces can be conflated with that of the five agents: one regular and one odd palace for each of the four peripheral sectors, and the upper and lower parts of the central palace for the Center–Earth sector. The structural homology between the nine palaces and the ten positions representing the five sector-agents is essential to understanding the dynamic of the system as a whole (see below). The diagram serves as a medium for displaying the “daily transfer of Virtue and Punishment” (xingde riyou ݮᐚֲሏ). Prognostications are drawn from the position occupied each day by a set of six mantic functions associated with the branch elements of the sexagenary cycle, each function being controlled by two opposite branches.28 The sixty binomes are divided among the ten positions of the diagram by groups of six (see Fig. 11A).29 The wandering of the mantic functions around the nine palaces follows the chronological order of the binomes, beginning with the South–East sector (the odd ———
27 See Kalinowski 1998–1999: 177–180. The reconstruction of the diagram shown here is taken from Hu Wenhui (2000: 164). 28 The Xingde function corresponds to the branches zi (b1) and wu (b7), the next function (Fenglong ᠆ᚊ, the Luxuriant Dragon) to the branches chou (b2) and wei (b8), and so on. For studies of the system of the nine palaces, see Kalinowski (1998– 1999: 177–195) and Hu Wenhui (2000: 160–219). 29 For the fixed associations between the ten stems and the five sectors, see the sketch of the “cord-hook” diagram in Fig. 2.
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palace of Wood), which contains the first six (jiazi n1 to jisi n6). It proceeds according to two rules: the rule of the inversed order of mutual domination of the five agents (see above), and the rule of alternation between regular and odd palaces. On days corresponding to the six binomes of the second group (gengwu n7 to yihai n12), the mantic functions will reside in the regular palace of the West–Metal (Metal dominates Wood), on days corresponding to the six binomes of the third group (bingzi n13 to xinsi n18) they will reside in the odd palace of the South–Fire (Fire dominates Metal), the fourth group (renwu n19 to dinghai n24) in the regular palace of North–Water (Water dominates Fire), and the fifth group (wuzi n25 to guisi n30) in the lower part of the central sector (Earth dominates Water). Their movement continues through the regular palace of the East–Wood (Wood dominates Earth) from day 31 to 36, ending in the upper part of the central sector on day 60 (see Fig. 11B).30 The remarkable aspect of this hemerological procedure is the strong coherence established between the structurally ordered yet discontinuous distribution of the binomes between the nine palaces, and the principles regulating the passage from one palace to the next. These principles breathe a cosmological dynamism into the representation, restoring the chronological ordering of the binomes and thus giving the impression that the shifting of the mantic functions through space is the natural consequence of their movement through time. A similar, if much less complex, figure is the one regulating the prohibitions linked to the “daily transfer of the God of the Soil” Tugong youri Ւֆሏֲ) in medieval hemerology (Fig. 12).31 This figure has the advantage of being the only one of the documents discussed here that is explicitly referred to as a Tu.32 The nine palaces are represented by the division of a large square into nine boxes, with North placed at the bottom. The sixty binomes are distributed around the edge of the large square in chronological order, clockwise, starting from the Northern palace. The regular palaces each contain six binomes, the North–Eastern and South–Western intermediate palaces ———
30 Because the six mantic functions are linked, in order, to the six first branches and then to the six following branches (see n. 30 above), each of them resides one day in each palace in the course of a sexagenary cycle. For example the function Xingde (branches zi and wu) will be located in the South–East (Wood) palace on the first day (jiazi, n1), in the West (Metal) palace on the seventh day (gengwu, n7), in the South– West (Fire) palace on the thirteenth day (bingzi, n13), etc. 31 Dunhuang manuscripts, Pelliot chinois 2964. 32 At the end of the explanatory text that goes with the diagram (column 10).
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each contain eight, and the two others (South–East and North–West) each contain ten. The binomes written in the intermediate palaces correspond to the days when the God of the Soil remains idle at home.33 The binomes in the regular palaces denote the days when he travels through the four sectors of the world and constitutes a threat to humans, moving successively from the North (from jiazi n1 to jisi n6) to the East (from wuyin n15 to guiwei n20), the South (from jiawu n31 to jihai n36) and the West (from wushen n45 to guichou n50). The diagram is functionally linked to the arrangement of the binomes. It provides a visual account of the periods when the God of the Soil is present or has withdrawn, even if during the periods corresponding to the binomes written in the intermediate palaces he really occupies the central room (zhongting խஅ) of the diagram. Because the binomes follow one another in order around the edge of the square, no rule is necessary to link the course of time with the movements of the god through space. Nevertheless, the dynamism of the system is suggested by the images which show him riding his steed towards the four directions.34 The next figure is drawn on a wooden tablet from the same funerary site (Yinwan) as the calendar analysed above. It consists of a diagram which reproduces the structure of the chessboard used in the celebrated Liubo ք໑ game, fashionable among the literati of the Han and Six Dynasties (Fig. 13).35 We can recognise the famous TLV marks arranged regularly around the four sides of the diagram, supplemented here by a central square called fang ֱ (square, sector) and by diagonal cross-bars connecting the points of the Vs to the four corners of the square. As shown by the characters nanfang তֱ (Southern sector) written above the figure, it was conceived as an oriented space. The sixty binomes are divided among the five elements of the chessboard following an identical to and fro movement between the Vs and the central square. Because some elements have as many as three binomes, each trajectory consists of nine stages. Here is what the trajectories from the exterior (the Vs) to the interior ——— 33 These are n7–n14 (NE), n21–n30 (SE), n37–n44 (SW) and n51–n60 (NW). The idle position of the God of the Soil is illustrated by the human figure seated in the central square. 34 One also has to memorize the periodicity of the alternation between the deity’s positions of rest at the centre of the design, and his periods of activity when he moves in the four directions. 35 See Yinwan Hanmu jiandu ձዧች១ᡪ 1997: 21 (YM6D9) and 125. The diagram reproduced here is based on the reconstruction by Li Jiemin ޕᇞ( ا2000: 73–75). For a photograph of a Liubo board, see Col.Pl. I.
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of the diagram (the central square) look like:36 V
CROSS-BAR
L
T
CENTRE
NORTH:
n1–n2
n3
n4–n5
n6–n7–n8
n9
WEST:
n18–n19
n20
n21–n22
n23–n24–n25
n26
EAST:
n35–n36
n37
n38–n39
n40–n41–n42
n43
SOUTH:
n52–n53
n54
n55–n56
n57–n58–n59
n60
Under the figure there is a list of prognoses, classified by type, for the nine stages of the trajectory. The nine stages are designated by technical terms specific to the game of Liubo, terms that we also find listed, with minor variants, in the biography of a Han Liubo master included in the Xijing zaji ۫ࠇᠧಖ.37 Even if we still do not understand the rules of the game, it is clear that the arrangement of the binomes is functionally linked to the movement of pawns on the Liubo chess-board.38 In other words, the chronological order of the sixty binomes is restored as soon as one follows the rules of the game of Liubo. On the other side of the same tablet another figure is drawn, consisting of a diagram in the form of a lozenge divided into four equal parts. The sides are stepped so as to form ten columns of different lengths (Fig. 14).39 The sixty binomes are represented as follows: two sets of ten binomes in the two central columns; on either side of these two columns, we find in decreasing order eight, six, four and two binomes. The arrangement is not completely arbitrary, since the binomes that correspond to the first days of the six sexagenary decades (n1, n11, n21, n31, n41, n51) are all located at the top of the righthand columns. An inscription under the figure specifies that it was the medium for a hemerological procedure for predicting rain (zhanyu )ॸ , but there are no indications of how the prognoses were made. We may however conjecture that they were deduced from ———
36 The opposite trajectory includes the same stages, but moving from the inside outwards: T (n10, n11, n12), L (n13, n14), cross-bar (n15), V (n16, n17), and so on from n27 to n34 and from n44 to n51. 37 See Xiang Xinyang and Liu Keren 1991: 203. 38 See Zeng Lanying 1999: 62–65. 39 Yinwan Hanmu jiandu 1997: 20 and 123.
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the position that the day in question occupied in the diagram.40 Another figure of the same type appears in the hemerological treatises of Shuihudi (later 3rd century BC), entitled “Mount Gen” (genshan ۤ՞). It consists of a trapeze divided into two equal parts by a central line, and containing thirty positions represented by small white circles (Fig. 15). The five little semi-circles marked all along the central line form, together with the central line, characters for shan ՞ (mountain).41 The figure was intended to find, for any given month, the binome or binomes corresponding to the mantic function Liri ᠦֲ (Day of Separation), considered unlucky for marriages or journeys.42 First, one had to fill up the diagram by writing in the daily binomes of the month, starting with the top right-hand position and then moving from right to left and from top to bottom (see Fig. 15). Once this was done, one had simply to note which binome was located next to the mountain sign to deduce the Liri day or days of this month.43 As in the previous figure, we have here a diagram specially conceived to generate an arrangement of the binomes such that some of their positions will determine a mantic function or a prognosis according to a rule fixed in advance.
CONCLUSIONS The ten documents examined above represent the sexagenary cycle in a non-linear, discontinuous form, and they are all connected to calendrical and hemerological practices. Of these ten documents, we have seen that only one (i.e. the figure showing the daily transfer of the God of the Soil) is explicitly designated as a Tu. This figure is composed of three elements: a diagram, a text and drawings. On this basis, the “Tu layout” may be defined as the arrangement of a text in multi-directional form, divided into sectors, and following a predefined plan represented by a diagram. In so far as most of the documents meet this definition, they may also be considered as Tu. In ——— 40 See Liu Lexian 1999: 177. 41 See Shuihudi Qinmu zhujian 1990: 189. 42 The text which accompanies the diagram states that the prohibition of Li days
was connected to the legendary cycle of Yu the Great, who left his home after his marriage and lived “separated” from his family for many years. 43 Here I follow the hypothesis proposed by Li Xueqin (1991: 30–32). The binomes shown in Fig. 15 are those for the tenth month of the first year of the Yuanguang ց٠ era (134 BC), as they appear in the calendar discovered at Yinqueshan າ՞ (Shandong) in 1972.
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contrast, the documents which present a certain degree of arrangement but keep the normal alignment of text in columns can be called cases of “textual layout”. Yet the role played by the process of “Tu layout” in calendrical and hemerological applications of the sexagenary cycle was far from uniform. In this article, I have tried to suggest groupings based on the nature of the diagrams constituting the skeleton of the Tu, and on the way in which the layout of the cycle is linked to the configuration of the diagrams. In a first group we can place the tables. The list of sixty binomes inscribed on a divinatory medium of the Shang dynasty (Fig. 3) is the prototype of this kind of table. Here the textual layout of the binomes in six units of ten is obviously linked to the use of the sexagenary cycle in the calendrical computation of days. We find the same arrangement again in the chronological table from Mawangdui (Fig. 9), with the binomes applied this time to the computation of years. Despite the presence of a diagram appended to each binome, the layout in six columns is not disturbed, and the principal element of the figure, here too, remains the sexagenary cycle. The case of the calendary tablet from Yinwan (Fig. 8) is rather different. Although the sixty binomes are set out in a loop around the edge of the wooden block, the absence of a diagram implies that we cannot speak of a “Tu layout” in the sense defined earlier, especially as it is the sexagenary cycle itself which constitutes the skeleton of the calendar, determining the location of the lunar and solar data on the tablet. From this perspective, the layout of the cycle on calendary tablets like the one from Yinwan testifies above all to a technical need for producing a pocket-size version of the usual full-length calendar. A second group includes the two Dunhuang documents (Figs. 4 and 5) which show the sixty binomes arranged in a loop inside a diagram. As we have seen, there is no direct relationship between the text and the structure into which it is integrated. The value of the structure is thus essentially decorative, and yet it also works at the level of its own cosmological symbolism, placing the loop of binomes within an implicit representation of celestial movements and earthly sectors. Here, then, we have a true Tu layout. Yet it displays only minor differences with the textual layout of the preceding tables, since the omission of the diagrams would in no way affect the intended use of the sexagenary cycle. That is the reason why I have defined these figures as illustrated lists of the sixty binomes and placed them in the same category as the tables.
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The five remaining figures may be seen as forming a quite homogeneous third group. Firstly, they all contain a diagram which is their distinctive feature. Secondly, the Tu layout of the sexagenary cycle is technically articulated to the diagrams by means of the rules that determine the overall configuration of the figure. The typical example is the diagram of the nine palaces from Mawangdui (Fig. 10). This structure, composed of squares laid out in a star around a central circle, constitutes a schematic representation of the world, a “cosmogram” with its multiple connotations such as the oriented sectors and the five agents.44 The movement of binomes across this spatial arrangement is equivalent to the passage of time, a process regulated by principles deriving from a natural dynamism. It thus produces a coherent figure which connects and integrates space (represented by the diagram), and time (represented by the sexagenary cycle). The contradiction between the fixed nature of the positions assigned to the sixty binomes, and the dynamism that governs their arrangement through space, is resolved by the presence of the calendary spirits. Just as the stars move through the sky, so the calendary spirits move around the nine palaces, and their daily revolution generates the mantic virtues of the system. The method of the daily transfer of Virtue and Punishment is similar in its complexity to the three great systems of calendrical astrology that took shape during the Six Dynasties. In them too cosmograms play a structuring role, and it is no coincidence that the name given to these systems in Chinese tradition—sanshi Կ ( ڤthe three models)—refers explicitly to how each configures space and time.45 The four other figures in this third group share the same characteristics in varying degree. In one, the figure of the daily transfer of the God of the Soil (Fig. 12) serves as a simplified and to some extent artifical representation of the above principles, since the link between the diagram of the nine palaces and the arrangement of the sixty binomes around its edges is more anecdotal than technically relevant. The late date of the document may signify a shift in hemerological practices from a Tu layout to purposes that are largely illustrative—a shift we have already observed in the two lists included in the second group, also from Dunhuang. Next, there is the method of prognosis based on the design of the Liubo chessboard (Fig. 13). Here we have ———
44 On the term “cosmogram” and its applications, see Major (1984: 133–166). 45 On the three models (Taiyi ֜ԫ, Liuren ք֙, Dunjia ሜ)ظ, see Yan Dunjie
(1985: 445–463), and Ho Peng-yoke 2003.
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a good example of the close relationship between divination and games of chance. The binomes are laid out on the chessboard following the same rules that govern the movement of the pawns, and one has only to locate the binome that corresponds to a specific day to obtain the right prognosis, without recourse to any mantic function. Finally, we have the two figures specifically conceived to determine the position occupied by the binome corresponding to a given day (Figs. 14 and 15). These diagrams lack any cosmological significance but have strong religious connotations, the Mount Gen diagram through the myth of Yu the Great, and the other perhaps through the symbolism of the turtle.46 The sparsity of documents offering schematic representations of the sexagenary cycle is certainly due to the relative lack of manuscript sources for the ancient and medieval periods. However the few examples examined here are enough to show that the two forms of figuration which have been distinguished in this article—the illustrative Tu and the functional Tu—are closely linked to how the role of the sexagenary cycle in calendrical practices was envisaged. In the figures of the first type, the binomes are arranged in chronological order, in the form of lists set out in columns or in a circle, with no clear reference to any particular orientation. In the figures of the second type, the role of the diagrams is to define positions within a space that is constructed precisely for that purpose. The way in which the binomes are used depends on their spatial position, not on the rank attributed to them within the sexagenary cycle. This applies not only to the cosmological diagrams, where each position clearly matches an orientation in space, but also to the other diagrams whose function is always to locate the sixty binomes in such a way that they may be used in a mantic context. Although the sexagenary cycle was never as fully assimilated into a system of location by position as the ten stems and twelve branches, nevertheless the examples of Tu layout which have come down to us demonstrate that serious attempts were made to transform the sixty binomes into complex symbols combining both temporal and spatial attributes, and that these efforts were continued through the spatial designs devised for use in calendrical astrology.47 ———
46 See above, note 44. The lozenge-shape of the diagram in Fig. 14 recalls the image of a turtle which is drawn just above it on the same tablet. Although the turtle image serves as the medium for a quite different mantic technique, there may well be a formal link between the two. 47 See Kalinowski 1996.
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REFERENCES ALLAN, Sarah. 1991. The Shape of the Turtle: Myth, Art, and Cosmos in Early China. New York: SUNY. ARRAULT, Alain. 2002. “Les premiers calendriers chinois du IIe siècle avant notre ère au Xe siècle.” In: Les calendriers, leurs enjeux dans l’espace et le temps (Colloque de Cerisy), ed. J. Le Goff, J. Lefort and P. Mame. Paris: SOMOGY édition d’art, pp. 169–191. CHEN Songchang ຫ࣪९. 2001. Mawangdui boshu ‘Xingde’ yanjiu lungao ್׆ഔ ࢇ‘ݮᐚ’ ઔߒᓵᒚ. Taipei: Taiwan guji chuban youxian gongsi. Heji, see Jiaguwen heji. HO Peng-yoke. 2003. Chinese Mathematical Astrology. Reaching out to the Stars. Needham Research Institute Series. London: RoutledgeCurzon. HU Wenhui ֮ᔕ. 2000. Zhongguo zaoqi fangshu yu wenxian congkao խഏڰཚ ֱፖ֮ហە. Guangzhou: Zhongshan daxue. Jiaguwen heji ظ֮ٽႃ. 1978–1982. [Ed. by Guo Moruo ພःૉ]. Beijing: Zhonghua. [Abbr. heji] KALINOWSKI, Marc. 1991. Cosmologie et divination dans la Chine ancienne. Le Compendium des cinq agents (Wuxing dayi, VIe siècle). Paris: Ecole française d’Extrême–Orient. ——. 1996. “Astrologie calendaire et calcul de position dans la Chine ancienne.” Extrême–Orient Extrême–Occident 18: 71–113. ——. 1998–1999. “The Xingde ٩ᐚ Texts from Mawangdui.” Early China 23–24: 125–202. ——. 2002. “Nature et fonction des premiers calendriers chinois.” Annuaire de l’Ecole pratique des Hautes Etudes. Section des sciences religieuses (2000– 2001) 109: 143–148. KEIGHTLEY, David. 2000. The Ancestral Landscape. Time, Space, and Community in Late Shang China (ca 1200–1045 BC). Berkeley: Institute of East Asian Studies, University of California; Center for Chinese Studies (China Research Monograph 53). LI Jiemin ޕᇞا. 2000. “‘Yinwan Hanmu boju zhan mudu shijie’ dingbu” ձዧች ໑ֵݝᡪᇢᇞૡᇖ. Wenwu 8: 73–75. LI Xueqin ޕᖂႧ. 1991. “Shuihudi Qinjian zhongde ‘Genshan tu’” ጕॡچ១խ ऱۤ՞ቹ. Wenwu tiandi 4: 30–32. LIU Lexian Ꮵᑗᔃ. 1998. “Yinwan Hanmu chutu lipu jiqi xiangguan wenti” ձዧ ችנՒᖟᢜ֗ࠡઌᣂംᠲ. Huaxue 3: 247–257. ——. 1999. “Yinwan Hanmu chutu shushu wenxian chutan” ձዧችנՒᑇ֮ ॣ൶. In: Yinwan Hanmu jiandu zonglun ձዧች១ᡪጵᓵ, ed. Lianyungang shi bowuguan ຑႆཽؑ໑ढ塢 – Zhongguo wenwu yanjiusuo խഏ֮ढ ઔߒࢬ. Beijing: Kexue, pp. 175–186. LIU Yiman Ꮵԫ and Cao Dingyun ඦࡳճ. 1999. “Yinxu Huayuanzhuang dongdi jiagu buci xuanshi yu chubu yanjiu” ᏹक़Ⴜ᪾ࣟظچԽᙇᤩፖॣޡઔ. Kaogu xuebao 3: 251–310 MAJOR, John. 1984. “The Five Phases, Magic Squares, and Schematic Cosmography.” In: Explorations in Early Chinese Cosmology, ed. Henry Rosemont Jr. (JAAR, Thematic Studies, 50/2). Chico: Scholar Press. Shuihudi Qinmu zhujian ጕॡچችێ១ 1990. [Ed. Shuihudi Qin mu zhujian zhengli xiaozu ጕॡچችێ១ᖞ՛ิ]. Beijing: Wenwu. WANG Mingqin ཱུࣔ׆. 2004. “Wangjiatai Qinmu zhujian gaishu” ׆୮ችێ១ ᄗ૪ In: Xin chu jianbo yanjiu ᄅנ១ࢇઔߒ(Proceedings of the International Conference on Recently Discovered Chinese Manuscripts, August 2000, Bei-
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jing), ed. Sarah Allan ۦᥞ and Xin Wen ߴ֮. Beijing :Wenwu, pp. 26–49. XIANG Xinyang ٻᄅၺ and Liu Keren Ꮵ܌ٚ. 1991. Xijing zaji jiaozhu ۫ࠇᠧಖ ீ ࣹ. Shanghai: Shanghai guji. YAN Dunjie ᣤཉࣧ. 1985. “Shipan zongshu” ڤᒌጵ૪. Kaogu xuebao 4: 445–464. Yinwan Hanmu jiandu ձዧች១ᡪ. 1997. [Ed. Lianyungang shi bowuguan ຑႆ ཽؑ໑ढ塢 et al.] Beijing: Zhonghua. ZENG Lanying མ៴ᛜ. 1999. “Yinwan Hanmu boju zhan mudu shijie” ձዧች໑ ֵݝᡪᇢᇞ. Wenwu 8: 62–65.
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Fig. 1: The ten stems, the twelve branches, and the sixty binomes in numerical notation: n1 = s1+b1 = jiazi, n2 = s2+b2 = yichou … n11 = s1+b11 = jiaxu, n12 = s2+b12 = yihai, and so on.
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Fig. 2: The “cord-hook”-diagram with the corresponding stems, branches and orientations.
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Fig. 3: A Yin shoulderblade with a table of the sixty binomes.
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Fig. 4: List of the sixty binomes arranged in a hoop in a diagram (Dunhuang, Stein 6157).
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Fig. 5: List of the sixty binomes in a square with prognoses (Dunhuang, Stein 5772).
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Fig. 6: The “Diagram of the Mysterious Palace” (Xuangong tu خ୰ቹ) chapter of the Guanzi ጥ.
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Fig. 7: The layout of the text on the Zhengshi zhi chang ਙࠃհൄ manuscript from Wangjiatai ׆୮.
Fig. 8: The calendrical table from Yinwan ձ (12 BC).
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Fig. 9: The table of sixty binomes from the “Xingde ݮᐚ B” manuscript from Mawangdui ್׆ഔ.
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Fig. 10: The diagram of the nine palaces from the “Xingde ݮᐚ B” manuscript from Mawangdui ್׆ഔ.
Fig. 11: The stem and branch elements of the first binome in each group (B), and the arrangement of the sixty binomes between the nine palaces (A).
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Fig. 12: The diagram of the diurnal transfer of the God of the Soil (Tugong youri Ւ ֆሏֲ, Dunhuang, Pelliot chinois 2965).
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Fig. 13: The sixty binomes on the chessboard of the Liubo ք໑ game (Yinwan ձ manuscripts).
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Fig. 14: The sixty binomes in a stepped diagram (Yinwan ձ manuscripts).
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Fig. 15: The Mount Gen (genshan ۤ՞) diagram from the Shuihudi ጕॡ چmanuscripts (above) and an example of the arrangement of the sixty binomes on the layout (below).
COMMUNICATION BY DESIGN: TWO SILK MANUSCRIPTS OF DIAGRAMS (TU) FROM MAWANGDUI TOMB THREE Donald Harper Pattern and repetition underlie much of what constitutes human recognition and knowledge. Both are at play in the predisposition to formulate a world of resemblances from visually and aurally experienced phenomena, and to attribute existence and significance to that world. I propose to explore the implications of this feature of human mentality in the context of the Han conception of tu ቹ “diagram” through an examination of two silk manuscripts of diagrams from Mawangdui ್׆ഔ tomb 3, at Changsha, Hunan (burial dated 168 BC). The first manuscript contains several hundred drawings of celestial and atmospheric phenomena for divination. The title assigned to it by the Chinese editorial team is Tianwen qixiang zazhan ֚֮ွᠧ (Assorted astrological and meteoromantic divination).1 Their choice of tianwen and qixiang has precedent in medieval Chinese usage, when qixiang zhan ွ first occurs in the meaning “meteoromancy.” 2 However, most readers probably understand tianwen and qixiang, in accord with modern usage, as “astronomy” and “meteorology”; and this understanding furthers the assumption that the drawings reflect empirical observation. I argue below that the drawings are better treated as a system of signs related to divination rather than as a record of observed phenomena. I choose to name the manuscript Tianwen tu ֚֮ቹ (Diagrams of heaven’s patterns), understanding tianwen to refer to any significant pattern manifest in heaven, or in the space between heaven and earth. The second manuscript is the main focus of this chapter. It has been assigned the title Guaxiang tu ———
1 The most accurate published reconstruction of the entire manuscript is in Zhongguo wenwu խ㧺֮ढ 1 (1979), pp. 1–4 (black and white plates of the original manuscript) and pp. 26–29 (transcription of the text portions of the manuscript). See Chen Songchang and Fu Juyou (1992: 154–160) for color plates of sections of the manuscript. 2 See Kalinowski, ed. 2003: 43.
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࠳ွቹ (Diagrams of the images of mantic figures).3 In an unpublished paper first presented in 1998 I argue that the manuscript, which contains over a hundred drawings, is unrelated to any type of figure used in cleromantic divination, but is instead a collection of drawings for use on banners and related tokens. Moreover, these drawings are conceptually related to the drawings in Tianwen tu—in several cases the two manuscripts share the same drawing. My name for the second manuscript is Fanxin tu ᐑॾቹ (Diagrams of banner tokens), and I argue that the manuscript includes the earliest drawings of fu ฤ “talismans” intended to be used for magico-religious purposes.4 My focus on Fanxin tu is intended in the first place to provide a more accurate account of the manuscript itself. At the same time, once Fanxin tu is correctly positioned within a larger context that includes Tianwen tu, relevant archaeological materials, and received texts, we can see more clearly the patterns in intellectual and spiritual conceptions that arose in the Warring States and became increasingly prominent during the four centuries of Han rule. Two interrelated questions are of particular concern to me. First, what evidence do the manuscripts provide regarding developments among specialists in various technical and occult arts—diviners, astrologers, and the like—as their specialized knowledge influenced patterns of thought among the elite? New cosmological ideas arose from divination and astrology, and new ideas about universal knowledge occupied a middle ground between the mantic wisdom of the specialists and the intellectual programs of the philosophical masters (zhuzi 壆). The ———
3 The only published reproduction of the original manuscript is the color plate in Chen Songchang and Fu Juyou 1992: 162. 4 Harper (typescript, 1998a). Both manuscripts were in very fragmentary condition at the time of excavation. In August 2004 I visited the Hunan Provincial Museum and examined the reconstructions of the original manuscripts together with Chen Songchang, the curator in charge of the Mawangdui tomb 3 manuscripts. Chen has discovered errors in the earlier reconstructions, and is making new reconstructions of the manuscripts. Work on Tianwen tu is nearly complete. The most significant change from the reconstruction published in Zhongguo wenwu is the restoration of fragments with text at the end of the manuscript; the earlier reconstruction filled the same space with blank fragments of silk (the fragments with text were among many unpublished silk fragments that Chen is analyzing as he reevaluates the earlier reconstructions of all Mawangdui manuscripts). Work on Fanxin tu has not yet begun, but Chen noted several places on the reconstruction where silk fragments were clearly placed incorrectly. Chen also confirmed my judgment in 1998 that the plate of Fanxin tu is printed upside down in Chen Songchang and Fu Juyou (1992). The assigned title, Guaxiang tu, and orientation of the photograph were due to Chen’s earlier surmise that the drawings on the manuscript might be mantic figures based on cleromantic divination methods (not necessarily trigrams or hexagrams of milfoil divination systems associated with the Zhouyi ࡌ࣐ tradition).
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emergence of yinyang ອၺ and wuxing ն۩ “five agent” theories in the third century BC and the “cosmologizing” of the trigrams of the Zhouyi ࡌ࣐ (Zhou changes) are symptomatic of this trend. However, Tianwen tu and Fanxin tu bear witness to the existence of systems of signs producing universal knowledge that are not derivative of a particular theory such as yinyang or wuxing. Moreover, both manuscripts appear to represent the knowledge of the specialists (especially evident in Tianwen tu, where several specialists are cited by name) while at the same time appealing to an elite readership; the manuscripts bear witness to how the knowledge that arose among specialists became part of the general perception of the world and its phenomena among the elite of the third to second centuries BC (as exemplified by the man buried in Mawangdui tomb 3).5 Second, what light do Tianwen tu and Fanxin tu shed on the Warring States, Qin, and Han conception of tu “diagram”? Already in my 1998 paper I note the occurrence of similar patterns in the drawings of both manuscripts—especially the “cord-hook” (shenggou ᢃራ) pattern (also known as the TLV pattern in Western studies of early China) that is ubiquitous on astrological artifacts and has clear cosmological significance in its occurrence in a variety of other artifacts, including the so-called TLV mirror and the liubo ք໑ game board.6 How should we understand the occurrence of the cord-hook pattern on the slotted bottom of fifth to fourth century BC bronze steamers (zeng よ)?7 On Warring States seals?8 And on Han period decorated bricks?9 At issue is the relationship between what might appear to be decorative motifs—an element of aesthetic design—and particular patterns used as signs to form a system of signs whose function is to render the world intelligible. “Communication by Design” (the chapter title) plays on the dual meaning of design as “a decorative work” and “an intentional plan.” ———
5 The text portions of Tianwen tu are invaluable for contextualizing the significance of the drawings in the manuscript. Despite its fragmentary condition, it is evident that Fanxin tu does not include written statements that might aid in explaining the significance and function of its drawings. 6 See Kalinowski (1998–1999) for detailed discussion of the cord-hook pattern, especially in cosmological diagrams (in the astrological chapter of the Huainanzi ত the “cords” are the vertical and horizontal axes; the “hooks” are the four corners of the layout of the cosmos). For a representation of the pattern, see Fig. 2 in Kalinowski’s chapter in this book. 7 See Zhongguo kaogu wenwu zhi mei 1994, vol. 4, p. 141 and color plate 24; and vol. 6, p. 113. 8 Luo Fuyi, ed. 1981: 493, nos. 5465 and 5466. 9 See Ba Shu Handai huaxiang ji 1998, nos. 402, 416, 417, 418.
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To summarize my argument in advance, by the late Warring States it was widely accepted among the elite that the world manifested itself in ways that were convertible to systematic notation. Both the Warring States conception of writing and the cosmological system formed from the lines of the Zhouyi trigrams are evidence of this idea. 10 However, the Tianwen tu and Fanxin tu drawings attest to another, more concrete aspect of human beings as symbolic creatures in early China. The Tianwen tu drawings render phenomena using designs that, once established, predisposed the ancient observer to correlate what was seen in nature with these drawings from the initial moment of observation; that is, the drawings had a determining influence on the elite’s perception of nature. People see what they are looking for, and a record such as Tianwen tu explicitly guided the vision of the elite for whom the manuscript was produced. When the same patterns occurred on everyday objects, including the tokens and banners whose patterns are represented in Fanxin tu, the linkage between the world at large and the sphere of human culture was materially present. In short, the tu “diagram” constituted a medium of communication. Like language and writing, tu provided a vocabulary that paralleled writing and was far more culturally pervasive than the trigrams of the Zhouyi. Let me begin my argument concerning the conscious exploitation of systems of signs in the late Warring States with a passage from the Lüshi chunqiu ּܨਞટ (Master Lü’s spring and autumn) essay “Guan biao” ᨠ। (Observing indicators). According to the essay, everything has “indicators” from which people can learn the essential characteristics of a thing. The certain knowledge of horses derived from horse-physiognomy is cited as evidence, and the essay then proceeds to broaden the scope of its argument:11 ॺᗑઌ್ྥՈ. Գٍڶᐛ. ࠃፖഏઃڶᐛ. ᆣԳՂवՏᄣՀवՏᄣ. ॺრհՈ. ።۞ڶճՈ. ጸቹᐑᜳൕߎسڼ. It is not just with physiognomizing horses that this is so. Humans also have signs; affairs and states all have signs. The sage knows the thousand years ascending and knows the thousand years descending. This is not a matter of guessing it. Rather, there is doubtless something that expresses itself.12 Registers, diagrams, banners, and tokens arise from this.
———
10 See Lewis 1999: 197–209 and 243–278. 11 Chen Qiyou 1984: 1414. 12 I follow Chen Qiyou in interpreting yun ճ in the compound ziyun ۞ճ to
mean “speak, say.” My interpretation of the compound in the context in which it occurs, however, is different. I treat ziyun as syntactically analogous to ziran ۞ྥ “so
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Lu ጸ “register,” tu “diagram,” fan ᐑ “banner,” and fu ᜳ “token” designate four categories of related objects.13 To paraphrase the Lüshi chunqiu argument, everything exhibits signs—their manifestation is spontaneous, and their significance can be “read” by the sage. Registers, diagrams, banners, and tokens—rather than writing or trigrams—are the cultural products that serve as a material demonstration of the correlation between the signs and knowledge. The Lüshi chunqiu passage explains the function of tu “diagrams” and related objects as part of Warring States epistemological ideas according to which diagrams as well as words provided access to universal knowledge through the formation of a system of signs. Moreover, the signifying function of these objects was embedded in the daily conduct of life and was activated every time one of the objects was utilized. While it is certain that objects with designs possessed symbolic significance in earlier times, it is within the context of Warring States, Qin, and Han conceptions of signs, language, and knowledge that we must situate both the Lüshi chunqiu statement and the evidence of the two Mawangdui manuscripts. Let me turn now to Tianwen tu. The manuscript is approximately 48 cm high by 150 cm wide. Arranged in six registers across the width of the silk, there were originally between 200 and 300 drawings of clouds, occultations, solar and lunar haloes, comets, and the like, many accompanied by omen statements. At the end of the manuscript, there is a section of text without drawings.14 Doubtless the drawings recorded on the manuscript did not constitute the entire repertoire of significant images used in divination. However, we may regard the text as conceptually comprehensive in the sense that it claims to represent a complete system of signs. This is evident from the statement that concludes the text-only section at the end of the manuscript: ڼլթ (ሉ) ࠡቹՀृ, ٺբൕࠡߎ. In this manuscript, whatever is not recorded beneath its diagram (tu), in each case follow its equivalent category.
——— of itself,” hence the translation “expresses itself.” In context, I interpret the “it” that the sage does not guess about as the subject of the following phrase containing ziyun: “there is something [the “it” of the preceding phrase] that expresses itself.” Chen takes the sage as the subject of this phrase, and paraphrases: “[the sage] has something that serves as the basis for speaking of it” ࢬڶᖕۖߢհՈ (Chen Qiyou 1984: 1423, n.45). 13 Following the argument of Chen Qiyou (1984: 1423, n.46). 14 Chen Songchang has identified additional silk fragments with text that belong to this section of the manuscript (see above, n. 4).
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On the one hand, the statement concerns the linking of omen statements in the text-only section with the preceding drawings: it invites the user of the manuscript to extrapolate by “equivalent categories” (deng ) in order to match a written omen statement with a paradigmatic visual representation among the drawings. At the same time, the drawings fulfill the function of a system that is not limited to the set of textual omen statements and drawings recorded on the manuscript. The Han reader was expected to match omen statements not recorded in writing on the manuscript with the categories represented by the drawings; and the claim of comprehensiveness for the drawings themselves did not preclude the addition of other paradigmatic designs. There is a similarity to the system of signs represented by the sixty-four hexagrams of the Zhouyi as elaborated in the cosmological ancilla to that text. It is noteworthy, however, that tu “diagram” does not occur as a technical term in the Zhouyi and ancilla; rather, the gua ࠳ “mantic figures, line patterns” are regularly associated with a xiang ွ “image.”15 Further investigation of the Warring States conception of tu and xiang is needed to determine the distinctive significance of each term. I suspect that the explicit reference to tu in Tianwen tu and the absence of tu in the argumentation of the Zhouyi is significant, and may even reflect a contrast between tu and xiang traceable to differences between the traditions of astrologers and milfoil/hexagram diviners. In any case, the Mawangdui Tianwen tu provides us with a concrete basis for examining the correlation between paradigmatic drawings and phenomena observed in nature in early China, as codified within the omenology of the practitioners of astrology. Unlike the Zhouyi trigrams, the Tianwen tu drawings have a much stronger claim to depicting an observed phenomenon. Yet the paradigmatic character of the drawings is what ensured their polyvalence in several cultural spheres, as evidenced by the occurrence of similar drawings in Fanxin tu. The Tianwen tu drawings are of several types. Some are recognizable as animals, plants, or objects. Some involve linguistic puns. The drawing of a fish (yu/*ng(r)ja ູ) represents a cloud whose omen statement is “great rain (yu/*w(r)ja? ॸ)” (Col.Pl I.1). 16 The statements attached to some drawings label the drawing, as in the case of ——— 15 The single occurrence of tu in the Zhouyi is in a stock reference to Hetu ࣾቹ (River diagram) in Zhouyi, Shisanjing zhushu ed., 1955, “Xici shang” ᢀՂ, 7.29b: “The He put forth the diagram and the Lo put forth the document” ࣾנቹנ. 16 The Old Chinese reconstruction is from Baxter (1992: 483).
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drawings of fourteen clouds associated with states and “barbarians” in the Warring States. Drawings of comets often are named by their resemblance to something in nature, such as bamboo, or by allusion to legend, such as “Chiyou’s banner” (Chiyou qi ಌ֠).17 Many drawings are schematic. For example, drawings of solar and lunar haloes mostly consist of rings or lines around a dot or crescent (the latter for the moon) at the center. A drawing of six concentric rings with a crescent moon at the center includes a long omen statement that is significant for using the technical term for halo (yun ᄉ) and for using the drawing itself as the basis for extending the range of phenomena covered by it (Col.Pl. I.2): ִք૨ (ᄉ) ࠩ૨ (ᄉ), ֚ ՀڶՋ߶. Լԫ૨ (ᄉ), ֚ Հޓᇆ. Լ Կ ૨ (ᄉ), [֚ Հ] ׆ޓ. When the moon has from six to nine haloes, in Under-heaven there is a state that perishes. Eleven haloes: in Under-heaven there is a change of title. Thirteen haloes: in Under-heaven there is a change of king.
As a textual witness to the conduct of astrology, the omen statement’s precision bespeaks the certainty of the correlations between phenomena and their human consequences. What of the relation of the statement and drawing to an observed celestial event? Lunar haloes are noted in medieval Chinese astrological sources, which sometimes mention the ominous appearance of a lunar halo of “several layers.” 18 In modern scientific observations, however, there is no precedent for the occurrence of six or more haloes around the moon. Rather than voice skepticism of the accuracy of ancient observations as recorded in Tianwen tu, we should consider the omen statement and drawing in the light of divination as a system of thought. What motivated the astrologer or diviner to predict increasingly dire consequences should a minimum of six haloes surround the moon, followed by eleven and thirteen haloes? I suspect the statement and drawing realize the ideal structure of the phenomenal world as perceived through the paradigmatic function of tu “diagrams”. The drawing satisfies all possibilities; together with the omen statement, the drawing exemplifies extrapolation based on “equivalent categories” (deng ; the term used in the Tianwen tu passage cited above) in the formation of a system of signs.19 ———
17 On the comet drawings, see Loewe (1980). 18 Ho Peng Yoke 1966: 167. 19 Rochberg (1999: 564–565) notes of Mesopotamian divination that “the system
of divination itself determined what the diviner should attend to in the world of phe-
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Omen statements such as the one just cited and the many schematic drawings in Tianwen tu indicate that Tianwen tu records a system of signs related to phenomena in nature, and that it is not a record of empirical observation in our modern sense of the term. To be sure, the Han elite recognized the correspondence between the drawings and observable phenomena. However, the drawings were purposefully polyvalent so as to set observed phenomena into a larger scheme of significance. The occurrence of the cord-hook pattern in Tianwen tu attests to precisely this type of polyvalence. The drawing is in red, and shows a central dot surrounded by four v-shaped hooks that define a cross (Col.Pl. I.3). The omen statement is: “There is an assassination of a lord while abroad” ڶ؆(ڤმ)ܩ. The drawing suggests medieval Chinese accounts of a solar halo with ti ༼ “supporting brackets”: “(Halo) vapours appearing like triangles at the four sides of the sun form the T’i (Supporting Brackets).”20 However, the term ti “bracket” occurs in the omen statements attached to three drawings in Tianwen tu, where the brackets are red dots surrounding the central red dot—two drawings are of four brackets, one is of six brackets (Col.Pl. I.4). If we lack sufficient evidence to make an unqualified identification of the drawing of hooks in the form of a cross as a specific type of solar halo, there is no ambiguity about the resemblance of the drawing to the cord-hook pattern. Beyond noting that the cord-hook pattern belonged to a system of signs, I cannot explain its specific significance in Tianwen tu or Fanxin tu (to be discussed presently). Perhaps what mattered was this: the cord-hook pattern and other drawings constituted a set of signs that reinforced the idea of a universe that was knowable, communicable, and applicable to human affairs. In the case of natural phenomena, such drawings constituted the ground of observation and interpretation; they were tu “diagrams,” understanding tu both as patterns invested with significance and as a system for the organization of disparate phenomena into a body of knowledge. Let us now investigate more closely the conception of tu evidenced in Tianwen tu by turning our attention to Fanxin tu. The manuscript is approximately 48 cm high by 51.5 cm wide. Assuming that the reconstruction of the silk fragments is generally accurate, the manuscript ——— nomena”; and that “what counted as empirically valid in the series of omens, i.e., what could or could not be an event that presaged, stemmed from the presuppositions of divination.” 20 Ho Peng Yoke 1966: 142.
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appears to have been first folded in half from side to side, leaving reverse impressions of some drawings on either end. However, some reverse impressions in the middle section make it difficult to determine the exact manner in which the manuscript was folded. The drawings are arranged in a grid of rows and columns, roughly twelve across and ten down.21 While some of the drawings incorporate written graphs (see below), there is no evidence of a written text accompanying the drawings.22 Before discussing the identity of the Fanxin tu drawings as “banner tokens,” let me note examples of similarities between drawings in Tianwen tu and Fanxin tu. There are two occurrences of the cordhook pattern in Fanxin tu, in the second and third rows (Col.Pl. II.1). There are five occurrences in Fanxin tu of a teardrop shaped loop: in the second row it is solid black (Col.Pl. II.2); in the fourth row, solid red; in the sixth row, the black outline has lines drawn in red and black inside; in the eighth row, two parallel curving lines emerge from the black outline; in the last row, the shape is red inside a black outline with additional black lines inside. The corresponding shape in Tianwen tu is the cloud for the Shu ᇋ state (Col.Pl. I.5). The drawing reflects the description of the Shu cloud in the Later Han weft-text Chunqiu kaoyi you ਞટەฆၡ (Examination of oddities and transgressions in the Spring and autumn [annals]) as having the appearance of a loop (jun ᰌ).23 Another cloud drawing in Tianwen tu is a square divided into a grid of sixteen equal compartments (Col.Pl. I.6), with the omen statement: “When the cloud is like this, there is victory in battle” ճ (ႆ) ڼڕᖏ. The drawing in the third row of Fanxin tu is basically the same (Col.Pl. II.3), making allowance for slight differences due to other features of the drawing. To be sure, differences between the drawings on the two manuscripts outnumber similarities, ———
21 See above, n. 4, on problems with the reconstructions of Tianwen tu and Fanxin tu; and on the reason for printing Fanxin tu upside down in Chen Songchang and Fu Juyou (1992). In August 2004, Chen Songchang had not yet determined how the manuscript was folded so as to account for all reverse impressions. Given the fragmentary condition of the manuscript, a reverse impression of a drawing confirms the accuracy of the drawing in the reconstruction. As discussed below, some reconstructed drawings for which there is no reverse impression may be inaccurate. 22 The occurrence of the graph nian ڣinside a drawing in the third row from the bottom is the clearest indication of the correct orientation of the manuscript [it appears upside down in Chen Songchang and Fu Juyou (1992)]. 23 For a comparative table of the “clouds of the states” in four received sources (including Chunqiu kaoyi you) and Tianwen tu, see Yamada Keiji, ed. (1985, Yakuchnj hen ࣹᒧ, 50). The Chunqiu kaoyi you includes Song Yun’s ( ݁ݚLater Han) commentary; see Yasui Kǀzan and Nakamura Shǀhachi (1971–1992, vol. 4B, 47).
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but the resemblance suffices to indicate that the manuscripts share a similar “design vocabulary” and a similar conception of tu. Two features of the Fanxin tu drawings provide the key to my identification of them as “banner tokens.” First, the element placed at the top of many drawings is most likely a representation of the pole from which banners are suspended (Col.Pl. II.4). The element occurs in Xu Shen’s შ Shuowen jiezi ᎅ֮ᇞ( ڗExplanation of primary signs and analysis of graphs; completed ca. 100 AD), as part of the (standardized as ); as explained by Duan graph classifier yan Yucai دဪ (1735–1815), represents the gang “ ޞflagpole.”24 Second, the majority of the Fanxin tu drawings are bipartite, with symmetrical designs on each side. The homology between banners and the type of bipartite token most commonly called fu ฤ or jie ᆏ in early China is well attested, and in Fanxin tu we have graphic illustration of the characteristic bipartite form.25 Investigation of the rich vocabulary for various tokens and banners in early China goes beyond the scope of this chapter. Both fu and jie are well attested in pre-Han and Han sources as general terms for objects used to grant authority to the bearer, to permit entrance or passage, and to fix contractual obligations. At the same time, banners and badges served to mark identity and status; they were a visual signal or semaphore (for example, to a local populace or to soldiers). This semaphore function is the basis for the Shuowen jiezi analysis of the word/graph wu (֎):26 [It] is the flag established in districts and towns. [The graph] replicates its pole, and there are three streamers.27 The color of the silk is mixed, each half of the cloth being different.28 It is what is used to hasten people. Thus the word for “hurry” is wuwu ֎֎.
Han sources use fanxin ᐑॾ “banner token” as a broad term for this large and diverse group of objects; there was even a style of script (niaochong shu ຺ “bird-bug script”) used especially for fanxin ———
24 Shuowen jiezi zhu 1981: 7A.14b–15a. 25 For an overview of all of the related terminology that incorporates paleo-
graphic and archaeological evidence, see Xue Yingqun (1983a, 1983b). 26 Shuowen jiezi zhu 1981: 9B.33b. 27 That is, the curved line on the right is the pole, while the three slanting lines are the streamers. No doubt the Shuowen jiezi graph etymology also reflects Late Warring States ideas. Modern paleographers analyze the graph differently. According to He Linyi (1998: 1305–1306), the Shang graph is composed of a knife (Ը) with three lines representing drops of blood ( ). 28 As noted by Duan Yucai دဪ (1735–1815), the two halves ought to have been red and white.
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“banner tokens.”29 This usage is the basis for my assigning the title Fanxin tu (Diagrams of banner tokens) to the Mawangdui manuscript. Some of the Fanxin tu drawings can be correlated with other ancient terms for bipartite tokens, in particular drawings that include written graphs in their composition. Two basic types can be identified. There is one example of a drawing with the graph zhong խ “center” in the center, its vertical line coinciding with the line that divides the drawing in two equal parts (Col.Pl. II.5). Several drawings with circles in the center must be related designs (Col.Pl. II.6), without involving the use of written graphs. Another type has identical graphs on the two parts of the drawing, such as the graph si “four” (Col.Pl. II.7). We find explanations of both types in Zheng Xuan’s ᔤ( خ127– 200) commentary to a Zhouli ࡌ៖ (Zhou rites) passage concerning eight kinds of instruments used by administrators in connection with government or commerce. The fourth and seventh instruments are two categories of token, fubie ແܑ (the fu is the same word used in the Lüshi chunqiu passage cited above) and zhiji ᔆᕪ, which Zheng Xuan describes as follows:30 ແܑᘯՕ֫࣍ԫؤխܑڗհ. Fubie refers to writing in large script on a tablet and dividing it in the center of the graph. ᔆᕪᘯࠟԫܑۖٵؤհ. Zhiji refers to writing in duplicate on one tablet so that [the two sides] are identical and dividing them.
Based on Zheng Xuan’s explanation, the Fanxin tu drawing with zhong խ in the center would be classified as fubie; the drawing with si is an example of zhiji. Zheng Xuan adds the further comment that “fubie and zhiji are both what today are called quanshu ࠦ”; that is, by the second century AD fubie and zhiji were old terms for the current quanshu “contract document.” Quan alone is an old term, defined in the Shuowen jiezi as a bipartite document of wood or bamboo on which the same text “is written separately [on the left and right sides], split in two with a knife, and notched on the edges [of the two halves].”31 The holder of a quan “contract” demonstrated its validity by matching his part with the other part (often held by a government authority). Such contracts were used for functions ranging from government authoriza——— 29 Shuowen jiezi zhu 1981: 15A.17a. 30 Zhouli, Shisanjing zhushu ed., 1955, 3.5b–6a. 31 Shuowen jiezi zhu 1981: 4B.50b.
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tion for travel (a kind of passport) to transactions in the market. The compound quanshu as used by Zheng Xuan referred to the broad category of bipartite documents, not just to the notched wood or bamboo contract.32 The coincidence between Fanxin tu drawings that are bipartite and Zheng Xuan’s description of fubie and zhiji does not explain the function of the Fanxin tu drawings. However, the identification of a relationship helps to situate the drawings in their contemporary cultural context, and to clarify the ideas that linked contract documents to banners and other symbolic tokens in daily life. Let me give a concrete example from Tianwen tu. The drawing of the cloud of the state of Qi Ꮨ in Tianwen tu depicts a bipartite banner with four streamers at the bottom (Col.Pl. I.7). The equation of Qi with the banner design must be related to the bipartite contract-token, ji ᕪ, which makes the drawing both a visual and linguistic pun for the name of the state. A trace of this symbolism is evident in the description of the cloud of Qi preserved in astrological sources: jiangyi ۪ “red garment.” 33 The meaning of the term as applied to the cloud of Qi can be deduced from Zheng Xuan’s Zhouli commentary on the “nine flags.” First, the line in the Zhouli:34 ൄ༳հढټ. ڶٺ᥆אৱഏࠃ. The Director of Constancy manages the form35 and name of the nine flags. Each has a property36 so as to serve the affairs of the state.
Zheng Xuan’s explanation of the Zhouli statement draws on contemporary Han custom: ढृټ, ࢬฆढঞฆټՈ. ᥆ᘯᚧᢝՈ. Օႚᘯհᚧᇆ. վৄ॰ቜ ୴ࢬ֗ॼ९ထ۪ઃࠡ៱ွ. As for “form” and “name,” what is drawn are different “forms” so there are different “names” [for the flags]. “Property” refers to silk-badge markers. The [Shangshu ࡸ] dazhuan (Great commentary on the Book of documents) calls them silk-badge titles.37 Today, what is worn
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32 See Harper (2004: 249–256) for further discussion of the kinds and functions of bipartite (and sometimes tripartite) documents during the Han. 33 See Yamada Keiji, ed. (1985: 50) and Kaiyuan zhanjing, Siku quanshu ed., 94.11a. 34 Zhouli, 27.16a. 35 “Form” translates wu ढ , referring to the “types of wu-banners” (see the Shuowen jiezi definition of wu ֎ cited above). 36 The sense of shu ᥆ as “property” is explained in Zheng Xuan ᔤ’خs (AD 127–200) commentary. 37 Hui ᚧ “silk badge” is written with the cloth signifier (դ) rather than silk at Shuowen jiezi zhu (1981: 7B.49a), where it is defined as a huizhi ᢝ “silk-badge marker” made of red silk and worn on the back.
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by the commandants at city-wall gates and the red garment (jiangyi ۪) worn by village heads both replicate the old precedent.
In Zheng Xuan’s usage, jiangyi “red garment” denotes a kind of red silk badge worn by officials, not an article of red clothing. Presumably this badge and the Tianwen tu drawing of a bipartite banner to represent the cloud of Qi shared identity in Han ideas about tokens and banners, both as employed in human affairs and as signs associated with various phenomena.38 Returning to Fanxin tu, without text to explain the drawings and with only the clues I have detailed, it is difficult to determine the intended meaning and function of the drawings in the manuscript. We might see the manuscript simply as a set of exemplary drawings, and as a source of useful designs for everyday life. Perhaps this was one impression that Han viewers would have had of the manuscript. However, they would have known what the drawings signified and their function. Some Fanxin tu drawings probably served as models for banners or badges in functions already mentioned above. Some might have been applied to tokens used for passports. Xu 㓭 is one of several words for a type of passport drawn on silk and torn in half, the authenticity of which was verified by matching the two halves.39 Another function for the Fanxin tu drawings would have been for magico-religious talismans called fu ฤ. The earliest attestation of fu as the name for talismans is in one of the astro-calendrical and hemerological almanacs from Shuihudi ጕॡ چtomb 11, at Yunmeng, Hubei (burial dated ca. 217 BC). Both almanac manuscripts record rituals to be performed when departing on a journey; and both rituals include use of the “pace of Yu” (Yu bu છ)ޡ, a magico-ritual walk that was later practiced in Daoist religion.40 Only the second manuscript specifies the use of “Yu’s talisman” (Yu fu છฤ). Lacunae in the text render the exact use of the talisman unclear. However, Yu’s talisman occurs at the beginning, middle, and end of the passage, and ———
38 The homology between banners and badges is evidenced as well in the interchangeability of zhi ᢝ with zhi ᐐ “pennant” in Han sources (see the definition of qi ⩬ at Shuowen jiezi zhu 1981: 13A.12b, and Duan Yucai commentary). 39 See the entry for xu in Shuowen jiezi zhu (1981: 13A.18b), and Duan Yucai commentary (there is pre-Han and Han attestation). 40 See Harper (1997: 240–242), for more detailed discussion of the departure rituals in the Shuihudi almanacs and the “pace of Yu.” Yu is the culture hero who conquered a chaotic world. The pace of Yu is also attested in other third and second century BC manuscripts, and its use in magico-religious operations is not limited to ensuring safety on a journey; see Harper (1999: 872–873).
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must be a key element of the ritual.41 A Mawangdui medical recipe text, assigned the title “Wushier bingfang” նԼԲఐֱ (Recipes for fifty-two ailments) by the Chinese editorial team, uses a bingfu ڢฤ “paired talisman” to treat the demonic ailment gu ᧡; the paired talisman is burned and its ash thrown into hot water together with sheep buttock, which is used to bath the person afflicted with gu.42 Before discovery of the Shuihudi and Mawangdui manuscripts, fu ฤ as the name for talismans was not attested prior to roughly the first century AD. Pre-Han and Former Han received sources understand fu to be another type of multi-purpose bipartite token used in Warring States, Qin, and Han administration: one part of the fu was retained by the government; the other part was carried by the person, who was required to match his part to the government’s part in order to prove his identity and authority.43 Extended meanings of fu attested in received sources include: signs exhibited by phenomena; congruence between things; 44 and in omenology, matching auspicious signs in nature with human correlates.45 Knowledge that magico-religious fu were already used in the third century BC contributes to our understanding of the semantic range of the word, especially in connection with occult ideas and practices. The following passage from Huainanzi ত , “Benjing” ءᆖ (Primordial constant), can now be seen to use fu in a double sense as talisman and omenological expertise:46 ࣔ࣍ࢤृ, ֚ چլ౨ౡՈ. ᐉ࣍ฤृ, ࢡढլ౨༝Ո. ਚᆣ Գृط२ वۖᆄԫ. For those who are illumined in the matter of life, heaven and earth cannot threaten them; for those who are learned in fu, prodigious entities cannot confuse them. Thus the sage proceeds from the near to know the distant and the myriad differences are made one.
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41 Shuihudi Qinmu zhujian 1990: 240. 42 Mawangdui Hanmu boshu, vol. 4, 1985: 73. See also Harper (1998b: 301). 43 Robert des Rotours (1952: 1–43) summarizes administrative uses of fu and
other bipartite instruments in pre-Han and Han times, as well as in later centuries. The Shuihudi administrative manuscripts attest to the use of fu as a “credential” carried by anyone not subject to regular household registration procedures. See Shuihudi Qinmu zhujian (1990: 80) and Hulsewé (1985: 104). 44 There is an interesting paleographic example of this meaning in a short text entitled “Xingshou” ۩ ښamong the texts written in front of the second copy of the Laozi ۔ from Mawangdui, which writes that words are the fu “tokens” of the heart. See Mawangdui Hanmu boshu, vol. 1 (1980: 78). 45 Guanzi, Zhuzi jicheng ed., “Shuidi” ֽچ, 14.236, describes jade as a material that is furui ฤᅗ “fortune betokening”; later uses of furui in received sources clearly denote signs from heaven. 46 Huainan honglie jijie 1989: 8.249.
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“Learned in fu” parallels “illumined in the matter of life,” and in both cases the knowledge empowers individuals to confront “heaven and earth” without fear and “prodigious entities” without confusion. In the latter case, “prodigious entities” are not only uncanny phenomena addressed by omenology, but are also spirit-world hazards that talismans control (exemplified by Yu’s talisman to ensure safe travel and the paired talisman to treat demonic gu). I am not the first to speculate that the Fanxin tu drawings might include talismans. Before the manuscript was published, and assigned the title Guaxiang tu, it had been referred to as Fulu ฤ仁 (Talismans; the term fulu originated in Daoist religion but has come to be the general word for “talisman”).47 If that title was replaced by Guaxiang tu because there seemed to be insufficient evidence to prove that the drawings are talisman designs, it is time to reevaluate the evidence. To be sure, the Fanxin tu drawings do not resemble talisman designs discovered on Later Han pottery jars and other materials (datable examples are all second century AD), which do resemble talismans used in early Daoist religion.48 However, resemblance to second century and later talismans should not be the basis for determining the appearance of the talismans named in the Shuihudi and Mawangdui manuscripts. The very name bingfu “paired talisman” in the Mawangdui medical text suggests a talisman that has the bipartite form of other early fu tokens—a bipartite form that is illustrated in most Fanxin tu drawings. If it can be shown that a Fanxin tu drawing fulfills the function of talisman, we have a basis for matching the drawing with the Shuihudi and Mawangdui manuscript references to fu as talisman and for identifying a form of talisman that preceded the second century examples. I judge one Fanxin tu drawing to provide the necessary evidence. The drawing is in the lower right corner of the manuscript (Col.Pl. II.8).49 ———
47 See the list of manuscripts in Changsha Mawangdui ersanhao Hanmu, vol. 1 (2004: 90). In the list, the title Guaxiang tu is given first, following Chen Songchang and Fu Juyou (1992), and my Fanxin tu is cited as a third proposed name for the manuscript. In early Daoist religion, fu and lu (usually written 㙷) refer to lu “registers” received at different stages of religious initiation and the fu associated with the registers. See Schipper 1978: 376–378. 48 Wang Yucheng (1996: 267–301) discusses evidence of early talismans, including the second century examples, which Wang regards as “Daoist.” His judgment is not shared by all scholars who study early talismans. For a recent study of several second century talisman designs, see Liu Lexian (2003: 272–296). An example of a talisman on a pottery jar is discussed below (see n. 54). 49 Specifically, the drawing is the second from the right in the next to last row. The accuracy of the reconstruction for this part of the manuscript is confirmed by
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There are identical marks on both parts of the drawing, and it is clear that the marks are graphs, which makes the drawing an example of zhiji (“writing in duplicate on one tablet so that the two sides are identical”).50 The graphs are da yi (ՕԬ);51 that is, they record the name of the deity Taiyi (Grand One), variously written ֜ԫ, ԫ, ֜Ԭ, Ԭ in received sources; and written Օԫ in a late fourth century BC manuscript from Guodian ພ ࢋ tomb 1, at Jingmen, Hubei, 52 and in the inscription accompanying the depiction of the deity on a Mawangdui silk manuscript.53 Li Ling has established the relationship between the Mawangdui manuscript, which he refers to as Bibing tu ᝩቹ (Diagram to repel weapons), and three talismanic objects: the fourth or third century BC dagger axe with the inscription bingbi Taisui ᝩ֜ᄣ (weapon to repel Grand Year), which depicts the standing figure of Taiyi just as in Bibing tu; the Taiyi feng ֜ԫᔴ (Grand One spear), a ritual banner described in Shiji ಖ ([Grand] Scribe’s records) and Hanshu ዧ (Book of Han); and the second century AD talisman written in red on the pottery ordinance jar from the tomb of Mr. Cao ඦּ, which combines a representation of the stars of the Taiyi constellation with written graphs (Fig. 1). 54 The ordinance-jar talisman is one of several archaeological examples of talismans from the Later Han period. Li Ling’s study is invaluable for demonstrating the correspondence between the ordinance-jar talisman and earlier iconographic depictions ——— reverse impressions of all four drawings in the lower right corner on the opposite side (the result of folding the silk in half). 50 See above, n. 30. A drawing located second from the left in the next to last row also appears to be an example of zhiji, with columns of identical lines in both parts. However, I cannot identify the graphs. 51 Examples of this form of the graph Օ, in which the upper and lower parts of the graph are not connected, are numerous in Warring States paleographic materials; see He Linyi (1998: 920–921). For an example in the Mawangdui tomb 3 bambooslip inventory of burial goods, see Changsha Mawangdui ersanhao Hanmu, vol. 1 (2004: pl. 21, slip 14). 52 The assigned title is Dayi sheng shui Օԫ( ֽسGrand One generates water; they are the first words of the text). See Guodian Chumu zhujian (1998: 13). 53 Chen Songchang and Fu Juyou (1992: 35). For a study of the manuscript that connects its structure with references to magico-religious practices in received texts and with archaeological examples of Later Han talismans, see Li Ling (1995–1996: 1–39). 54 Li Ling (1995–1996: 18–25). A second talisman design is written on the jar next to the Taiyi talisman. The talismans are preceded by a text whose function is described by Seidel (1987: 25), as “celestial ordinances for the dead” both to protect the tomb site and to “introduc[e] the deceased to the netherworld administration.” Chinese archaeological reports refer to such texts as zhenmu wen ች֮ “tombquelling texts.” I follow Seidel in referring to the jars as “ordinance jars.”
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of Taiyi, thus showing visual antecedents to the later talisman. The Fanxin tu drawing adds to the body of evidence of Han magico-religious ideas and practices associated with Taiyi, and attests to one form of a Taiyi talisman in the second century BC. Although it is the only Fanxin tu drawing that I can identify as a talisman, the manuscript probably includes more examples that may represent other forms of talisman composition.55 Regarding the proper name to apply to the Taiyi talisman, the bipartite form is the visual counterpart to the term bingfu “paired talisman” in the Mawangdui medical text. As a talisman, the drawing shows the link between fu as bipartite tokens with multiple uses in second century BC society and talismans; that is, it shows a specifically religious application of a widely used written instrument. I would argue that in Han times the magico-religious uses of some drawings in Fanxin tu were not distinguished from administrative and other uses of the manuscript’s drawings to make tokens, banners, or contracts. As a collection of drawings for various purposes, including magico-religious operations, Fanxin tu bears witness to a world in which intellectual and magico-religious attitudes were integrated as the elite pursued everyday life. Modern scholarship on early China tends to continue to view Han life through the lens of received sources, which mostly ignore the everyday or common religion in which the elite also participated. Fanxin tu and other new archaeological materials are restoring evidence of the place of religion in Han elite life, which also adds clarity to our understanding of the formation of Daoist religion in the Later Han.56 Many details about Fanxin tu remain unknown. However, I feel ———
55 In my 1998a paper (see above, n. 4) I speculate that another Fanxin tu drawing includes a stylized rendering of the graph Yu છ, associate the drawing with fubie tokens (“writing in large script on a tablet and dividing it in the center”), and suggest that it might be an example of the Yu talisman mentioned in the Shuihudi almanac. The drawing is in the upper right corner of the reconstruction of Fanxin tu. Based only on the plate in Chen Songchang and Fu Juyou (1992) it is evident that the drawing was reconstructed by patching together fragments of silk, and that at least one fragment is clearly misplaced. Moreover, there is no trace of a reverse impression to confirm the accuracy of the reconstructed drawing. After examining the original manuscript together with Chen Songchang at the Hunan Provincial Museum in August 2004, I determined that probable errors in the current reconstruction make it unwise to speculate about the drawing. The speculation might be worth reviving if warranted by a new reconstruction of Fanxin tu by Chen Songchang. 56 Harper (2004: 229–231 and 248–266) discusses evidence of “religious contracts” used as part of prayer and sacrifice in the everyday religion of the elite, and proposes use of “common religion” (rather than folk or popular religion) to refer to this religion.
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confident in relating the manuscript to the Lüshi chunqiu statement on the universality of signs and their use in everyday objects such as diagrams (tu ቹ), banners (fan ᐑ), and tokens (fu ᜳ). The influence of the drawings in elite culture lay in their ubiquity, and in the fact that the drawings bespoke a confidence in a world that was open to examination—an encoded world that sages decoded and made accessible to society in material form. Recognition of a phenomenon in heaven that was perceived to conform to a paradigmatic pattern (such as the cord-hook pattern or the sixteen-square grid in Tianwen tu) and encounters with the pattern in the routines of daily life were mutually confirming; they reinforced the conviction that the world was meaningful and not random. Viewed in the light of the two Mawangdui manuscripts, the argument on signs articulated in the Lüshi chunqiu represented a common understanding rather than an argument in need of demonstration. There remains the issue of how the awareness of signs—as crystallized in paradigmatic patterns that the conclusion of Tianwen tu explicitly calls tu “diagrams”—related to broader appreciation of designs and illustrations. There were surely many decorative designs that the elite did not perceive as significant signs; and surely their response to figural drawings differed from their appreciation of the stylized shapes of the majority of drawings in Tianwen tu and Fanxin tu. Further, I cannot say how the elite responded to every occurrence of an obviously significant pattern such as the cord-hook pattern—in astrological devices, game boards, seals, mirrors, tokens, decorated bricks, steamers, and so forth. Nevertheless, judging from the Lüshi chunqiu and the two Mawangdui manuscripts, among the elite of the third and second centuries BC design and epistemology coalesced in a new idea of tu. That a trend was underway is evident in first century BC references to tuchen ቹᨅ “diagrams and prophecies” and tuwei ቹᒮ “diagrams and weft-texts” as terms for a conception of knowledge in which diagrams functioned together with the written word to reveal a universal plan—at once cosmic and divine.57
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57 See Dull 1966: 1–14.
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REFERENCES Ba Shu Handai huaxiang ji ֣ᇋዧזቝႃ.1998. [Ed. Gong Tingwan ݪᆄ, Gong Yu د, and Dai Jialing ᚮቯສ]. Beijing: Wenwu. BAXTER, William. 1992. A Handbook of Old Chinese Phonology. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter. Changsha Mawangdui ersanhao Hanmu ९׆್ޥഔԲԿᇆዧች, vol. 1. 2004. [Ed. Hunan sheng bowuguan ྋতઊ໑ढ塢 and Hunan sheng wenwu kaogu yanjiu suo ྋতઊ֮ढײەઔߒࢬ]. Beijing:Wenwu. CHEN Qiyou ຫ࡛ᅏ. 1984. Lüshi chunqiu jiaoshi ּܨਞટீᤩ. Shanghai: Xuelin. CHEN Songchang ຫ࣪९ and Fu Juyou ແᜰڶ. 1992. Mawangdui Hanmu wenwu ್ ׆ഔዧች֮ढ. Changsha: Hunan. DULL, Jack L. 1966. A Historical Introduction to the Apochryphal (Ch’an–Wei) Texts of the Han Dynasty. Ph.D. diss. University of Washington. Guanzi ጥ. Zhuzi jicheng 壆ႃ ګed. Guodian Chumu zhujian ພࢋᄑችێ១. 1998. [Ed. Jingmen shi bowuguan ౸॰ؑ ໑ढ塢]. Beijing: Wenwu. HARPER, Donald. 1997. “Warring States, Qin, and Han Manuscripts Related to Natural Philosophy and the Occult.” In: New Sources of Early Chinese History: An Introduction to the Reading of Inscriptions and Manuscripts, ed. Edward L. Shaughnessy. Berkeley: Society for the Study of Early China and Institute of East Asian Studies, University of California, Berkeley, pp. 223–252. ——. 1998a. “The Magico-religious Conception of Tu ‘Diagram’ in Early Chinese Thought” (typescript). ——. 1998b. Early Chinese Medical Literature: The Mawangdui Medical Manuscripts. London: Kegan Paul. ——. 1999. “Warring States Natural Philosophy and Occult Thought.” In: The Cambridge History of Ancient China: From the Origins of Civilization to 221 B.C., ed. Michael Loewe and Edward L. Shaughnessy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 813–884. ——. 2004. “Contracts with the Spirit World in Han Common Religion: The Xuning Prayer and Sacrifice Documents of AD 79.” Cahiers d’Extrême–Asie 14: 227– 267. HE Linyi ۶ྱᏚ. 1998. Zhanguo guwen zidian ᖏഏ ࠢڗ ֮ײ. Beijing: Zhonghua. HO Peng Yoke. 1966. The Astronomical Chapters of the Chin Shu. Paris: Mouton. Huainan honglie jijie তព௺ႃᇞ. 1989. Beijing: Zhonghua. HULSEWÉ, Anthony F.P. 1985. Remnants of Ch’in Law. Leiden: E.J. Brill. Kaiyuan zhanjing ၲցᆖ. Siku quanshu ٤ ed. KALINOWSKI, Marc. 1998–1999. “The Xingde ٩ᐚ Texts from Mawangdui.” Early China 23–24: 125–202. ——, ed. 2003. Divination et société dans la Chine médiévale: Étude des manuscripts de Dunhuang de la Bibliothèque nationale de France et de la British Library. Paris: Bibliothèque nationale de France. LOEWE, Michael. 1980. “The Han View of Comets.” Bulletin of the Museum of Far Eastern Antiquities 52: 1–31. LEWIS, Mark Edward. 1999. Writing and Authority in Early China. Albany: State University of New York Press. LI Ling. 1995–1996. “An Archaeological Study of Taiyi (Grand One) Worship.” Early Medieval China 2: 1–39. LIU Lexian Ꮵᑗᔃ. 2003. Jianbo shushu wenxian tanlun ១ࢇᑇ֮൶ᓵ. Wuhan: Hubei jiaoyu. LUO Fuyi ᢅ壂ᙲ, ed. 1981. Guxi huibian ײᡮნᒳ. Beijing: Wenwu.
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Mawangdui Hanmu boshu ್׆ഔዧችࢇ, vol. 1. 1980. [Ed. Guojia wenwuju guwenxian yanjiushi ഏ୮֮ढ֮ײݝઔߒ]. Beijing: Wenwu. Mawangdui Hanmu boshu ್׆ഔዧችࢇ, vol. 4. 1985. [Ed. Mawangdui Hanmu boshu zhengli xiaozu ್׆ഔዧችࢇᖞ՛ิ]. Beijing: Wenwu. ROCHBERG, Francesca. 1999. “Empiricism in Babylonian Omen Texts and the Classification of Mesopotamian Divination as Science.” Journal of the American Oriental Society 119: 559–569. DES ROTOURS, Robert. 1952. “Les insignes en deux parties (fou ฤ) sous la dynastie des T’ang (618–907).” T’oung Pao 41: 1–148. SEIDEL, Anna. 1987. “Traces of Han Religion in Funeral Texts Found in Tombs.” In: Dǀkyǀ to shnjkyǀ bunka ሐඒ圲ࡲඒ֮֏, ed. Akizuki Kan’ei ટִᨠ䀆. Tǀkyǀ: Hirakawa, pp. 21–57. SCHIPPER, Kristofer. 1978. “The Taoist Body.” History of Religions 17: 355–386. Shuihudi Qinmu zhujian ጕॡچችێ១. 1990. [Ed. Shuihudi Qinmu zhujian zhengli xiaozu ጕॡچችێ១ᖞ՛ิ]. Beijing: Wenwu. Shuowen jiezi zhu ᎅ֮ᇞࣹڗ. 1981. Shanghai: Shanghai guji. WANG Yucheng ګߛ׆. 1996. “Wenwu suojian Zhongguo gudai daofu shulun” ֮ढ ࢬߠխഏזײሐฤ૪ᓵ. Daojia wenhua yanjiu ሐ୮֮֏ઔߒ 9: 267–301. XUE Yingqun ᆢ. 1983a. “Handai fuxin kaoshu shang” ዧזฤॾە૪Ղ. Xibei shidi ۫ چק1983.3: 72–82. ——. 1983b. “Handai fuxin kaoshu xia” ዧזฤॾە૪Հ. Xibei shidi 1983.4: 69–80. YAMADA Keiji ՞ضᐜࠝ, ed. 1985. Shin hatsugen Chnjgoku kagakushi shiryǀ no kenkynj ᄅ࿇ խ ഏઝ ᖂᇷ ற圸ઔߒ. Kyǀto: Kyǀto daigaku jinbun kagaku kenkynjjo. YASUI Kǀzan ࡺڜଉ՞ and NAKAMURA Shǀhachi խޘᑾԶ. 1971–1992. Jnjshnj isho shnjsei ૹଥᒮႃګ. Tǀkyǀ: Meitoku. Zhongguo kaogu wenwu zhi mei խഏ ֮ײ ەढհભ. 1994. Beijing: Wenwu. Zhouli ࡌ៖. Shisanjing zhushu ԼԿᆖࣹง, ed. 1955. Taibei: Yiwen. Zhouyi ࡌ࣐. Shisanjing zhushu ԼԿᆖࣹง, ed. 1 955. Taibei: Yiwen.
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Fig. 1: Talisman on second century AD ordinance jar (from Kaogu yu wenwu ײە ፖ֮ढ 1980.1, 47).
PICTURING OR DIAGRAMMING THE UNIVERSE Wu Hung1 This paper is a broad speculation on image-making from the late Eastern Zhou to the Han. The kinds of images I want to consider include pictorial motifs and compositions (which are conventional subjects of art history) as well as abstract signs and patterns (which usually escape art historians’ attention). My main thesis is that during this period, not one, but a number of systems developed side by side to supply different types of images. A single “subject matter” could thus be rendered in different visual presentations that operated as different languages and interacted in an increasingly complex visual culture. Having laid down this basic claim, I want to focus on one such “subject matter”—the universe—defined as an all-inclusive entity, encompassing all things—heavens, earth, and all that is in them—as well as time and space. Based on this definition the universe means an absolute interiority, a closed system that has everything inside and nothing outside. It is easy to understand why this interiority was imagined in terms of architecture in various ancient cultures. Such imaginings, in turn, stimulated the interest in fashioning a building as a microcosmic architectural representation of the entire cosmic order. Two kinds of microcosmic buildings were pursued through divergent cultural practices in China from the Eastern Zhou to Han. One of these was an idealized ritual structure known as Mingtang ࣔഘ , translated into English as Bright Hall or the Hall of Light. Fig. 1 a–b shows the remaining foundation of the Bright Hall constructed by Wang Mang ׆๔ in 4 AD. The structure was highly geometric. The central building, the Bright Hall itself, had a ya-shaped (ࠅ) floor plan, with three rooms on each side. Standing on a round platform, it was surrounded by alternating circles and squares, the shapes of Heaven and earth. Han texts praise the Bright Hall as “the greatest thing ———
1 The editors would like to thank Wu Hung for kindly allowing us to include this transcribed version of the presentation that he gave at the panel on “Tu (diagrams, charts, drawings) in traditional Chinese culture”, Annual Meeting of the Association of Asian Studies, Chicago, 1998. The editors took the liberty to add cross-references to other contributions in this volume.
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among all things,” which “manifests the deepest meaning of all meanings.” This is not because the hall has an imposing monumentality (in fact, Wang Mang’s building is said to have been completed in a mere twenty days), but because the hall’s architecture demonstrates the working of the Universe. The building itself thus becomes “the source of changes and transformations.” As the second-century author Cai Yong ᓐಶ wrote, “It brings all things into its unifying light, and this is why it is called Bright Hall.” The other kind of microcosmic architecture developed in a quite different context. It resulted from changing mortuary practices and especially from a new vision of the afterlife. Understandably, a grave was by nature divided from the world outside and had interior only. From the Eastern Zhou to the Han, when the afterlife began to mimic life itself in people’s imagination, images of heaven, earth and men were fabricated and installed in a tomb to transform it into a self-contained microcosm of the universe. The earliest known example of such a structure is probably the grave of the First Qin Emperor ࡨ ০. According to Sima Qian ್ᔢ, it contained artificial rivers and oceans, models of palaces and the hundred officials, and all sorts of strange objects and valuables. Sima Qian summarizes the tomb’s decoration in a single sentence: “Above were all the Heavens and below all the Earth.” We have no way to verify his report: the burial chamber at Lishan ᨿ՞ has not been opened, and to my knowledge no excavated tombs from the third and second centuries BC had celestial bodies painted on their ceilings. Such architectural murals have only been found in tombs dating from the first century BC, actually very close to Sima Qian’s own time (Col.Pl. III). These murals began a powerful art movement, in which numerous images were invented to transform a tomb, a mortuary shrine, or a sarcophagus into a vivid pictorial universe. In this universe, Heaven is not an abstract circle, but a concrete space filled with gods and spirits, emerging in clouds whose changing shapes convey the sense of transformation (Fig. 2.1– 2.2). Other spaces in this universe include the immortal realm and the human world, where one finds different sorts of figures and events (Figs. 10–12). The title of this paper thus intends to capture a main difference between these two systems of visual presentation: one system diagrams the universe with abstract symbols and patterns; the other pictures the universe with a predominantly descriptive language. That these two systems developed in parallel for hundreds of years must imply some
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profound reasons for this remarkable persistence. What are these reasons? What are the theoretical foundation and practical applications of each system? What is the relationship between them? It is perhaps still premature to give a systematic answer to these questions—many more factual details need to be investigated and many more theoretical problems need to be considered. My purpose here is to begin this research by focusing on a single aspect of the two kinds of representations of the universe, namely, their connections with different tu, a term used variably in ancient texts for diagrams, charts, illustrations, or pictures.
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Let us begin with the Bright Hall. Numerous studies have been devoted to this structure in both traditional and modern scholarship.2 Without going into too much detail, I can propose that the symbolism of this hall as a microcosmic representation of the universe resulted from a historical process, during which an ancient structure of the same name was reinvented and given a new form and meaning. This ancient Bright Hall was a principal structure in the Western Zhou royal temple and a major site of state ceremonies. The “Mingtang wei” ࣔഘ( ۯPositions in the Bright Hall) chapter in the Liji ៖ಖ (Book of Rites) records one such ceremony, albeit in a highly idealized form. (Part of this text is also found in the “Mingtang” section in the Yi Zhoushu ၝࡌ.) As shown in a reconstruction of the ritual (Fig. 3), the assigned “position” (wei )ۯof the king, as well as those of the courtiers, the feudal lords, and the barbarian chieftains, implies a courtyard building with a clearly defined central axis and southfacing orientation. This form resembles actual Shang-Zhou ritual buildings found in archaeological excavations (Fig. 4); but differs fundamentally from various forms of Bright Hall developed during the Eastern Zhou to Han, which all omit the north-south axis but emphasize the four directions and the center. Nevertheless, what these later Bright Halls derived from the old Bright Hall was not just a name. As its title signifies, the “Positions in the Bright Hall” chapter is about wei—position or two-dimensional spatiality. This text maps out a political system as architecture; the same technique is then used to fashion the Bright Hall as a microcosmic structure. (It should be ——— 2 See footnote 63 in Dorofeeva-Lichtmann, this volume.
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noted, however, that neither the political structure nor the architecture described in the “Positions in the Bright Hall” chapter is all-inclusive and self-sustaining. The building stands for the Central Kingdom only; barbarians or foreigners outside its walls belong to an open space.) By the end of the Eastern Zhou, the old Bright Hall had become a historical memory. But its reputation of being a supreme embodiment of sovereignty and political order was only enhanced. In an interesting twist, this elusive building came to symbolize not only a lost past but also an approaching future. “To rebuild” the Bright Hall became synonymous with the founding of an ideal government for a unified country. Thus when Xunzi ಃ finished presenting his political plan to a feudal lord, he concluded his speech by saying: “If things are done this way, then the Bright Hall can be constructed, and you can hold court there to receive the feudal lords.” Mencius made a similar claim in his conversation with King Xuan of Qi Ꮨ. Neither Mencius nor Xunzi proposed an architectural plan for the new Bright Hall. One scholarly opinion attributes the emergence of such plans to philosophers in the School of Yin-yang and Five Phases. But as Li Ling has recently argued, this school had a broad base in various religious, shamanistic, military, technical, astronomical, and medical traditions and practices. Many of these traditions employed and developed tu ቹ diagrams, charts, and drawings. Enough evidence indicates that when Bright Hall was reinvented during the late Eastern Zhou, it derived forms and concepts from at least three kinds of tu, including the cosmograph shitu ڤቹ, architectural drawings, and a kind of non-linear text I call “tu-texts.” Shitu has been discussed extensively by Li Ling, Don Harper, and other scholars.3 Shi ڤis an instrument used in divination, usually consisting of a round “heaven plate” and a square “earth plate”; both plates are engraved with various marks indicating astronomical and calendrical divisions (Fig. 5). As Li Ling has demonstrated, the patterns formed by these shapes and marks (which he calls shitu) are not only found on the shi divining board, but can be seen in the designs of chess boards (see Col.Pl. IV), mirrors, and certain texts dating from the late Eastem Zhou to Han.4 As a representation of the universe, a shitu necessarily consists of a number of geometric patterns, which are in turn composed of highly abstract visual elements such as lines ———
3 Harper 1978–1979, 1999: 833–843; Li Ling 2000 [rev. of 1993]: 89–176. See also footnote 80 in Dorofeeva-Lichtmann, this volume. 4 Li Ling 2000 [rev. of 1993]: 89–176. See also Kalinowski, this volume.
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and shapes. Li Ling has defined five basic patterns in a shitu, including “four directions” (sifang ֱ) “five positions” (wuwei ն)ۯ, “eight points” (bawei Զ ) ۯ, “nine palaces” (jiugong ୰ ), and “twelve divisions” (shier du ԼԲ৫) (Fig. 6). We may add yet another: the circle and square or tiandi ֚چ. Each of these basic patterns has the potential to generate new patterns, and can be combined with other visual elements such as colors and zoomorphs. The second type of tu that played an important role in visualizing and conceptualizing the new Bright Hall were architectural drawings, which demonstrated a set of conventions in representing buildings. Two such drawings have survived from the fifth and fourth centuries BC. One of them, a drawing inlaid on a bronze plate, details the plan for a royal mausoleum of the Zhongshan խ՞ kingdom (Fig. 7).5 It shows a rectangular compound defined by double walls. Within the inner wall, five squares indicate the king’s tomb and those of his queens and concubines. Short inscriptions specify the measurement of each architectural feature. The other drawing is painted on the lid of a lacquer ware, found in a Qi tomb near Linzi ᜯ (Fig. 8). Though damaged, it still shows an architectural complex conforming to an overall ya-shape, with three rooms on each side and surrounded by a ring of “water” patterns. The two drawings represent different buildings, but they employ similar techniques to render a three-dimensional structure as a two-dimensional plan. By reducing architectural features to nearly geometric shapes, these drawings most effectively define their wei—the positions and juxtapositions of these features within a definite spatial boundary. These two drawings are thus close to diagrams. The one from Linzi in particular shows strong affinities with a shitu. In fact, the striking similarities between this drawing and Wang Mang’s building has led Hwang Ming-Chorng to identify it as a fifth-century BC design for the Bright Hall.6 The third source for reinventing the Bright Hall is a kind of tu-text, which has been studied by Vera Dorofeeva-Lichtmann.7 But her subject is a larger group of materials which she calls “non-linear textual structures.” In my own definition, a tu-text must possess two basic features: first, it must be arranged into a non-linear spatial pattern and this pattern must accord with an established tu; and second, the same tu-pattern must be internalized as the text’s intrinsic textual structure. ——— 5 For the Zhongshan “Mausoleum Plan” or “Design of the Mausoleum District” (Zhaoyu tu ٢ቹ), see also Behr, this volume. 6 Hwang Ming-Chorng 1996: 27–31. 7 Dorofeeva-Lichtmann 2005, also this volume.
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Although some texts, including the inscriptions on the Zhongshan mausoleum design, are arranged in specific spatial configurations, I refer to them only as “spatial texts,” not tu-texts, because their spatial arrangement does not demonstrate an identifiable tu-pattern. Conversely, once a tu-text has been converted into a linear text and thus lost its original spatiality, its textual structure alone does not warrant its identity as a tu-text. To regain this identity, its spatial layout has to be reconstructed. An Eastern Zhou tu-text in its original form is the famous Chu Silk Manuscript (see Fig. 12a–d in Dorofeeva-Lichtmann, this volume).8 A restored tu-text is the “Youguan tu” ؔࡴቹ or “Xuangong tu” خ୰ቹ in the Guanzi ጥ (see Fig. 6 in Kalinowski, Fig. 9a in DorofeevaLichtmann, this volume). 9 Despite some obvious differences, these two works share two important features. In terms of layout, both works are arranged in a cardinally-oriented composition with a clearly defined center. In terms of content, both works have close relationship with the literary genre yueling ִ חor “monthly ordinances.” Generally speaking, yueling originated from a type of almanac that prescribes appropriate human activities according to seasons and months. Toward the end of Eastern Zhou, this form was adapted by some politically-minded intellectuals in an effort to design both a correlative cosmology and an ideal government. In their plans, the “monthly ordinances” not only give the astronomical and five phase correlations of each month, but also regulate the correct ritual and administrative behavior for the ruler. Such plans are found in a series of late Eastern Zhou to early Han texts, including Guan zi, Lüshi chunqiu ּܨਞટ, Liji, and Huainanzi ত. In these texts yueling and Bright Hall are integrated, a point important to this paper. Through this integration, the textual structure of yueling was given an explicit architectonic form, and the Bright Hall finally gained a definite cosmological symbolism. As these three kinds of tu—shitu, architectural drawing, and tutext—all contributed to the reinvention of the Bright Hall, they also explain some major features of this building as envisioned in the late Eastern Zhou to Han. Simply stated, in this vision, (1) the basic elements of the Bright Hall are abstract signs and patterns; (2) these ———
8 For the seminal studies of the Chu Silk Manuscript, see footnote 70 in Dorofeeva-Lichtmann, this volume. 9 Scholars have proposed different reconstructions; this figure shows the earliest proposal by Guo Moruo ພःૉ. For other reconstructions, see Fig. 9b–d in Dorofeeva-Lichtmann, this volume.
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signs and patterns are arranged on a two-dimensional plane; and (3) this geometric imagery developed largely within a textual tradition and attracted attention mainly from philosophers, politicians and ritual specialists. This textual tradition continued to expand during the Han. An important development is the appearance of a series of texts entitled “The Yin-Yang Principles of the Bright Hall” (Mingtang yinyang ࣔ ഘ ອ ၺ ), which began to contain architectural designs for the monument. (A fragment of “Mingtang yin-yang” survives in the Taiping yulan ֜ؓൗᥦ; a more detailed plan is given in the Da Dai liji Օᚮ៖ಖ.) Although such designs became increasingly complex as they incorporated more and more intellectual and political agendas, the architectural complexity of the proposed Mingtang structures resulted from superimposing multiple tu-patterns and numerological systems onto a basic “five phase” pattern. This development culminated in Cai Yong’s “Treatise on the Bright Hall and Monthly Ordinances” (Mingtang yueling lun ࣔഘִחᓵ), the most detailed account of the Bright Hall given by a Han author. The building is conceived as a collection of disembodied features, each indexing a particular cosmological component, value, or movement: The various sections of the Bright Hall have their regulations. The whole building has a square floor plan of 144 chi on each side, a measurement determined by the numerical value assigned to Earth. The round roof is 216 chi in diameter, which is based on the numerical value assigned to Heaven. The Great Temple in the center is three zhang on each side, and the Room of Communing with Heaven is nine zhang in diameter, because nine and six represent the transformation of yin and yang. . . The building’s 8 openings imply the eight trigrams. The 9 chambers symbolize the nine provinces. The 12 rooms correspond to the 12 zodiac constellations. Each of the nine chambers has four doors and nine windows, so that there are altogether 36 doors and 72 windows. . . The Room of Communing with Heaven is 81 square chi, a measurement based on squaring the length of the Yellow Bell pitch pipe. 28 columns are arranged along the four sides of the building; each group of seven columns symbolizes the seven xiu. Each chamber is three zhang tall, a measurement based on the three realms of Heaven, earth, and Man. The building has four sides and is painted with five colors; four and five are the numbers of the four seasons and the Five Phases, which determine the activities taking place there. The structure covers an area of 24 zhang on each side, a figure that echoes the 24 divisions of the year. It is surrounded by water, which symbolizes the four seas.
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This diagrammatic mode of representing the universe clearly differs from a pictorial rendering of the universe. The difference, however, is not just the type of sign being used. I have mentioned Sima Qian’s description of the First Emperor’s tomb chamber, which ends with the sentence “Above were all of the heavens and below all of the earth.” This statement introduces a standard formula in documenting funerary decoration. An inscription on a second-century mortuary shrine, for example, first surveys individual motifs that decorate the shrine’s interior and then summarizes the whole decorative program into two large sections “above” and “below”: There are interlocking dragons and winding serpents; fierce tigers stretch forward their heads, gazing into the distance; black apes ascend heights; lions and bears roar, strewn everywhere like clouds. There are towers and pavilions of unequal heights; great processions of chariots set forth. Above are clouds and immortals; below, figures of filial piety, excellent virtue and benevolence.
What we find here is a standardized visual model, in which a microcosmic representation of the universe is confined in a three-dimensional space, constructed by large sections that pertain to the realms of heaven and earth. This representation thus differs radically from the Bright Hall, which manifests its meaning through abstract signs arranged on a two-dimensional plane. Existing funerary structures confirm this difference. Several tombs dating from the first century BC are painted with heavenly bodies on the ceiling while earthly landscapes and historical scenes decorate the lintels and walls (Col.Pl. III). This vertical structure of the universe is further combined with a horizontal dimension: in Eastern Han tombs and shrines, the gables became the legitimate space for portraying immortal paradise (Fig. 11). (This arrangement follows a convention that Wolfgang Bauer pointed out years ago, “it was the West and the East that were the classical compass points for paradise.”)10 An example that combines the three realms of Heaven, Earth, and immortality is Wu Liang’s memorial shrine ࣳඩర built in 151 AD (Fig. 9a–b).11 As I have discussed elsewhere, Heaven manifests itself as concrete omens on its ceiling; the two gables are occupied by the Queen Mother of the West and the King Father of the East; and the three walls provide the space for ——— 10 Bauer 1971: 142. See also pp. 142–150. (Engl. translation 1976.) 11 Wu Hung 1992.
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depicting human history, from the creation of mankind to the time of recording (Fig. 9a,b). In fact, Wu Liang’s shrine and Wang Mang’s Bright Hall offer two supreme examples for understanding the two Han systems for representing the universe. Wang Mang’s Bright Hall demonstrates an official cosmology; each feature of this building, based on a specific numerical value, is definite and unchangeable. The Wu Liang Shrine, on the other hand, is a personal interpretation of a basic cosmological structure; the content of heaven, earth, and the immortal world—the pictorial motifs on the ceiling, walls, and gables—are chosen to reflect a specific view. The structure of the Bright Hall, as I have proposed earlier, is based on a highly abstract tu and can actually be considered a tu in an architectural form. The structure of the Wu Liang Shrine is not determined by any tu; instead it derives its decorative motifs from multiple sources including some tu catalogues. I should remind the reader that tu is a very general category, including not only geometric diagrams such as shitu, but also more concrete images such as maps, astronomical drawings, omen catalogues, and even illustrations of historical figures and events. While the Bright Hall is firmly associated with abstract tu patterns, images in the Wu Liang Shrine and other funerary structures are often supplied by those “pictorial” tu. For example, images on its ceiling are selected from the Ruitu ᅗቹ or “Omen Catalogue” (Fig. 10). Those on the walls are chosen from illustrated texts called tu zan ቹ刓, or “tu-pictures accompanied with eulogies,” that summarize and illustrate the biography of a filial son or an exemplary woman (Fig. 12b). Other funerary structures derive pictorial motifs from “Shanhaijing tu” ՞௧ᆖ (Tu of the Canon of Mountains and Seas), “Xingtu” ਣቹ (Star maps), “Chengtu” ৄቹ (City maps), ֞ஈԳቹऄ “Kongzi turen tufa” (Methods for drawing Confucius and his disciples), and others. Very seldom is an abstract tu-pattern used to decorate a tomb or shrine. In fact I only know one such example, a tomb near Luoyang ၺ in which a “five phases” pattern appears on the ceiling. Not coincidentally, this tomb was built during Wang Mang’s reign (Col.Pl. V). Many things may be learned from a synthetic study of these two visual systems and their relationship. To conclude I want to propose a possible connection between these two systems and different traditions in Han historiography. As part of his cosmic design, Wang Mang’s History evolves in an abstract linear pattern: a circular fivephases movement “produces” all the dynasties, the last one being his
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own Xin dynasty (Fig. 13). The “block construction” of the Wu Liang Shrine’s decoration, on the other hand, finds an excellent parallel in Sima Qian’s Shiji ಖ. Its portrayals of ancient sovereigns (Fig. 12a) are a counterpart to the “Basic Annals” (“Benji” ء伃) in the Shiji; the subsequent depictions of famous historical figures (Fig. 12b) match the “Memoirs” (“Liezhuan” ٨ႚ); and the last scene of the pictorial program, which represents an event in Wu Liang’s own life (Fig. 12c), echoes Sima Qian’s “Self-statement of the Grand Historian” (“Taishigong zi xu” ֜ֆ۞ )ݧthat ends the Shiji. In this history, historical patterns and principles are exemplified by people and events, and the past is recorded from a retrospective vintage point embodied by the historian himself.
REFERENCES BAUER, Wolfgang. 1971. China und die Hoffnung auf Glück. Paradiese, Utopien, Idealvorstellungen. München: Hanser Verlag. (Engl. ed.: China and the Search for Happiness. New York: Seabury Press, 1976.) CHEN Meidong ຫભࣟ, ed. 1996. Zhongguo gu xingtu խഏײਣቹ. Shenyang: Liaoning jiaoyu chuban she. DOROFEEVA-LICHTMANN, Vera. 2005. “Spatial Composition of Ancient Chinese Texts.” In: History of Science, History of Text, ed. Karine Chemla. (Boston Studies in the Philosophy of Science, vol. 238). Dordrecht: Springer, pp. 3–47. FAIRBANK, Wilma. 1941. “The Offering Shrines of ‘Wu Liang Tz’u’.” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies, Vol. 6, No. 1: 1–36. FENG Yunpeng ႑ႆᣛ and FENG Yunyuan ႑ႆ㑼. Jin shi suo ८ ف.1821, 12 vols. (Jinsuo ८ 6 vols., and Shisuo ف6 vols.). HARLEY, J.B. and D. WOODWARD, eds. 1994. The History of Cartography. Vol II, Book 2. Cartography in the Traditional East and Southeast Asian Societies. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. HARPER, Donald J. 1978. “The Han Cosmic Board (Shi).” Early China 4: 1–10. ——. 1999. “Warring States Natural Philosophy and Occult Thought.” In: Loewe and Shaughnessy, eds. 1999, pp. 813–884. HWANG Ming-Chorng. 1996. Ming-Tang: Cosmology, Political Order and Monuments in Early China. Diss. Harvard Univ. LI Ling ޕሿ. 2000. Zhongguo fangshu kao խഏֱە. Peking: Renmin Zhongguo Chubanshe [revision of 1993]. LI Xueqin [trans. by K.C. CHANG]. 1985. Eastern Zhou and Qin Civilisations. New Heaven, Conn.: Yale University Press. LOEWE, Michael and Edward L SHAUGHNESSY, eds. 1999. The Cambridge History of Ancient China: From the Origins of Civilization to 221 B.C. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. SEKINO Tei 䕦ມૣ. 1916. Shina Santǀshǀ ni okeru Kandai Fumbo no Hyǀshoku ֭ ߷՞ࣟઊ圵࣍圛坚ዧזᏻችऱ।堸. Tǀkyǀ: Imperial University of Tǀkyǀ, College of Engineering. ——. 1995. Monumentality in Early Chinese Art and Architecture. Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press.
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WU Hung [1989] 1992. The Wu Liang Shrine: The Ideology of Early Chinese Pictorial Art. Stanford: Stanford University Press. ——. 1995. Monumentality in Early Chinese Art and Architecture. Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press.
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Fig. 1: (a) Floor plan of the ritual site of the Bright Hall and Biyong, late Western Han dynasty. AD 4. Excavated in 1956 at Chang’an, Shaanxi province. (b) Floor plan of the Bright Hall. Reproduced from Wu Hung (1995: 178).
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(a)
(b) Fig. 2.1: Wu Family Shrine carving on a stone slab of the rear group showing celestial scenes. Upper half. (a): Ink rubbing. Reproduced from Sekino Tei (1916), pl. 77. (b): Redrawing from the original ink rubbing. Adapted from Feng Yunpeng and Feng Yunyuan (1821, Shisuo vol. 3, houshishi (৵ف 5–6).
(a)
(b) Fig. 2.2: Wu Family Shrine carving on a stone slab of the rear group showing celestial scenes. Lower half. (a): Ink rubbing. Reproduced from Sekino Tei (1916), pl. 77. (b): Redrawing from the original ink rubbing. Adapted from Feng Yunpeng and Feng Yunyuan (1821, Shisuo vol. 3, houshishi (৵ف 5–6).
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Fig. 3: Reconstruction of the ritual “positions” in the Bright Hall according to the “Mingtang wei” ࣔഘۯ. Adapted from Hwang Ming-Chorng (1996: 699).
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Fig. 4: An Early Western Zhou temple-palace structure. 11th–10th centuries BC. 45x32.5 m. Fengchu, Shaanxi province. (a): Floor plan. (b): Reconstruction. Reproduced from Wu Hung (1995: 87)
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Fig. 5: Cosmograph (shi ڤ, the jiugong ୰ type). After Kaogu (1978.5: 341), reproduced from Loewe and Shaughnessy (1999: 842).
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Fig. 6: (a) “four directions” (sifang ֱ), (b) “five positions” (wuwei ն)ۯ, (c) “eight points” (bawei Զ)ۯ, (d) “nine palaces” (jiugong ች), (e) “twelve divisions” (shier du ԼԲ৫). Reproduced from Li Ling (2000: 130–133).
Fig. 7: Drawing of the “Mausoleum Plan” or “Design of the Mausoleum District” (Zhaoyu tu ٢ቹ). Bronze tablet with gold inlay, 94 x 48 cm, Zhongshan kingdom, late 4th century BC. After Wenwu (1979.1: 23), reproduced from Loewe and Shaughnessy (1999: 714).
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Fig. 8: The lid of a lacquer ware found in a Qi tomb near Linzi (Langjiazhuang, Shandong), the Warring States period. Reproduced from Kaogu xuebao (1977.1: 82).
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Fig. 9a: Reconstruction of the Wu Liang Shrine (built in AD 151) by Wilma Fairbank (1941) showing the interior sides of the walls and the roof. Reproduced from Fairbank (1941: Fig. 2).
Fig. 9b: The Wu Liang Shrine carvings on the interior walls and roof. Drawing. Reproduced from Wu Hung (1995: 239).
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Fig. 10: Omen images carved on the ceiling of the Wu Liang Shrine (built in AD 151). (a) Qilin unicorn, (b) yellow dragon, (c) white tiger, (d) intertwining trees, (e) jade horse, (f) birds joined at the wing, (g) fish joined at the eye, (h) white horse with red mane, (i) red bear, (j) lake horse, (k) six-legged beast, (l) beasts joined at the shoulder, (m) silver jar, (n) black gui tablet, (o) jade sheng headdress, (p) glass bi disk. Reconstruction. Reproduced from Wu Hung (1995: 228).
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Fig. 11: The gables of the Wu Liang Shrine (built in AD 151). Ink rubbings and drawings. (a,b) the paradise of the Queen Mother of the West on the west gable. (c,d) the paradise of the King Father of the East on the east gable. Reproduced from Wu Hung (1992: 110).
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(c) Fig. 12: The Wu Liang Shrine (built in AD 151) wall carvings. Ink rubbings. (a) The five “ancient sovereigns” or legendary emperors. Reproduced from Wu Hung (1995: 230). (b left) Jing Ke’s attempted assassination of the King of Qin. (b right) Yao Li’s assassination of Prince Qing Ji. Reproduced from Wu Hung (1995: 236). (c) A county official paying respect to a retired gentleman. Reproduced from Wu Hung (1995: 225).
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Fig. 13: Wang Mang’s pattern of dynastic transmission. Reproduced from Wu Hung (1995: 186).
III. TEXT AS TU: TEXTUAL DIAGRAMS
MAPLESS MAPPING: DID THE MAPS OF THE SHANHAI JING EVER EXIST? Vera Dorofeeva-Lichtmann*
INTRODUCTION The Shanhai jing ՞௧ᆖ (Itineraries of Mountains and Seas, hereafter the SHJ),1 is a comprehensive and systematised description of the inhabited world compiled no later than the beginning of the 1st century BC, the largest of the terrestrial descriptions to have survived from Ancient China.2 It is characterised by the impression of topographical accuracy, providing details of precise distances and cardinally-oriented directions between the 447 mountains described in the first part of the text, the Shanjing ՞ᆖ (Itineraries of Mountains) or the Wuzang shanjing նፔ՞ᆖ (Itineraries of Mountains: the Five Treasuries, hereafter WZSJ),3 and the directions and confluences of rivers emanating from these mountains. Although precise distances between landmarks are not given in the second part, the Haijing ௧ᆖ (Itineraries of Seas), this does not really affect the overall impression of general topographical accuracy of the text. Indeed, in contrast to the Shanjing, which features the centre of the world (roughly corre———
* I am indebted to John Moffett and Tatyana Gardner for corrections of my English. Any mistakes found in this paper are my own responsibility. 1 The proposed translation of the text’s title will be elucidated in the course of this paper. 2 For the standard edition of the SHJ, see Shanhai jing jianshu ՞௧ᆖጧง (Explanatory notes and sub-commentary on the Shanhai jing) by Hao Yixing’s ಸᦜ۩ (1757–1825) first published in 1809 and reproduced in the Sibu beiyao ຝໂ editions (hereafter SBBY). For basic information on the SHJ (its structure, textual history, major editions and bibliography), see Fracasso (1993: 357–367). A useful introduction to the SHJ is also provided by Schiffeler (1980: 41–47). For a detailed outline of its textual history and a critical survey of studies on it, see Suh Kyung Ho (1993: 17–40 and 53–95, respectively). For a classified list of related sinological literature, see the complementary bibliographies of the SHJ compiled by Fracasso (1983: 695–700, 1991), for up-dated list of its translations, see Dorofeeva-Lichtmann (2003a: 62, endnote 4). For general characteristics of its form and content, see Dorofeeva-Lichtmann (1995: 58–61). 3 For the title Wuzang ն៲ (Five Treasuries), see Fracasso (1983: 659, esp. footnote 4).
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sponding to the basins of the Yellow and Yangzi rivers), the Haijing is focussed on peripheral parts of the world—mostly countries populated by “exotic” peoples, but also far-away mountains and rivers. The lack of precision in describing far-away lands seems, therefore, to be quite natural. Elsewhere, I have demonstrated the elusiveness of the topographical accuracy of this text.4 The text actually deals with matters markedly different from those considered in modern geography, and, in particular, is not aimed at conveying topographically accurate information. Rather, the SHJ conveys an ideal organisation of terrestrial space characterised by a quite complex, yet remarkably regular structure. The nucleus of this structure is the system of 26 itineraries marked by 447 mountains. An itinerary is comprised of mountains that submit to similar guardian spirits (shen). This means that the itineraries are delineated according to the spatial dispersion of divine powers indicating the sacred nature of the terrestrial space thus represented. I define this representation of terrestrial space as a “spiritual landscape”.5 Yet, whatever the nature of the description of terrestrial space in the SHJ and its accuracy, one is immediately led to think of some sort of maps that might accompany the text. Thus, modern studies of the geographical background of the SHJ, and, especially, the WZSJ, represent the geographical information derived from the text in the form of maps. However, in contrast to pictures, there is an almost total absence of traditional maps attached or related to the SHJ made prior to the diffusion of Western cartography in China. In the first part of this paper I evaluate a supposition widespread in sinological literature that such maps existed in remote antiquity and then disappeared. In particular, I show the late origins of this supposition—the preface to an edition of the SHJ by the famous Qing commentator Bi Yuan ฅީ (1730–1797)—and reveal contradictions in his arguments. Then, in the second part, relying on the character of ——— 4 Dorofeeva-Lichtmann 1995, 1999, 2001a, 2003a, 2003b; for a survey of 1995, 2003a, 2003b, see Lewis (2006: 284–303). 5 It belongs to the so-called “totalistic” conceptions (as defined by Stanley Tambiah 1985: 252–259, following Marcel Mauss) simultaneously embracing cosmological, religious, political, topographical, economic and other dimensions, which cannot be disaggregated, being part of a single complexly interrelated whole. Referring to the conception of the terrestrial space derived from the SHJ as to “spiritual landscape” I mean the dominant (but not exclusive) role of religious aspect here. For another example of a “totalistic” view of terrestrial space in ancient China, see a recent study of an “ancestral landscape” in late Shang China (ca. 1200–1045 BC) by David Keightley (2000).
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the textual structure of the SHJ, I advance the hypothesis that the original layout of the text in itself combined a map or spatial (= cardinally-oriented) scheme and a terrestrial description, making maps to accompany the text superfluous. Extending this hypothesis to other texts dealing with space may also provide some further keys to the problem of “lost” ancient maps.
I. MAPS AND MYTHS
The so-called “wheel” map and “global” schemes of the Shanhai jing The only extant map conveying the overall view of the world, according to the SHJ, is the “Map of the Under-Heaven” (Tianxia tu, Korean Ch’onhado, ֚Հቹ, sometimes the “General map of the UnderHeaven”—Tianxia zongtu ֚Հ᜔ቹ) or the so-called “wheel” map (in its several slightly differing Chinese and Korean variations6—for an example, see Col.Pl. VI). Yet, this map dates from about 1760, that is, almost two millennia after the SHJ was compiled, and, therefore, far removed from the SHJ’s cultural and historical setting. In addition, it bears some indications of having been influenced by Buddhist and Western cartography, and, therefore, although it still continues East Asian cartographical tradition, cannot be regarded as a pure example of this tradition. Some SHJ toponyms, in particular distant “exotic” countries are found in earlier Chinese maps, for instance, the “General map of Chinese and barbarian [territories] within the Four [cardinally-oriented] Seas” (Sihai huayi zongtu ௧ဎ᜔ڎቹ), a sinicised version of a Buddhist map representing the Jambudvîpa continent and included into the Tushu bian ቹᒳ collection (compiled from 1562 through 1577 or 1585; printed in 1613) by Zhang Huang ີⰐ (1527–1608).7 ———
6 Needham and Wang Ling (1959: 565–565, plate LXXXIX facing p. 566, the reproduced map is entitled the “General map of [the territories encompasses by] the Four [cardinally-oriented] Seas” – Sihai zongtu ௧᜔ቹ), Bagrow (1964: 204 and map on p. 205 [Fig. 71] reproduced from Needham and Wang Ling 1959, plate LXXXIX), Harley and Woodward, eds. (1994, colour plate 16, Fig. 10.10 on p. 257, Fig. 10.11 on p. 258); the two latter maps are reproduced considerably reduced in Smith (1996, Fig. 3.4 on p. 30). 7 Needham and Wang Ling 1959: 565–566, Bagrow 1964: 197 and map on p. 198 [Fig. 67], Yee 1994: 173–175, Fig. 7.4, Smith 1996: 35–36, Fig. 3.7, Strassberg 2002: 34–35, Fig. 8.
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Yet, the overall view of the world in this map determined by Buddhist cartography has little in common with the SHJ. In this respect the two maps, despite their affinity through some toponyms and the round shapes of terrestrial surface, differ markedly from each other. Another important difference is that the centre of the world in the “wheel” map, following Chinese cartographic tradition, is associated with China. It is also noteworthy that the SHJ toponyms first appear on a map conveying a foreign cartographic tradition. The “wheel” map also represents only a few of the multiplicity of landmarks mentioned in the SHJ, and these are mostly far-away countries described in its second part, the Haijing, that is peripheral landmarks about which the text is rather vague. Rather surprisingly, the most convenient subjects for mapping—landmarks supplied with precise distances, such as the 447 mountains of the Shanjing and the rivers related to these mountains—are not in evidence, with the rare exceptions of the most famous mountains and rivers (e.g., Kunlun Mountain and the Five Peaks,8 the Yellow and Yangzi rivers). Since the Shanjing describes the central part of the world, the centre plays a much less important role in the map than peripheral lands. The map has a round frame encompassing a nest of more or less round concentric zones, somewhat resembling a wheel, inspiring its conventional name. The top of the map is oriented to the north. The borderline of the central zone of the map is more irregular in its right (= eastern) part where the territory of China and the lands of its closest neighbours, in other words, the “best known” part of the world, are found. China is placed at the centre of the map, and, as a result, the central zone is shifted to the left (= west) of the map. The centre is marked by two large characters—Zhongguo խഏ (The Central Empire) or Zhongyuan խ (The Central Plain)—further accentuated by being circled, sometimes in red. As already mentioned above, very little detail is given for Chinese territory, just a few prominent mountains, the Yellow and Yangzi rivers (without even their basic tributaries), and the Great Wall. The latter is, of course, not mentioned in the SHJ at all. The representation of Chinese territory in the map is quite similar to those found on many traditional maps of China, the earliest dating from the Song dynasty (960–1279), with the difference that the latter provide more geographical detail.9 ———
8 Five mountains marking the centre, east, south, west and north of the territory in the basins of the Yellow and Yangzi rivers. 9 For a comprehensive atlas of Chinese maps, see Cao Wanru et al. (1999 [repr. 1990], 1995 [repr. 1994], 1997); see also Yan Ping et al. (1998). For studies of Chi-
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The rest of the central zone is occupied by the names of foreign countries (in the south-western part arranged into neat lines), and also two rivers in the south around which there seems to be a depiction of India. The second zone is the sea, with many far-away countries depicted as islands and with some mountains standing up out of the sea. The third circular zone is a strip of land with many countries, some mountains and two rivers. Apart from the names of countries written as straight lines in the central part of the map, many names of foreign countries are formed into rectangles or sometimes circles, so that countries that form islands in the sea and those found on pieces of land look similar. Finally, the fourth zone is again the sea, devoid of any inhabitants, but containing markers of the “extreme east” and the “extreme west”, the places where the sun rises and sets, respectively. In both cases the extreme points are represented by an island with a mountain and a cosmic tree growing out it, as described in the SHJ. A more detailed study of the map and comparison of its variants are far beyond the scope of this study. Here it is sufficient to sum up that the “wheel” map provides a general schematic view of the world as a system of concentric zones, and that it lays special emphasis on the distant periphery. The system of concentric zones on the “wheel” map more or less reflects the system of concentric terrestrial zones named in the titles of chapters (juan ࠴ in the extant version) of the SHJ. The table of contents of the SHJ (see Table 1) is, in effect, a typical list of “positions” in a regular cardinally-oriented scheme representing the entire terrestrial space.10
——— nese cartography by Chinese scholars discussing the most important of these maps, see Wang Yong (1998 [repr. 1938]), Chen Zhengxiang (Chen Cheng-siang 1979), Chen Feiya, ed. (1984), Lu Liangzhi (1984), Jin Yingchun and Qiu Fuke (1984), Wang Chengzu (1988 [repr. 1982]), Yu Xixian (1990). For a seminal study of Chinese cartography in Western scholarship, see Yee (1994) and Henderson (1994) in the Chicago History of Cartography series edited by Harley and Woodward; see also Smith (1996). 10 I discuss characteristics of “global” schemes or cosmograms and the typological similarities between cosmograms and Chinese cartographical tradition elsewhere, see Dorofeeva-Lichtmann (2003a: 38–43). The similarity between traditional Chinese maps and schemes has also been pointed out by Henderson (1994) and Smith (1996: 36–39). On the term cosmogram and its applications, see also Major (1984).
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TABLE 1 The table of contents of the Shanhai jing ՞௧ᆖ N° of juan
1
TITLES OF JUAN ࠴ (chapters) and their sub-divisions (sub-chapters)
Part I. “Itineraries of Mountains” Shanjing ՞ᆖ “Itineraries of Southern Mountains” Nanshan jing ত՞ᆖ 1 “[First] Itinerary of Southern Mountains” Nanshan jing ত՞ᆖ 2 “Second Itinerary of Southern [Mountains]” Nan ci er jing তڻԲᆖ 3 “Third Itinerary of Southern [Mountains]” Nan ci san jing তڻԿᆖ
2
“Itineraries of Western Mountains” Xishan jing ۫՞ᆖ
1 “[First] Itinerary of Western Mountains” Xishan jing ۫՞ᆖ 2 “Second Itinerary of Western Mountains” Xi ci er jing ۫ڻԲᆖ 3 “Third Itinerary of Western Mountains” Xi ci san jing ۫ڻԿᆖ 4 “Fourth Itinerary of Western Mountains” Xi ci si jing ۫ڻᆖ
3
“Itineraries of Northern Mountains” Beishan jing ק՞ᆖ
1 “[First] Itinerary of Northern Mountains” Beishan jing ק՞ᆖ 2 “Second Itinerary of Northern [Mountains]” Bei ci er jing ڻקԲᆖ 3 “Third Itinerary of Northern [Mountains]” Bei ci san jing ڻקԿᆖ
4
“Itineraries of Eastern Mountains” Dongshan jing ࣟ՞ᆖ 1 “[First] Itinerary of Eastern Mountains” Dongshan jing ࣟ՞ᆖ 2 “Second Itinerary of Eastern [Mountains]” Dong ci er jing ࣟڻԲᆖ 3 “Third Itinerary of Eastern [Mountains]” Dong ci san jing ࣟڻԿᆖ 4 “Forth Itinerary of Eastern [Mountains]” Dong ci si jing ࣟڻᆖ
5
“Itineraries of Central Mountains” Zhongshan jing խ՞ᆖ 1 “[First] Itinerary of Central Mountains” Zhongshan jing խ՞ᆖ 2 “Second Itinerary of Central [Mountains]” Zhong ci er jing խڻԲᆖ 3 “Third Itinerary of Central [Mountains]” Zhong ci san jing խڻԿᆖ 4 “Fourth Itinerary of Central [Mountains]” Zhong ci si jing խڻᆖ 5 “Fifth Itinerary of Central [Mountains]” Zhong ci wu jing խڻնᆖ 6 “Sixth Itinerary of Central [Mountains]” Zhong ci liu jing խڻքᆖ 7 “Seventh Itinerary of Central [Mountains]” Zhong ci qi jing խڻԮᆖ 8 “Eighth Itinerary of Central [Mountains]” Zhong ci ba jing խڻԶᆖ 9 “Ninth Itinerary of Central [Mountains]” Zhong ci jiu jing խڻᆖ 10 “Tenth Itinerary of Central [Mountains]” Zhong ci shi jing խڻԼᆖ 11 “Eleventh Itinerary of Central [Mountians]” Zhong ci shi yi jing խڻԼԫᆖ 12 “Twelfth Itinerary of Central [Mountians]” Zhong ci shi er jing խڻԼԲᆖ
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TITLES OF JUAN ࠴ (chapters) and their sub-divisions (sub-chapters)
Part II. “Itineraries of Seas” Haijing ௧ᆖ “Outside the Seas” Haiwai ௧؆ 6 7 8 9
“Southern Itinerary of Outside the Seas” Haiwai nanjing ௧؆তᆖ “Western Itinerary of Outside the Seas” Haiwai xijing ௧؆۫ᆖ “Northern Itinerary of Outside the Seas” Haiwai beijing ௧؆۫ᆖ “Eastern Itinerary of Outside the Seas” Haiwai dongjing ௧؆ࣟᆖ
“Inside the Seas” Hainei ௧փ 10 11 12 13
“Southern Itinerary of Inside the Seas” Hainei nanjing ௧փতᆖ “Western Itinerary of Inside the Seas” Hainei xijing ௧փ۫ᆖ “Northern Itinerary of Inside the Seas” Hainei beijing ௧փקᆖ “Eastern Itinerary of Inside the Seas” Hainei dongjing ௧փࣟᆖ
“Great Wilderness” Dahuang Օ 14 15 16 17
“Eastern Itinerary of the Great Wilderness” Dahuang dongjing Օࣟᆖ “Southern Itinerary of the Great Wilderness” Dahuang nanjing Օতᆖ “Western Itinerary of the Great Wilderness” Dahuang xijing Օ۫ᆖ “Northern Itinerary of the Great Wilderness” Dahuang beijing Օקᆖ
“Inside the Seas” Hainei ௧փ – addition 18
“[Central] Itinerary of Inside the Seas” Hainei jing ௧փᆖ
This “global” scheme is constituted by the following four terrestrial zones: “Mountains” (Shan ՞), “Outside the Seas” (Haiwai ௧؆), “Inside the Seas” (Hainei ௧փ) and “The Great Wilderness” (Dahuang Օ). All the zones are divided into four sections oriented to the cardinal points, but “Mountains” and “Inside the Seas” also each include a fifth section. This fifth constituent element explicitly corresponds to the centre in “Mountains”, and probably plays the same function in the “Inside the Seas” set. 11 The peculiarity of the fifth section of the “Inside the Seas” is that it is placed at the end of the table of contents (chapter 13), separate from the four cardinallyoriented sections of its group (chapters 10–13). The most widespread representation of the four terrestrial zones (“Mountains”, “Outside the Seas”, “Inside the Seas” and “The Great Wilderness”) in sinological literature is as a nest of concentric zones, in the majority of cases of square shape. It is based on the symbolic ———
11 As I have pointed out elsewhere, the character nei փ (“inside”) is very close in its meaning to zhong խ (“centre”), for this reason adding the adjective zhong to the title of this chapter (Hainei jing ௧փᆖ) may have seemed redundant (DorofeevaLichtmann 1995: 79).
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quadrature of the Earth in Chinese cosmology.12 The square shape is rigidly respected in the surviving graphic representations of the systems of concentric “zones” (fu ࣚ)—the “Five Zones” (wufu նࣚ) and the “Nine Zones” (jiufu ࣚ)—described in the two most authoritative geographical ancient texts, the “Yugong” છಥ (Yu’s [System of] Tribute, 5th?–3rd? centuries BC),13 chapter 6 of the Shangshu ࡸ/Shujing ᆖ (The Book of Documents), and the “Zhifang shi” ֱּ (The Official in Charge of the Cardinal Directions, late Warring States [475–222 BC]—early Former Han [206 BC–AD 8] periods),14 chapter 33 of the Zhouli ࡌ៖ (Zhou Rituals), respectively.15 No such graphic representations of the SHJ have survived, explained perhaps by the modest interest in this text in Chinese cultural tradition, in marked contrast to the “Yugong” and the “Zhifang shi”. Yet, since the zones of the SHJ are typologically similar to the fu of these two texts, also highlighted by the fact that the last fu in the “Yugong” is named huang – “Wilderness”, there seems to be good reason to believe that the zones of the SHJ were also conceived of in Chinese tradition as a nest of concentric squares. There are, however, several suggestions as to how these zones are positioned with respect to each other. John S. Major arranges the zones of the SHJ into a nest of concentric squares following the sequence of zones in the table of contents (see Fig. 1). 16 He places “Mountains” in the centre, encompasses them by “Outside the Seas”, “Inside the Seas” and “The Great Wilderness”, and regards the last section of “Inside the Seas” as an addi——— 12 The earliest occurrence of the classical formula “Heaven [corresponds to a] circle, Earth [corresponds to a] square” (Tian yuan di fang ֚Ⴝ )ֱچis found in the philosophical treatise Huainanzi ত compiled shortly before 139 BC, see Huainanzi, SBBY ed, 3/9a, see also 3/1b, 15/3a. It is also found in the opening section of the astronomical and mathematical classic Zhoubi suanjing ࡌ㌣ጩᆖ (compiled ca. 50 BC–AD 100), see Qian Baozong, ed. (1963: 4). 13 Shangshu zhengyi ࡸإᆠ, SBBY ed., 6/1a–19b; Legge, tr. 1865: 52–67, Karlgren, tr. 1950: 12–18, 1948, glosses 1352–1396. For a detailed discussion of the dating of the “Yugong”, see Qu Wanli (1964). 14 Zhouli Zhengzhu, SBBY ed., 33/6a–9a, Lin Yin 1984: 344–345, Biot, tr. 1969 [repr. 1851]: 263–279. 15 The extant graphic representations of the “Five Zones” and the “Nine Zones” (blockprint illustrations) are considerably later than their descriptions in the “Yugong” and the “Zhifang shi”. For blockprint representations and a brief discussion of the “Five Zones” of the “Yugong”, see Needham and Wang Ling 1959: 502– 503, Strassberg 2002: 32–33, and for the “Nine Zones” of the “Zhifang shi”, see Henderson (1984: 142, 1994: 207). For reconstructions of these systems by modern Western scholars, see Karlgren (1948: 159), reproduced in Yee (1994: 76, Fig. 4.1), Müller (1980: 52–54). 16 Major 1973: 99–100.
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tional outside zone mapping the ocean that encircles all the other zones. The proposed arrangement has, however, certain contradictions. Firstly, the proposed placement of the last section of the “Inside the Seas” means duplication of this zone in the scheme. Secondly, there are many indications of overlapping (occurrences of the same landmarks) between “Outside the Seas” and “The Great Wilderness”,17 which are divided in the scheme by “Inside the Seas”. John Schiffeler (see Fig. 2) distinguishes the square centre (corresponding to “Mountains”), then three encompassing zones that he depicts as circles—“Inner Seas”, “Outer Seas” and “The Wilderness Beyond the Civilised World”.18 It is not clear in this scheme where the last section of “Inside the Seas” is located. The same order of zones is given by Riccardo Fracasso (see Fig. 3).19 He, however, demarcates only three zones—“Mountains”, “The Seas” and “The Great Wilderness”—represented as a nest of concentric squares. He places “Outside the Seas” on the borderline between “Inside the Seas” and “The Great Wilderness”, thus implicitly taking into account the overlapping between “Outside the Seas” and “The Great Wilderness”. The last section of “Inside the Seas” he simply places outside the scheme, thus acknowledging that there is no proper place for it in the scheme. Having pointed out the cases of overlap between “Outside the Seas” and “The Great Wilderness”, Hwang Ming-Chorng considers them as two different spatial conceptions of peripheral regions (see Fig. 4a, b).20 Although he does not discuss an overall scheme of the SHJ, having represented both “Outside the Seas” and “The Great Wilderness” as the outside zone of a nest of three concentric squares, he implicitly follows the just mentioned division of terrestrial space into three encompassing zones—the central lands, the seas and the distant peripheral lands. Li Ling ޕሿ does not provide an overall scheme of the zones of the SHJ, but instead shows separate arrangements of neighbouring zones, in each case as nests of two concentric squares. Specifically, he represents “Inside the Seas” as encompassing “Mountains”, “Outside the Seas” as encompassing “Inside the Seas”, and “The Great ——— 17 18 19 20
Hwang Ming-Chorng 1996: 635–637, esp. footnote 346. Schiffeler 1980: 43–44. Fracasso 1983, facing p. 660. Hwang Ming-Chorng 1996, Fig. 6.14 on p. 798 and Fig. 6.13 on p. 797, respectively, “Outside the Seas” and “The Great Wilderness” are discussed on pp. 494– 509 and 537–677, respectively.
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Wilderness” as also encompassing “Inside the Seas” (see Fig. 5b, c, d, respectively).21 These three separate schemes of zones in effect convey an arrangement quite similar to that proposed by Fracasso— “Mountains”, “Inside the Seas” and then “Outside the Seas” and “The Great Wilderness”—with the difference that “Outside the Seas” and “The Great Wilderness” are simply regarded as two overlapping zones. The proposed arrangements, however, still do not solve the problem of the last chapter of “Inside the Seas”, but simply mask it. Richard Strassberg distinguishes three different worldviews— according to the Guideways through Mountains (chapters 1–5), Guideways through Seas (chapters 6–13), and the “Great Wilds” and the “Lands within the Seas” (chapters 14–18), Fig. 6a, b, c, respectively. 22 In contrast to all the other attempts at reconstructing the worldview(s) conveyed in the SHJ, Strassberg’s representations of the three worldviews seem to be in the first place inspired by Chinese cartography, especially the surviving and reconstructed maps related to the SHJ, and less by the systems of square concentric zones. As a result, Strassberg’s representations look like simplified maps and although they still have attributes of schematic mapping (for instance, the regular division of mapped space into the cardinally-oriented sections and the centre), they lack the rigid square framework that is characteristic of all the other advanced reconstructions that rely on the systems of concentric zones. In particular, his Guideways through Mountains is a simplified representation of the famous map of mountain ranges of the Shan jing by Wang Chengzu ิګ׆, see in Fig. 6d Wang’s map redrawn by Strassberg who supplied it with translations of toponyms and some additions and useful notes, for instance a numbered list of represented itineraries.23 The two latter worldviews are ——— 21 Li Ling 2000 [rev. of 1993]: 138. 22 Strassberg 2002: 30–43. It is, however, not quite clear why in his scheme of
the Guideways through Mountains (ibid., Fig. 9 on p. 35) Strassberg represents the four cardinally-oriented parts of “Mountains” by three mountain units each, and the central section by four mountain units, or what he means by the statement that such a representation is similar to a “magic square” pattern. The 26 itineraries marked by mountains indeed form an interesting regular structure—3 itineraries in the north and the south, 4 in the east and the west, and 12 (= 3x4) in the centre (for the symbolism of these figures, see Dorofeeva-Lichtmann (1995: 72–74 [footnote 81 on p. 72 contains an error, it should be “…a circle inscribed into a square”], Fig. 3a, b on p. 97; 2003a, Fig. 2.6 on p. 48; 2003b, Fig. 3 on p. 207). 23 Wang Chengzu (1988 [repr. 1982], map on p. 19), reproduced in Yu Xixian (1990: 48) and Dorofeeva-Lichtmann (1995: 95), redrawn in Strassberg (2002, Fig. 10 on p. 37). Strassberg, however, mistakenly considers it to be a “modern map of mountains” described in the Shanjing. I, in contrast, point out the schematic character of Wang’s map and its affinity with Chinese cartographic tradition, see Dorofeeva-
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represented as map outlines that resemble the “General map of Chinese and barbarian [territories] within the Four [cardinally-oriented] Seas”. Strassberg notes that there is much similarity between the two latter worldviews, but does not develop this interesting issue (especially, their possible overlap). Finally, he relates the four cardinallyoriented chapters of “Inside the Seas” and its last chapter to two different worldviews, and, therefore, also masks, but does not solve the problem of this stray chapter. A possible solution of this problem has been proposed independently by Suh Kyung Ho (Fig. 7b–c) and myself (Fig. 8a, b, c).24 We each advance the suggestion that not only “Outside the Seas” and “The Great Wilderness” represent overlapping zones, but that “Inside the Seas” and the “Mountains” also overlap, both referring to the centre of the world but describing it from different perspectives. I define such spatial representation as parallel complementary mapping. My major argument is that in all the ancient Chinese sources prior to or contemporary with the SHJ “Inside the Seas” designates the central part of the world encompassed by the cardinally-oriented seas associated with the basins of the Yellow and Yangzi rivers, and that only such a view of “Inside the Seas” allows one to position the additional (fifth) chapter of “Inside the Seas”.25 I would also like to note that, as one can see from Fig. 8a, b, c, apart from the nest of concentric squares pattern, the SHJ can equally be represented by the cruciform and the 3x3 grid patterns. These representations are easily transformable one into the other.26 Yet, no matter which configuration is preferred, each has all the attributes of a regular “global” scheme or cosmogram. The “wheel” map also shares many of these attributes, with the difference that it is based on a circle model, not a square. ——— Lichtmann (2003a: 38, 43). 24 Suh Kyung Ho 1993: 304–309, Dorofeeva-Lichtmann 1995: 81–84, fig. 7a–c on p. 99. 25 Dorofeeva-Lichtmann 1995: 78–79, esp. footnote 101. Suh Kyung Ho only provides spatial arrangements of the chapters of the SHJ, but does not elucidate much on the proposed arrangement. The overlapping is also not in evidence in his general map of the SHJ (see Fig. 7d). 26 For the 3x3 grid pattern and the nest of concentric squares, see DorofeevaLichtmann (1995: 63–69, 1996: 10–12, 1999: 168–172, 2003a: 66, endnote 46). Both are derived from the cruciform pattern discussed by Sarah Allan (1991: 74–111). She considers the quinary cardinally-oriented cross as an image of the Earth originating from the Shang dynasty (ca. sixteenth–eleventh centuries BC), and makes some suggestions about the cruciform shape of the world according to the SHJ (ibid: 87).
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The choice of a round shape for the map seems to be a curious combination of three cartographic traditions—Chinese, Buddhist and modern Western cartographies. The round frame of the “wheel” map has some affinity with the egg-shaped Jambudvîpa amidst the sea in Buddhist cartography, the affinity accentuated by distant countries of the SHJ incorporated into the sinicised versions of Buddhist maps. At the same time, the “wheel” map is an attempt to adapt both the traditional schematic representation of terrestrial space and the Buddhist maps to the code of representation characteristic of the maps of the world in Western cartography. In particular, terrestrial zones, traditionally conceived of as a nest of concentric squares, are represented as concentric circles inscribed onto the general round shape of the map in order to give it a “Western look”, and, eventually, on one late variation of the map such a representation of terrestrial space has superimposed on it meridians and parallels, making it look like a halfglobe representation in Western cartography.27 Yet, the depiction of China in the “wheel” map is still very similar to how it is depicted in traditional Chinese maps, not to mention its central position in the map. Apart from the absence of traditional maps of the SHJ, the very idea that geographical maps related to the SHJ ever existed only appears in traditional scholarship at about the time of the “wheel” maps. It was advanced by Bi Yuan in his edition of the SHJ entitled Shanhaijing xinjiaozheng ՞௧ᆖᄅீ( إNew Collated and Corrected [Edition] of the SHJ) first published in 1781. The reflections of Bi Yuan will be discussed below. Here I would simply like to draw attention to the fact that this idea is found surprisingly late in traditional scholarship, allowing one to suggest here at least some indirect influence from Western science. Moreover, initially the SHJ was considered as an unreliable source in imperial historiography, 28 clearly demarcated from the official conception of “terrestrial organisation” (dili چ).29 The change in appreciation of it occurred about the 5th century AD, when for a cer———
27 Yee 1994, Fig. 10.11 on p. 258. This variation of the “wheel” map most likely dates from the late 19th century. Yee in his caption to the map points out some attributes of its “degeneration” with respect to the earlier variations. 28 This point of view is clearly expressed in the two first official histories, the Shiji ಖ (The Grand Scribe’s Records) by Sima Qian ್ᔢ (145?–87 BC) (Shiji 1972: 3179, de Groot, tr., 1926, 44–45, Watson, tr. 1969: 299), and the Hanshu ዧ (History of the [Former] Han [Dynasty]) by Ban Gu ఄࡐ (AD 32–92) (Hanshu 1975: 2705, Hulsewé, tr. 1979: 237–238). 29 Dorofeeva-Lichtmann 2001b, 2005a.
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tain period of time (until the Song dynasty) it became regarded as part of the dili corpus.30 In all these respects the SHJ contrasts markedly with the most authoritative ancient Chinese text dealing with geographical matters, the “Yugong”, which serves as the conceptual basis of the dili corpus. A whole series of maps directly related to the “Yugong” have survived, the earliest dating from the Song dynasty,31 and few references to any earlier maps related to this text are found in the dynastic histories.32 In sum, a certain type of graphic representation usually related in one way or another to a text on geographical matters seems to be lacking in traditional scholarship on the SHJ. This relationship was established only when this text came to be regarded in the context of modern Western natural sciences. Since this approach dominates studies of the geographical information contained in the SHJ,33 it is not then surprising that Bi Yuan’s supposition, further developed by Chinese scholars in the first half of the 20th century,34 came to be taken for granted in sinological literature. As a result, the assumption that originally there were maps related to the SHJ is found in various studies by Western sinologists.35 ———
30 Chu Ping-yi 1990: 51–62. 31 See, for instance, one of the earliest Song maps, the famous Yuji tu છᇾቹ
(Map of Yu’s footprints) engraved on a stone stele in 1136 together with the Huayi tu ဎڎቹ (Map of Chinese and barbarian [territories]) placed on the other face of the stele. The Yuji tu was reproduced with slight differences in 1142. For an analysis of the Yuji tu (usually made in comparison with the Huayi tu), see the still seminal study by Chavannes (1903, large-scale transcriptions of the maps are folded between pp. 18 and 19, first the Yuji tu, then the Huayi tu), see also Needham and Wang Ling (1959: 547–549), Yee (1994: 46–48). Copies of rubbings of these maps are found in the majority of survey studies of the history of Chinese geography and cartography by Chinese scholars, e.g., Cao Wanru et al. (1999 [repr. 1990], the Yuji tu—plates 54– 56, photograph of the stone, rubbing, and transcription, respectively, the Huayi tuʊplates 60–62). Other early examples are the Yugong jiuzhou qiangjie tu છಥ ڠᖅቹ (Map of boundaries of the Nine Provinces, according to the “Yugong”) and the Yu dao shanchuan zhi tu છᖄ՞՟հቹ (Map of Yu’s delineating [itineraries through] mountains and rivers) from the Liujing tu քᆖቹ (Maps related to the Six Classics) set of maps engraved on stone in 1229. For this set of maps, see Cao Wanru et al. (1999 [repr. 1990]), the rubbings of the maps are shown on plates 89–92, the stele on plate 93, the two maps are found on plates 89 and 90, respectively. For a study of these maps, see Wang Qianjin (1993: 83–90, the copies of rubbings from the atlas by Cao Wanru et al. are reproduced on p. 88). Many later examples of maps related to Yu are found in the comprehensive series of atlases by Cao Wanru et al. (1999 [repr. 1990], 1995 [repr. 1994], 1997); see also Yan Ping et al. (1998), Chen Cheng-siang (Chen Zhengxiang 1979). 32 Chavannes 1903: 240–242, Needham and Wang Ling 1959: 534–536. 33 Dorofeeva-Lichtmann 2003a: 36–38. 34 Wang Yizhong 1934, He Cijun 1934, Wang Yong 1998 [repr. 1938]: 16–35. 35 E.g., a study of the history of Chinese geography and cartography by Needham
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The only scholar, to my knowledge, who has ever questioned this assumption is Michael Lackner.36 He has suggested that these maps might have been not simply of a purely geographical nature, but could have also possessed philosophical features in the sense of the attribution of corresponding “meanings” to certain “positions”. In other words, though he questions the purely geographical nature of these maps, he too does not doubt that maps or rather some sort of schemes existed.
Tracing the myth of the “lost” maps in the commentarial tradition At the first sight, the suggestion that maps originally existed seems to be highly plausible. Indeed, apart from the content of the SHJ, which makes one immediately think of a map, it is prompted by Chinese historiographical and commentarial traditions. Moreover, it has received some supporting evidence from recent archeological discoveries. 1) The dynastic histories often mention maps no longer extant, and report a massive loss of ancient maps collected in the Qin (221– 207 BC) and Han official archives after the fall of the Han empire. 37 These references were impressively confirmed by the recent finds of Qin and Han maps, giving impetus to a reconsideration of the loss of ancient maps, including those of the SHJ. For example, Cordell D. K. Yee in his survey of the history of Chinese cartography notes that the Qin and Han maps are all local maps, and that maps of the empire mentioned in contemporaneous and later sources did not survive from this time.38 He, then, no longer questions their existence, as Edouard Chavannes did. 2) The SHJ has long been associated with “graphic representations” (tu ቹ). Several series of tu related to the SHJ have survived from the Ming and Qing dynasties. All of them are “pictures” of creatures described in the text. Yet, since “map” and “picture” both belong to the class of “graphic representations”, formally Bi Yuan was keeping to the letter (or it would be more precise to say to the ——— and Wang Ling (1959: 503), a study of medical knowledge in the SHJ by Schiffeler (1980: 43), a study of its illustrations by Fracasso (1988a: 93). 36 Lackner 1990: 139. 37 Chavannes 1903: 240–242, Needham and Wang Ling 1959: 534–536, Reiter 1990: 308. 38 Yee 1994: 46.
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character) of the commentarial tradition of the SHJ. However, according to the earliest available piece of scholarship related to the SHJ—the “Indications” (biao ।) by its editor Liu Xin Ꮵ✛ (ca. 46 BC–AD 23)—its origins are clearly derived from the “written notes”(ji1 ધ) made during the “world-ordering” travels of the mythical emperor Yu છ.39 Whether the “indications” contains an allusion to any sort of graphic representations related to the SHJ is a matter of discussion, but none is mentioned here directly.40 A similar version of the SHJ’s origins is found in two other texts of a slightly later date, the Lunheng ᓵ ᘝ (Making Statements and Balancing [them]) by Wang Chong ޫ( ךAD 27–ca. 100) and the Wu Yue Chunqiu ܦ။ਞટ (Springs and Autumns of Wu and Yue [Kingdoms]) attributed to Zhao Ye ᎓ᖢ (mid. 1st century AD).41 In all these texts the “written notes” are attributed to Yu’s assistants (whose names and number vary slightly between the texts), who are reported as making these notes simultaneously with Yu’s “world-ordering” actions. The association of the SHJ with graphic representations was made somewhat later, most likely first by Zuo Si ؐ৸ (ca. 3rd century AD), 42 who made a link between this text and the Xia Cauldrons (ding ቓ) where “beings and things” (wu ढ) were “figuratively represented” (xiang ွ), as described in the Zuozhuan ؐႚ (Zuo Narrative, ca. 4th century BC?), in the passage dated as the 3rd year of Xuan Gong ֆ (605 BC). These figurative images of “beings and things” in their turn were fashioned after “graphically represented” (tu) “beings and things” sent from “far-away lands” (yuanfang ֱ). Since this passage has long attracted great interest from sinologists,43 I do not provide a detailed analysis of it here. I would only like to stress that, according to the context of this passage, the represented ——— 39 Shanhaijing jianshu, ed., “Xulu” ඖᙕ, 1a–3b; Eitel, tr. 1888: 330–348, Cheng Hsiao-Chieh et al. 1985: 383–384, Campany 1996: 134–136. 40 For the passage that might contain indications to some “visual representations”, see Fracasso (1988a: 94). 41 In these two texts the “written notes” are signified by the character ji ಖ. 42 Wenxuan ֮ᙇ, SBBY ed., 5/6b, compiled by Xiao Tong ᘕอ (501–531). 43 Legge, tr. 1872: 292–293, Couvreur, tr. 1951 [repr. 1914]: 574–577, Watson, tr. 1989: 81–83. For its analysis (in many cases comprising a translation), see Chavannes (1903: 236–237), Kiang Chao-yuan (1937: 130–134), Wang Yong (1998 [repr. 1938]: 16–21), Needham and Wang Ling (1959: 503–504), Seidel (1983: 320– 321), Harper (1985: 479), Fracasso (1988a: 93–94, 1988b: 93), Wu Hung (1992 [repr. 1989]: 92–96, 1995: 1–16), Sterckx (1996: 18), Hwang Ming-Chorng (1996: 496–502), Campany (1996: 102–104), Strassberg (2002: 4–5). The SHJ is not mentioned in this passage, or elsewhere in the Zuozhuan.
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“beings and things” are local spirits.44 Landscape features mentioned in the passage (“rivers and marshes, mountains and forests”—chuan ze shan lin ՟ᖻ՞ࣥ) certainly do not belong to the “beings and things”. Consequently, “graphically representing” here means making pictures, sketches or diagrams of spirits. As a possible example of such pictures of spirits one can take those drawn on the Chu Silk Manuscript (Chu boshu ᄑࢇ, ca. 3rd century BC, see Fig. 12a).45 It should be taken into consideration, however, that drawings of such images depend heavily on the medium used (silk). The style of figurative representations and ornament on ancient Chinese bronze vessels implies schematic or diagrammatic representations of spirits (somewhat similar to those one can find in the “Daoist Treasury”— Daozang ሐፔ). In any case, as pointed out by Edouard Chavannes, “Il n’est donc aucunement question ici de cartes géographiques”.46 A whole series of “graphic representations” of creatures described in the SHJ existed about the time of Zuo Si, or appeared shortly after. They are the subject of the collection of “appraisals of graphic representations” (tuzan ቹᨬ) appended by Guo Pu ພᗖ (276–324) to his edition of the text. They were also found in a now lost similar work (tuhua zan ቹᨬ) by Zhang Jun ്ទ (301–346), the title of which is especially noteworthy because of the distinction drawn between tu (“pictures, diagrams….”) and hua (exclusively “pictures”, reminiscent of the “drawing pictures” of spirits mentioned in the Hanfeizi ឌॺ, philosophical treatise of the late 3rd century BC).47 None of these “graphic representations” have survived. The earliest extant “graphic representations” related to the SHJ date from the Ming dynasty. These “graphic representations” and those found in Qing editions of the text are all pictures.48 Although these late illustrations give some idea of how the pictures commented on by Guo Pu may have looked, one should keep in mind that the latter may have been considerably or even completely different, considering the profound cultural changes that occurred between the time of Guo Pu and the Ming dynasty, in particular changes in the (re)production of texts after the invention of block-printing. ——— 44 This key aspect of this passage is pointed out by Harper (1985: 479). 45 This dating is proposed in Harper (1999: 845).The Chu Silk Manuscript and its
typological parallels with the SHJ will be discussed below. 46 Chavannes 1903: 237. 47 Hanfeizi jijie ឌॺႃᇞ, Zhuzi jicheng 壆ႃ ګed., p. 202, Liao, tr. 1959: 40. 48 For an account of lost and extant pictures of the SHJ, see Fracasso (1988a: 94– 96).
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Now let us take a closer look at the supposition by Bi Yuan. At the beginning of his preface, he outlines the step-by-step formation of the text in connection with the “graphic representations”. 49 He distinguishes the following stages: 1° The SHJ originates from what was “graphically represented” on the Cauldrons cast by Emperor Yu, and described in the passage found in the Zuozhuan. Bi Yuan concludes from this text that the “graphically represented” items included “famous mountains and rivers of the country” (guo ming shan chuan ഏټ՞՟) and “spirits and divinities, strange and amazing [matters]” (shen ling qi guai ḏᨋ࡛ࢡ). In other words, according to Bi Yuan, the original “graphic representations” on the Cauldrons are mostly pictorial images with some textual interpolations. 2° The Cauldrons disappeared during the Qin dynasty. People living prior to this event seem to have been able to “elucidate” (shuo ᎅ) these “graphic representations” and wrote down their elucidations on bamboo slips. This is how the version of 13 pian ᒧ (bound rolls of bamboo slips) mentioned in the Qilüe Ԯฃ (Seven Outlines) by Liu Xiang Ꮵ( ٻ77–6 BC) (edited by his son, Liu Xin, and incorporated into the bibliographical treatise (“Yiwen zhi” ᢌ ֮ )ݳof the Hanshu ዧ (History of the [Former] Han [Dynasty]) appeared. 3° Liu Xin took this text and added five more chapters (pian) to it, making a total of 18 pian. (Bi Yuan mentions Liu Xiang and not Liu Xin with regard to the Qilüe. This enables him to avoid the discrepancy between the 13 pian in the bibliographical treatise of the Hanshu and the 18 pian in Liu Xin’s edition.) Liu Xin had at his disposal Han “graphic representations” (apparently pictures), quite different from the original “graphic representations” on the Nine Cauldrons. He looked at the Han “graphic representations” while writing his additional chapters to the SHJ. The “appraisals” by Guo Pu and Zhang Jun refer to these pictures. After this general outline Bi Yuan makes a statement concerning the maps. He says “… the 34 pian [version] of the WZSJ of the SHJ in antiquity [was] “graphic representation(s)” of lands and earth” (Shanhaijing Wuzang shanjing sanshisi pian, gu zhe tu1di zhi tu ՞௧ ᆖնፔ՞ᆖԿԼᒧΔृײՒچհቹ). “Graphic representation of ——— 49 Bi Yuan 1977: 1.
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lands and earth” (tu1di zhi tu Ւچհቹ) is a longer and more elegant variation of “terrestrial graphic representation” (ditu چቹ, he mentions this simplified variation further in his “Preface”) at the time of Bi Yuan, standing for a geographical map. In other words, the WZSJ in its earliest version on the “bound rolls of bamboo slips” was, according to Bi Yuan, a map (or maps). This key statement became the starting point for further reflections on maps in relation to the SHJ by Bi Yuan himself and his followers. Bi Yuan first compares WZSJ map(s) to those referred to in the Zhouli and the philosophical treatise Guanzi ጥ (compiled about the end of the 1st c. BC).50 Then he meticulously describes the traces of the map(s) in the extant form of the WZSJ found in the accounts of mountains, each bearing the common title jing ᆖ. (I shall discuss this characteristic of the textual structure of the WZSJ below). He regards these accounts as the result of the later transformation of map(s) into text (shu ). He also points out that all these accounts being of the jing category (lei ᣊ), assured the survival of the text until the present time. It should be noted that Bi Yuan’s derivation of the origins of the SHJ from the Cauldrons described in the Zuozhuan in many ways resembles that by Yang Shen ᄘშ (1488–1559).51 The latter, however, does not draw any conclusions about maps. When Bi Yuan uses a single character tu (“graphic representations”) he mostly means “picture”, and when he mentions maps he adds the adjective “terrestrial”. When establishing his link between the Cauldrons and the maps Bi Yuan may have taken into consideration the idea that the Nine Cauldrons represented the “Nine Provinces” (jiuzhou )ڠ. According to this idea the set of Cauldrons was arranged in a regular cardinallyoriented fashion. Each Cauldron corresponded to a square of the 3x3 grid, and hence formed a sort of map of the “Nine Provinces”. Such an arrangement of the Cauldrons, as well as their direct relation to the “Nine Provinces”, is, however, nowhere in evidence in the passage from the Zuozhuan. The idea became explicit much later, in relation to the Nine Cauldrons re-cast in 696 or 697 for Empress Wu ࣳ ———
50 This point in Bi Yuan’s speculations was elaborated on in the discussion of the relation between the so-called “Maps for mastering tribute” (Zhigong tu ಥቹ) and the WZSJ map, see Wang Yizhong (1934), He Cijun (1934), Wang Yong (1998 [repr. 1938]: 21–25). 51 This similarity is pointed out by Wang Yong, who first cites Yang Shen and then analyses the outline of the textual formation of the SHJ by Bi Yuan; see Wang Yong (1998 [repr. 1938]: 16–21).
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(r. 684–704) of the Tang dynasty, which were said to be modelled on the ancient Cauldrons.52 Having described the stages of the evolution of the textual division of the SHJ, from the 34 “bound rolls of bamboo slips” reconstructed by himself to the 18 “rolls” mentioned in the edition by Liu Xin (to be discussed below), Bi Yuan once again returns back to the “graphic representations”.53 In particular, he says that the “graphic representations” (pictures) “elucidated” (shuo) in the “Outside the Seas” and “Inside the Seas” sections of the 13 “bound rolls of bamboo slips” edition are those that were found on Emperor Yu’s Cauldrons. “Graphic representations” (pictures) “elucidated” in the last 5 chapters of the text (the “Great Wilderness” and the last chapter of “Inside the Seas”) date from the Han dynasty. He further concludes that the pictures were the major reason for classifying the SHJ under the “Xingfa” ݮऄ (Methods of forms) subsection of the Qilüe bibliography, although no explicit references to “graphic representations” are found in the outline of this section.54 In sum, Bi Yuan distinguishes three types of “graphic representations” related to the SHJ: I. Original “graphic representations” found on Emperor Yu’s Cauldrons. I.a Some of these original “graphic representations” generated secondary “graphic representations”—the WZSJ map(s). At the same time elucidations (shuo) of the original “graphic representations” found on the Cauldrons (apparently the pictorial images among them) constituted “Outside the Seas” and the first four chapters of “Inside the Seas”. These map(s) and elucidations became the early version of the text on the “bound rolls of bamboo slips”. II. Han “graphic representations”—pictures the elucidation of which constituted the last 5 chapters of the text composed by Liu Xin. These are the pictures “appraised” by Guo Pu and Zhang Jun. III. Later “graphic representations”—pictures made from the Liang dynasty (502–557) onward. ———
52 On these Cauldrons, see Fracasso (1988b: esp. 92–93). 53 Bi Yuan (1977: 7), the conclusion to the Shanhaijing gujin ben pianmu kao ՞
௧ᆖײվءᒧ( ەؾExploration on the table of contents of the ancient and modern editions of the SHJ). 54 Hanshu 1975: 1774–1775.
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This outline of the SHJ’s formation is, in effect, an attempt to unify the references to the text accumulated in traditional sources and scholarship into a coherent sequence, and such attempts can rarely succeed without some “cheating”. In particular, Bi Yuan placed first the association of the text with the Nine Cauldrons, one that was established rather late and is not mentioned by Liu Xin (nor is the SHJ mentioned in the Zuozhuan). This association, however, somehow matched Liu Xin’s derivation of the SHJ from the time of Emperor Yu. Bi Yuan avoided referring to the “written notes” (ji1) made during Yu’s travels considered by Liu Xin as a sort of proto-text, but pointed out his rather ambiguous allusion to visual representations. He also never mentions the attitude towards this text as being unreliable in early imperial historiography.55 Therefore, the initial point of his argumentation is the most doubtful. This, however, does not mean that the link between the SHJ and the passage from the Zuozhuan is entirely groundless. On the contrary, they share the highly important feature that they both focus on the local spirits. The descriptions of spirits in the SHJ are rather “picture-like”. As a rule, they are described as hybrids of different animals, or an animal and a human being,56 according to the “animal/human body – animal head/human face or head” model, for instance, “bird’s body – dragon’s head” (niaoshen longshou ຺ߪᚊଈ), “dragon’s body – human face” (longshen renmian ᚊߪԳ૿) in the first and the third itinerary of the “Southern Mountains” (S1 and S2), respectively (see Fig. 11a and complementary Fig. 11b).57 If further detail is given, it too mostly concerns constituent elements of the creature’s shape (e.g., horns, tail, legs, etc.). Colour with one exception is never mentioned. Such descriptions seem to be addressed to a “reader” who is able to compose an image of the creature (at least in his mind) from constituent elements of some more or less “standard” pictures of animals and people. One could also suggest that these descriptions accompanied original pictures or substituted for these pictures. The suggestion that the SHJ originally incorporated pictures is elaborated by Hwang ———
55 Bi Yuan 1977: 1. 56 For hybrids, “anomaly” animals and daemons in the ancient Chinese culture,
see Loewe (1994 [repr. 1978]: 38–54), Sterckx (1996, 1998, 2002). 57 I discuss in detail the system of guardian spirits and its representation in Fig. 11a in Dorofeeva-Lichtmann (2003a: 53–59, 2003b: 159–164). Here I provide Fig. 11b to facilitate its comprehension.
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Ming-Chorng with respect to parts of the Haijing. 58 The Chu Silk Manuscript combining pictures of spirits and elucidations of these pictures serves as important support in favour of this suggestion. Further support may be seen in the totals of characters in the SHJ, which show that the Guo Pu edition of the WZSJ ended up more than 5000 characters longer (ca. 25%) than the Liu Xin edition. Such an increase in the textual body might have resulted from having pictures substituted by text. All these arguments, plausible as they may seem, are, however, outweighed by the restrictions imposed on making illustrations by the media on which the texts were written. Incorporating a series of illustrations into the textual body seems rather difficult to effect on bamboo slips, which were the first medium used for writing down the SHJ.59 Indeed, as one can see from a representative number of bamboo slips from archeological finds, only one example of making an illustration on bamboo slips has been discovered so far, the so-called “human being character” (renzi Գ), a diagram incorporated into the divinatory tables from Shuihudi (late 3rd c. BC). 60 This rough sketch of a human body is hardly comparable to the sophisticated pictures found in the ancient silk manuscripts. The suggestion that the SHJ contained pictures, then, can only be considered for its versions written on silk. These versions are derived from those on bamboo slips, and the earliest seems to be that of 18 juan (silk scrolls) by Guo Pu. The “appraisals” of pictures by Guo Pu confirm that pictures did indeed exist at the time he was editing the text. Yet, since his “appraisals” constitute an appendix to the main text, the pictures then most likely existed separately from the text, rather than being incorporated into it. These illustrations seem to appear as the result of reflections on what is written in the text, rather then having served as an inspiration for its composition.
———
58 See Hwang Ming-Chorng 1996: 506–509. 59 Liu Xin in his “Indications” (biao) reports having transformed the original 32
“bound rolls of bamboo slips” (pian) into 18. An edition of 13 pian is registered in the bibliographical chapter of the Hanshu (Hanshu 1975: 1774). The importance of this writing medium in the case of the SHJ will be discussed below. 60 Li Ling 2000 [rev. of 1993]: 204, 206.
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II. THE TEXTUAL BODY OF THE SHANHAI JING AS A MAP AND SOME SIMILAR CASES
Now let us take a closer look at how the textual body of the SHJ is organised, comparing its organisation with other typologically similar cases, and with respect to structural aspects of the medium on which it was originally written (bound rolls of bamboo slips).
The general textual layout of the Shanhai jing As was briefly mentioned above in the context of the discussion of the “global” scheme of the SHJ, its textual structure is remarkably regular and consistent. This characteristic applies, in the first place, to the arrangement of its chapters and sub-chapters (see Table 1). The principle underlying their arrangement is primarily “spatial”, and is stated in a clear, straightforward and consistent way in the titles of chapters and sub-chapters. Indeed, each chapter and sub-chapter is given a title that refers it to a section of a particular terrestrial zone, and each of these sections is oriented to the cardinal directions. In sum, the textual structure of the SHJ meticulously emulates an orderly spatial scheme, and the titles of chapters and sub-chapters serve as indicators to “positions” attributed to the constituent elements of this scheme (e.g., “Itineraries of Eastern Mountains” – Dongshan jing ࣟ՞ᆖ). Moreover, the titles of chapters of the “Itineraries of Seas” are characterised by a rather striking feature, one that seems to have been completely overlooked in the numerous translations of this text. These titles simply indicate the cardinally-oriented placement of the corresponding chapters. For instance, the Haiwai xijing ௧؆۫ᆖ literally means the “Western Itinerary of Outside the Seas”, rather than the “Classic/Book of Western Outside the Seas”, the sense it is attributed with in the majority of translations. Although the textual spatiality of the SHJ has been given little consideration in most studies and translations, the outlines of a global scheme derived from this text show, in effect, a spatial placement of its chapters. The global scheme becomes an outline of the general textual structure of the SHJ when the titles of its chapters are used as markers of the scheme’s sections. For instance, good illustrations of such spatial textual layouts are provided by the reconstructions by John Major, Riccardo Fracasso and Suh Kyung Ho discussed above
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(see Fig. 1, 3, and 5, respectively). These authors, however, do not seem to recognise the importance of this fact, being primarily interested in the “global” scheme it maps. The cardinally-oriented layouts of chapters of the SHJ can be compared to the “Youguan” ؔࡴ chapter of the philosophical treatise Guanzi. The “Youguan” is divided into textual sections that have explicit references to the arrangement of these sections with respect to the four cardinal directions and the centre. These references given at the end of the textual sections served as a basis for the reconstruction of its original spatial layout by Guo Moruo ພःૉ and Wen Yiduo ፊԫ( ڍsee Fig. 6 in the article by Marc Kalinowski in this volume and Fig. 9a in this paper).61 Slightly differing reconstructions were further proposed by Wang Meng-o ׆ኄᧉ, Li Ling and Hwang Ming-Chorng (see Fig. 9b,c,d, respectively). All these scholars accept the ten-fold cardinally-oriented framework of the initial reconstruction, though they propose slightly differing arrangements of its ten constituent elements.62 The reconstructed textual layout is considered to be ground plan of the Dark Palace (Xuangong tu خ୰ቹ). The title of the chapter originally contained the characters xuangong خ୰ that are supposed to have been mistakenly replaced by similarly looking characters youguan ؔࡴ, so the chapter should be entitled the “Dark Palace”. A similar principle of textual tailoring—with respect to a set of “positions” oriented to the cardinal directions—is present in the opening section of the “Mingtang wei” ࣔഘ( ۯPositions in the Luminous Hall) chapter of the Liji ៖ಖ (Records on Rituals [compiled maybe as late as the 1st century AD]). The reconstruction of its spatial layout delineates a plan of the Luminous Hall (Mingtang ࣔഘ), the counterpart of the Dark Palace.63 The reconstructed layout is strikingly simi———
61 See the elucidations of this reconstruction and its analysis by Rickett (1985: 148–192). I survey a series of spatially laid out texts that have survived from ancient China and some reconstructions in Dorofeeva-Lichtmann (2005b). 62 For a critical survey of proposed layouts, followed by his own reconstruction, see Hwang Ming-Chorng (1996: 85–91, fig. 2.37, 2.38 and 2.39 on pp. 727, 728, 729, respectively), see also Li Ling (2000 [rev. of 1993]: 136–137). 63 A reconstruction of textual layout of the opening section of the Mingtang wei was made by Blinova (1988, 1989). I proposed a different layout of textual passages of the Mingtang wei at the 9th International Conference on the History of Science in East Asia, Singapore, 23–27.08.1999. For a scheme of “positions”, according to the “Mingtang wei”, see Fig. 4 in Wu Hung, this volume. For other references to the Mingtang in Chinese texts and its role as a cosmographic conception, see Maspero (1948–1951), Soothill (1951: 84–96), Sickman and Soper (1956: 212), Bilsky (1975: 290–299, 324–330), Henderson (1984: 59–87, 1994: 212–216), Allan (1991: 92), Wu Hung (1995: 176–187, this volume), Shatzman Steinhardt (1999 [repr. 1990],:
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lar to that found on the so-called Mausoleum Plan (Zhaoyu tu ٢ ቹ, the late 4th century BC) engraved on a bronze plate.64 The layout of the Wuzang shanjing Parts and sections of the SHJ, as one can see from reconstructions by Suh Kyong Ho and Li Ling (Figs. 6 and 5, respectively) for instance, have a certain structural autonomy, and can be regarded as independent textual and spatial structures.65 My exploration of the SHJ is primarily concerned with the spatial organisation conveyed by the first core part of the text, the WZSJ. Discussion of its structure in sinological literature is, as a rule, limited by the general quinary framework of its division into five chapters oriented with respect to the cardinal points and the centre. The ramification of the 5 cardinally-oriented chapters of the WZSJ into 26 sub-chapters is more often than not overlooked, despite the fact that the sub-chapters are also distinguished according to the spatial principle. Indeed, each subchapter has a title that corresponds to the cardinal orientation of the chapter it belongs to, and, beginning from the second sub-chapter, its ordinal number in the chapter (see Table 1). A sub-chapter corresponds to an itinerary marked by mountains. The titles then give indications as to how the itineraries and also the sub-chapters are distributed within the quinary frame emulated by the 5 cardinally-oriented chapters. ——— 15–16), Lewis (2006: 260–273) and the comprehensive study by Hwang MingChorng (1996). 64 For a reproduction of the Mausoleum Plan, see Fig. 8 in Wu Hung, this volume. For a large-scale photograph of the Mausoleum Plan bronze plan, and a copy of its characters and transcription, see Cao Wanru et al. (1999 [repr. 1990], figures 1, 2 and 3, respectively). For examinations of the Mausoleum Plan, see Fu Xinian (1980), Yee (1994: 36–37). A meticulous exploration of the Zhaoyu tu and translation of its textual passages, with helpful schemes aimed at highlighting the structure of the designed plan and the reading order of the incorporated text are provided in a M.A. thesis by Petra Klose (1984: esp. 23–40), partially published in Klose (1985: 13ff). I would like to express my thanks to Alexander Mayer who called my attention to this work. For detailed description of the excavations, see Hebei sheng wenwu yanjiusuo/The Hebei Provincial Institute of Cultural Relics (1995). See also Behr, this volume. 65 For explorations of the WZSJ, Hai jing and the general structure of the SHJ, see Dorofeeva-Lichtmann (1995: 71–78, 78–81, 81–84, respectively). Some parts of the SHJ, in particular, “Inside the Seas” and “The Great Wilderness” are explored as independent texts by Hwang Ming-Chorng (1996: 494–509 and 537–677, respectively).
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One of the rare scholars to have considered the arrangement of the 26 itineraries is Wang Chengzu. 66 Similarly to the outlines of the “global” scheme of the SHJ, the spatial sections of which are marked by chapter titles in Chinese, Wang Chengzu supplies each itinerary with the title of the corresponding sub-chapter. His reconstruction, therefore, can also be regarded as a spatial layout of the sub-chapters, but he does not seem to give much importance to this fact. The reconstruction by Wang Chengzu is, however, aimed at deriving a physical map of the described region from the arrangement of itineraries. For this purpose his arrangement is superimposed on a simplified physical map of the Yellow and Yangzi river basins, and the general quinary framework of the system of itineraries is present only in an implicit way—the itineraries form more or less distinct groups corresponding to their cardinally-oriented chapters. Relying to a considerable extent on the reconstruction by Wang Chengzu, I proposed an outline of the system of itineraries with respect to the quinary framework that highlights its attributes of a “global” scheme or cosmogram.67 In particular, the scheme shows positions of the itineraries in their sections, their dominant directions, and also their ordinal numbers within their section and with respect to the entire set of the itineraries. Now, if we replace the symbols of the itineraries in the proposed scheme— numbered arrows—by the titles of the corresponding sub-chapters, we achieve an outline of the spatial layout of these sub-chapters (see Fig. 10), typologically similar to the outlines of the layout of the “Youguan” by Wang Meng-o, Li Ling and Hwang Ming-Chorng. The itineraries are delineated with respect to the local guardian spirits to which they submit. As a result, an itinerary is comprised of mountains that are in the charge of spirits of the same appearance and requiring similar sacrifices. The system of itineraries, therefore, maps a cardinally-oriented dispersion of sacred powers (local spirits) over terrestrial space. A good visual image of this dispersion provides a representation of the itineraries/sub-chapters according to the appearance of their spirits. The appearance of the spirits is a convenient characteristic for analysis, as it is given in the majority of cases (it is missing in 7 ———
66 See footnote 23. 67 I first proposed such an arrangement of the itineraries in Dorofeeva-Lichtmann
(1995, Fig. 9 on p. 100 elucidated on pp. 71–78) and then a slightly corrected version in Dorofeeva-Lichtmann (2003a, Fig. 2.7 on p. 50 elucidated on pp. 47–53, 2003b, Fig. 4 on p. 208 elucidated on pp. 153–159). The system of itineraries is also represented in Fig. 10 of this paper.
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routes out of a total of 26) and in a uniform way—as hybrids of different animals, or an animal and a human being (see Fig. 11a and Fig. 11b). 68 If we now imagine pictures of spirits incorporated into the body of the sub-chapters (= descriptions of the itineraries) in their spatial layout shown on Fig. 10, the resulting cardinally-oriented layout of textual parts and pictures immediately reminds us of the famous Chu Silk Manuscript (see Fig. 12a).
The layout of the Chu Silk Manuscript The Chu Silk Manuscript, excavated in 1942, still enjoys considerable scholarly interest. 69 One of the reasons for this interest is the peculiar spatial layout of the manuscript.70 Since this layout has striking structural parallels with the reconstructed layout of the WZSJ, it deserves to be discussed in some detail here. At a closer look at the structure of the Chu Silk manuscript suggests that it may have originated from a layout of bound rolls/sets of bamboo slips. The central part of the manuscript is occupied by two relatively long textual sections71 placed upside down with respect to each other. The length of the columns in both of these sections conforms to the numbers of characters often found on bamboo slips. From this point of view the layout of characters in these sections strongly resembles two bound rolls/sets of bamboo slips placed upside down in relation to each other. The central textual sections are framed by pictures and associated textual passages.72 The pictures show twelve divinities or spirits de———
68 See footnote 54. 69 For seminal studies of the Chu Silk Manuscript, see Barnard (1972, 1973),
Loewe (1994 [repr. 1978]: 38–54, esp. 42–50), Jao Tsung-i (Rao Zongyi) and Zeng Xiantong (1985), Li Ling (1985), Li Xueqin (1994: 37–91). For the main problems raised in the studies of the Chu Silk Manuscript, see the “Discussion” in Lawton, ed. (1991: 176–183). For a survey of studies of the manuscript followed by its transcription, see Li Ling (2000 [rev. of 1993]: 178–196). 70 I discuss the layout of the Chu Silk Manuscript in more detail in DorofeevaLichtmann (2005b: 13–23). 71 The shorter of these two central textual sections contains eight columns of thirty-six characters, the longer section thirteen columns of thirty-four characters, see the transcription of the Chu Silk Manuscript by Li Ling (reproduced on Fig. 12c) supplied with numbers of characters in rows and columns (cf. transcription by Barnard 1972: 10). In both cases the last columns are not filled up completely. The textual sections include 263 and 412 characters, respectively. They are referred to as texts A and B by Noel Barnard, and vice versa by Li Ling. 72 These passages are referred to in scholarly literature as texts C.
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picted with their heads adjacent to the central textual sections.73 Each spirit is supplied with a name and a concise definition of its function. These are given in three characters and placed at the level of the spirit’s head. Additional elucidations appended for each spirit are placed closer to the border of the manuscript. These elucidations consist of two to four short columns differing slightly in their length (full columns contain eight to thirteen characters). The framing pictures and associated textual passages form four groups—three at each side of the manuscript. The passages within a group are written along the side of the manuscript and in the same direction. All together they form a clockwise sequence. The total number of characters in columns along each side of the manuscript (in a group of framing passages) roughly conforms to the length of the columns in the central sections, and, hence, to the numbers of characters often found on a bamboo slip.74 Such a sophisticated placement of text on a silk scroll required much skill and a good eye for operating with textual passages. Although almost no other examples of similar textual arrangements on silk from the second half of the 1st millennium BC have been found so far, it may be that such an elaborate arrangement represented a developed practice of producing non-linear textual arrangements rather than being an exceptional case.75 Elsewhere, I have advanced a supposition that the high transpositional potential of texts written on bamboo slips and wooden tablets might have served as an important favourable factor for producing non-linear textual structures. 76 Indeed, the Chu Silk Manuscript is constituted of few parts, which, as just mentioned, correspond well to the format provided by these writing media. It seems at least possible, then, to suggest that the Chu Silk Manuscript might have been inspired by or originated from a nonlinear textual arrangement composed of six bound sets of bamboo ———
73 For exploration of the appearance and functions of these spirits, see Barnard 1988, Hwang Ming-Chorng (1996: 72–85). 74 Somewhat similar combinations of pictures and textual passages elucidating them are also found on a silk manuscript from Mawangdui that deals with similar matters—astronomy, astrology and divination (Tianwen qixiang zazhan ֚֮ွᠧ )discussed by Harper, this volume. Here all the combinations of pictures (showing creatures and astronomical symbols) and accompanying textual passages are arranged into strips. This arrangement resembles the strip-like layout of text on bamboo slips mentioned above, especially the “almanac” from Shuihudi with incorporated pictures (the renzi diagram, see Li Ling (2000 [rev. of 1993]: 206). 75 This supposition, however, can only be confirmed by new finds of similar texts. 76 Dorofeeva-Lichtmann 2005b: 12–13.
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slips (or six wooden tablets)—two in the centre placed upside down with respect to each other, framed by four bound sets or tablets with a strip–like textual layout, and, probably, incorporating pictures. The spirits depicted on the manuscript represent a sort of zodiacal cycle (see Fig. 12d). Each spirit represents a month, and the accompanying textual passages elucidate the permitted or forbidden activities during the respective month. The spirits are arranged into groups of three—three spirits at each side of the frame. The spirit to the left on each side, according to the accompanying elucidation, “controls” (si )one of the four seasons. This spirit corresponds to the last month of a season. Therefore, a side of the manuscript comprising three spirits/months represents a season. Since the seasons correlate with the four cardinal points, the arrangement of spirits and, consequently, the entire layout of the manuscript, are then implicitly cardinally-oriented. The arrangement of the twelve pictures of spirits is complemented by pictures of four trees, which, in contrast to the former, are not accompanied by textual passages. These four pictures are placed at the corners of the cardinally-oriented frame as “separators” between the seasons and markers of the semi-cardinal directions.77 The set of pictures delineates a tempo-spatial scheme—correlated structuring of time and space. The main text placed in the centre of the manuscript also deals with calendrical matters—the longer section concerns the year, the shorter the four seasons—considered in an astrological and cosmological context. When the shorter of the central textual sections is placed head up in front of the “user” it is cardinally-oriented in such a way that its top corresponds to the south. Taking into consideration the prominent southern orientation of ancient Chinese divinatory schemes, spatial models and maps, this seems to be the probable initial position of the manuscript.78 ———
77 The symbolism of the four trees in Chinese cosmology is extensively discussed by Hwang Ming-Chorng (1996: 328–402). For the four trees depicted on the Chu Silk Manuscript, see ibid: 330–334. 78 A good example of a TLV or “cord-hook” scheme oriented to the south is found on the Yinwan wooden tablet (face B), see Fig. 13 in Kalinowski, this volume; see also a “cord-hook” diagram on his Fig 2. For discussion of the “cord-hook” pattern, see Kalinowski (1998–1999), also Harper, this volume. A list of other examples of southern orientation is provided by Hwang Ming-Chorng (1996: 67–71) in his discussion of the reading order of the Chu Silk Manuscript. He also provides some other convincing reasons in favour of such an initial position of the text. Yet, Li Ling, as one can see from his transcription of the text reproduced on Fig. 12c, nevertheless proposes to start the reading of the manuscript from the opposite position—beginning from the longer of the central sections placed head up in front of the “user”. The top
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Whichever reading order of the manuscript one accepts, reading of the other central section of the text and the framing passages, which constitute a clockwise sequence, requires either rotating the manuscript or a circular movement around it by its “user”. The pictures of spirits are also designed in such a way—with the heads adjacent to the centre—that their examination, similar to reading the related textual passages, also requires rotating the manuscript or a circular movement by its “user”. In this respect, the text strongly resembles the rotating astronomical/astrological instruments known as shi ڤ, divination boards or cosmographs.79 Moreover, it is, in fact, designed as just such an instrument, as has been pointed out by Li Ling.80 Shi cosmographs consist of a square board representing the Earth with a round rotating board placed on top representing the Heaven,81 both boards supplied with several sets of degree markers. The degree markers indicate orientation to the cardinal and semi-cardinal directions, especially prominent on the lower, terrestrial part of the cosmograph. More specifically, the four cardinal points correspond to the centre of each side of the bottom board, the four semi-cardinal directions to its corners. The structure derived from the Chu Silk Manuscript is especially similar to one of the two types of cosmographs, the liuren ք֙ type, seen in Fig. 13 (for another type of cosmograph, the jiugong ୰ type, cf. Fig. 6 in Wu Hung, this volume). It has a set of twelve degrees on the bottom board in addition to the prominent cardinal and semi-cardinal directions, and the Northern Dipper on the upper rotating part. The place of the “heavenly” part on the Chu Silk Manuscript is occupied by the main text.82 The frame of ——— of the text in this case corresponds to the north. 79 The earliest of the discovered cosmographs date from the Former Han dynasty. For cosmographs, see Harper (1978–1979, 1999: 833–843), Loewe (1979: 75–80), Cullen (1980–1981), Field (1992), Li Ling (1991, 2000 [rev. of 1993]: 89–176), Major (1993: 39–43, 1999: 141–142), Li Ling and Cook (1999: 172), Allan (2003), Kalinowski (1998–1999, 2004; for critics of Allan’s paper, see footnote 58 on pp. 116–117), Lagerwey (2004), Pankenier (2004). 80 Li Ling 1991, 2000 [rev. of 1993]: 180, 190–191, Li Ling and Cook 1999: 172. 81 See footnote 12. 82 For a list of similarities between the cosmograph and the layout of the Chu Silk Manuscript, see Li Ling (2000 [rev. of 1993]: 190–191, five similarities are distinguished). In particular, he argues, that the central textual sections are placed at the position of the Northern Dipper or Taiyi (ibid: 190, § 5). A strong argument in favour of such suggestion is found in the preface to the Laozi zhigui ۔ਐូ by Zhuang Zun ๗ᙅ (83/88 BC–AD 1/6) where the similarities between the structure of a cosmograph and the textual structure of Laozi are discussed, see Röllicke (2005: 144–
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pictures corresponds to the bottom board. Li Ling calls the arrangement of text and pictures of the Chu Silk Manuscript a “pictorial cosmograph” (tushi ቹڤ, see Fig. 12b; see also his cosmograph-like representation of the pictures in Fig. 12d), which in Chinese is an inversion of shitu ڤቹ (“cosmograph design”).83 This elegant inversion plays with the broad meaning of the character tu, which designates varying types of graphic representations, and highlights the instrumental character of the Chu Silk Manuscript. This is something that is, however, given little consideration in sinological literature. As I have already noted above, taking into account how the text was used and what its original users were supposed to do with it is as important for understanding its meaning as a linguistically accurate translation of its content. Yet, scholars who are products of literary traditions where the majority of texts are meant for reading rarely raise these questions when dealing with ancient texts. They assume without much reflection that ancient texts are no different from contemporary texts in this respect. The major difficulty here is that there is no way one can actually see what the original readers of texts, or “users” as I would prefer to say, actually did with them. We can only look for traces of this use. In the case of the Chu Silk Manuscript we have a rare example of a text that bears the clear stamp of a certain operational function. This text is characterised by an attribute that demands a certain action while reading it—rotating the manuscript or a circular movement by the reader or user around it, or a combination of these actions. Although we do not know the reading order of the textual passages, or whether there was supposed to be a single definitive order at all, the result of these actions is quite obvious—the tailoring of time and space according to the model given in the textual layout. Since this tempo-spatial model is “controlled” by spirits, the space created based on this model is of a sacred nature. Creation of this sacred space then means establishing relationships and correspondences between parts of time-space and spirits. Seen from this perspective, the “pictorial cosmograph” is as much a tool to be used for tailoring space and time with respect to certain cosmological patterns as the cosmograph itself and other similar ——— 166).
83 The outline of the “pictorial cosmograph” tushu (Li Ling 2000 [rev. 1993]: fig. 21 on p.111) is part of Li Ling’s discussion of the “cosmograph design” shitu (ibid: 89–176).
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tools—divinatory schemes and “magic” mirrors. 84 The only difference between these pure instruments and the Chu Silk Manuscript is that the latter incorporates textual passages. This difference seems, however, to be something imposed by our ideas of a tool and a text on Chinese cultural tradition, rather than being characteristic of this tradition. This problem is closely related to the interrelationship between text and picture in the manuscript. The textual passages of the Chu Silk Manuscript are arranged in such a way that they form a single whole with the pictures. Nevertheless, as with studies of the inscriptions on oracle bones and bronzes, even the most up–to–date works on the Chu Silk Manuscript are not entirely free from an exclusively philological perspective centred on its textual parts, divorcing them from the pictures. For example, Jao Tsung-i 墌ࡲᙲ refers to the manuscript as “a text and diagram on matters related to astronomy”,85 as if the diagram and accompanying text were separate. Li Ling outlines the layout of the Chu Silk Manuscript comprising both text and pictures (Fig. 12b), but still provides separate representations of the textual parts (Fig. 12c) and the pictures (Fig. 12d), thus breaking up the cohesion of the representation as found on the manuscript. 86 Having recognised the structural importance of its textual parts, for instance, the placement of the two central sections at the position of the Big Dipper or Taiyi, he, nevertheless, considers that the major constituent element of the Chu Silk Manuscript are pictures and that text serves to comment on them.87 Hwang Ming-Chorng is more sensitive to the cohesion of the manuscript and the structural importance of its textual passages, but since his study is primarily focused on the spatial model conveyed by this text, he does not clearly articulate it.88 I would like to point out here that this represen———
84 Loewe (1979: 60–85), Li Ling (2000 [rev. of 1993]: 89–176), Kalinowski (1996; 1998–1999); for a survey of studies of “magic” mirrors and divinatory schemes and boards, see Lewis (2006: 273–284). 85 See the “Discussion” in Lawton (1991: 176). 86 The layouts of the textual parts and the pictures are even given from different angles. 87 Li Ling distinguishes two types of tushu ቹ (“graphical representation” – “writing”) relationship: 1) “graphic representation” and text are separate from each other; in this case “graphic representation” complements a text which plays the major role; 2) textual passages are incorporated into a “graphic representation”; here text comments on “graphic representation”, the latter playing the major role. Li Ling refers the Chu Silk Manuscript to the second type (Li Ling 2000 [rev. of 1993]: 190). This point of view is highlighted in singling out pictures for a cosmograph-like representation (Fig. 12d). 88 Especially in his discussion of the reading order of the Chu Silk Manuscript,
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tation is a single diagram that has pictorial and textual parts. In other words, the spatial textual layout of the Chu Silk Manuscript plays as important a role in the diagram as the pictures. As one can clearly see from the manuscript, using silk as a writing medium is one indication of a feature of “conservation” in Chinese written culture. Thus, a text written down on a piece of silk could not be transposed or transformed as easily as if it were on a bound roll of bamboo slips. Eventually, block-printed books provided a remarkably effective means for preserving and reproducing textual versions with the precision of carbon copies. It seems that the evolution of textual arrangement engendered by new writing media and multiple rewritings of texts gradually overshadowed possible network relationships between constituent elements of non-linear textual structures. The SHJ is often considered in relation to the Chu Silk Manuscript,89 particularly by comparing how the spirits are described in the SHJ and how they are depicted on the Chu Silk Manuscript. The Chu Silk Manuscript also contains a few references to landmarks connected to spirits and sacrifices90 in the same sense as one finds in the WZSJ. In this paper I would like to draw attention to the striking typological similarity between two interrelated aspects of these two texts: -
how space is mapped by the “pictorial cosmograph” and by the “spiritual landscape” derived from the WZSJ;
-
the layout of the Chu Silk Manuscript and the reconstructed layout of the textual body of the WZSJ.
Before pointing out the similarities between the “pictorial cosmograph” and the “spiritual landscape” of the WZSJ, I would first like to mention aspects in which they differ. The major difference is that the “pictorial cosmograph” is focused on temporal cycles, which implicitly correlate with cardinal orientation. The main text of the Chu Silk Manuscript, which, as just mentioned, occupies the place of the upper “heavenly” part of the cosmograph, deals mainly with celestial matters. In contrast, the SHJ in general and the scheme derived ——— see Hwang Ming-Chorng (1996: 67–71). 89 For some discussion of the texts in relation to each other, cf., for example, the studies of the SHJ by Suh Kyung Ho (1993) and Hwang Ming-Chorng (1996). 90 See the latest translation of the Chu Silk Manuscript by Li Ling and Cook (1999: 171–172), parts of the text labelled here as “Chapter I, section C, and the entire Chapter II”. No specific mountains are mentioned, only general references, e.g., “mountains and rivers” (shan chuan ՞՟).
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from the WZSJ in particular is focused on terrestrial space. There is, however, some evidence that this terrestrial space correlates with celestial space and temporal cycles.91 The similarities between the “pictorial cosmograph” and “spiritual landscape” of the WZSJ are as follows: -
representation of a regular cardinally-oriented structure of space;
-
the sacred nature of this space;
-
the instrumental character of the spatial representation.
I have discussed the “process-oriented” character of the system of itineraries found in the WZSJ elsewhere. 92 It is implied in the sequence of the itineraries, which provide an “algorithm” for assembling an orderly and balanced terrestrial organisation. Thus, first a circular tour is made around the four cardinally-oriented peripheral sections (beginning from the south to the west, then the north and the east), then a tour of the central section—first its northern part and then the southern, returning back to the initial point.93 Since the assembled space is tailored with respect to the local spirits, the sequence of itineraries provides an “algorithm” for creating a sacred space.
The Shanhai jing reconsidered with respect to the original writing media The SHJ is, however, distinguished from all these texts by its considerable length. It could hardly be laid out on a single piece of any writing medium used in ancient China, such as, for example, a piece of silk, suggested by W. Allyn Rickett as a sufficient surface for the layout of the “Youguan”.94 He, however, underestimated the mobility ———
91 For some insights into these correlations in the SHJ, cf. Lu Sixian (1998), Golygina (1996: 43–53), Frühauf (1999: 43–45, 2000 (Vol. 2): 80–93). Golygina believes that the SHJ is a codified representation of celestial space. Her arguments, however, do not seem substantial enough to draw this conclusion. 92 Dorofeeva-Lichtmann 1995: 78, 88. 93 Dorofeeva-Lichtmann 2003a, Fig. 2.7 on p. 5, 2003b, Fig. 4 on p. 208, additional diagram in the lower right corner. See also the diagram showing the reading order of the WZSJ corresponding to the sequence of the itineraries in Fig. 10 of this paper. 94 Rickett 1985: 152.
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and reconfigurative properties of certain media used for writing in ancient China, especially bound rolls of bamboo slips. In this respect the textual structure of the SHJ is characterised by another interesting feature also not given much attention in studies of it. This feature concerns the rarely considered “material” aspect of the text, namely, the media it was written on prior to block-printing, and the difference this makes. As mentioned above, the extant version supposed to be based on the edition by Guo Pu includes 18 chapters, each chapter corresponding to a “silk scroll”. These 18 “silk scrolls” in their turn originate from the 18 “bound rolls of bamboo slips” in the edition by Liu Xin. This means that prior to block-printed editions the chapters of the SHJ were separate material units, each unit “labelled” by a title allocating it to a certain spatial “position”. One can then suggest that such chapters could be assembled into a cardinallyoriented layout based on the outlines of the textual structure of the SHJ. Some traces of such manipulation of textual parts that existed in the form of separate material units may be seen, as mentioned above, on the Chu Silk Manuscript. The evidence that such reconfigurative practices actually existed is found in the Songshu ݚ (History of the Song [Dynasty]” by Shen Yue ާપ (441–513).95 Although this source dates from several centuries later than the earliest versions of the SHJ, it still can be taken into consideration, since during this time the same writing media were still used. The described reconfiguration is carried out with an object mapping a terrestrial space—a map on wooden plates made by Xie Zhuang ๗ (421–466). It should also be noted that Xie Zhuang was an older contemporary of Shen Yue, so that the latter may have even seen the map he describes. The map had a square shape and consisted of several wooden plates. When these plates were “separated” (li ), the “provinces” (zhou )ڠbecame “divided” from each other (bie ܑ) and the “commanderies” (jun ಷ, a sub-division of the “provinces”) became “isolated” (shu , literally “decapitated”). In other words, separate plates served as local maps. When they were “assembled” (he )ٽinto a single whole, they constituted a “global” map. The “segmentation” of the “global” map into the local maps occurred on two levels—separation of the general map into the maps of the “provinces”, and then further separation of the maps of the “provinces” into the maps of “commanderies”. This allowed a wide ———
95 Songshu 1983: 2167, Chavannes 1903: 243–244, Wang Yong 1998 [repr. 1938]: 34–36.
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range of manipulations, such as singling out a particular “province” or a group of “provinces”. The hypothesis advanced in this paper that the chapters of the SHJ were engaged in the same sort of “jeu de patience” (as defined by Edouard Chavannes) requires a meticulous analysis of each piece of the textual body of the SHJ. In particular, testing it would require laying out its complete textual body according to the outlines of the layout of its chapters and sub-chapters, similar to the way of laying out the textual body of the “Youguan”, though the latter is much easier to accomplish due to its much shorter length. It is, however, possible to provide considerable support for this hypothesis from the perspective of the structural characteristics of the original material form of the SHJ. Since the above discussion has been mostly focussed on the WZSJ, and since this part of the SHJ is distinguished by a complex structure, let us reconsider its original “material” form. The general cardinallyoriented layout of the five chapters (= “bound rolls of bamboo slips” or “silk scroll”) of the WZSJ is shown in Fig. 5a and Fig. 7a. Taking into consideration the length of the chapters,96 each would make a relatively long “bound roll of bamboo slips” or “silk scroll”. It is, however, necessary to consider that, in contrast to a “silk scroll”, a “bound roll of bamboo slips” is distinguished by a high transpositional potential. Specifically, the segmental structure of the “bound rolls of bamboo slips” allows one to make easy rearrangements of the sets of slips within a “roll”, to add on to a “roll”, to unite a few “rolls” together, and to separate a “roll” into several parts.97 The chapters of the WZSJ in the form of the “bound rolls of bamboo slips” would, indeed, be prone to sub-division. Apart from their rather considerable length, each consists of clearly demarcated subchapters—lists of mountains that are labelled by a title at the beginning of the list, and given “summaries” at the end. There is also some evidence to believe that the division of the text into five long “bound rolls of bamboo slips” comprising subdivisions, the structure apparently imposed by Liu Xin, originated from a division into a considerably larger number of “bound rolls of bamboo slips”. Indeed, as mentioned above, Liu Xin reports having transformed the original 32 “bound rolls of bamboo slips” into 18, but ———
96 For the number of characters in the chapters of the WZSJ, see DorofeevaLichtmann (1995, Table 3 on p. 92). 97 Maeder 1992: 27–29, 81–82.
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never mentions that he suppressed any “rolls” or their parts. It seems, then, most likely that his editorial work consisted mostly in restructuring and rearranging. Bi Yuan suggests that 32 is a mistake for 34. The 34 “bound rolls of bamboo slips”, according to Bi Yuan, included the 26 sub-chapters of the WZSJ and the 8 first chapters of the Haijing. First Liu Xin made 5 “rolls” out of the 26 shorter ones in the WZSJ, and added to them the 8 “rolls” (this makes up the version of the 13 “rolls” referred to in the bibliographical treatise of the Hanshu).98 Then he composed the 5 last “rolls” of the Haijing, making the total of the 18 “rolls”.99 An argument in favour of the suggestion that each list of mountains of the WZSJ originally constituted a separate “roll” is found in the numbers of characters in the chapters and sub-chapters of the SHJ. Indeed, the sub-chapters in the WZSJ are comparable in their length to the chapters of the Haijing.100 As mentioned above, each list consists of descriptions of successive mountains that delineate itineraries, each characterised by a dominant direction. A description of each mountain forms a clearly demarcated “paragraph”, so that a list looks like a chain of such “paragraphs”—similar to the itineraries delineated by chains of mountains. A list of mountains, taken as a separate material unit, would then materially represent an itinerary. Serving as material representations of the itineraries, the lists can be laid out according to the cardinally-oriented system of itineraries, as shown in Fig. 10. The direction of an itinerary would correspond in such a spatial textual layout to the direction of the reading of the respective list. In other words, such a layout of the WZSJ would emulate the system of itineraries delineated in this text and materially represent their arrangement. If such a non-linear arrangement of the WZSJ on bound rolls/sets of bamboo slips existed, this arrangement could have only been displayed when the text was being used. This implies a knowledge of the algorithm for establishing the connections between the constituent elements of the “deconstructed” textual structures, and would require special techniques or practices for using texts. It is, however, neces———
98 Among the six texts listed here, all the texts are reported to have been written down on “silk scrolls” with the exception of the SHJ. This points to some particular reason for keeping the “bound rolls of bamboo slips” as a writing medium for the SHJ (see Hanshu 1975: 1774). 99 Bi Yuan 1977: 5–6, Shanhai jing gujin ben pianmu kao. 100 Dorofeeva-Lichtmann 1995, Tables 3 and 4 on pp. 92 and 93, respectively.
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sary to bear in mind that there are likely to be very few traces of these techniques, since they were applied while using the text and transmitted through demonstration.101
The jing of the Shanhai jing The revealed system of itineraries of the WZSJ and its textual structure rigidly emulating this system allows one to reconsider the meaning of the character jing ᆖ (literally “warp”) in the titles of the textual divisions of the SHJ. Translating the title of this text is not as simple as it may seem at first glance. The character jing is a standard signification of a certain type of original text (distinguished from commentary), mostly a text of recognised importance in traditional Chinese literary culture. However, the most common meaning of the character jing when used in the titles such texts—“classic”, “canon”, “book”—does not seem to fit well in the case of the SHJ. The major inconvenience results from the fact that jing is systematically applied throughout the text in the titles of all of its sub-divisions—the two main parts, and its chapters and sub-chapters (see Table 1)— something unique, as far as I know, to the SHJ among early Chinese texts. This means that if jing is translated as “classic”, “canon”, or “book” in the title of the text, it should be translated in the same way in the titles of its chapters and sub-chapters, making such translations rather awkward, especially since some of the chapters and subchapters so titled contain only about 500 characters, 102 much too short for a “book” or “classic”. Bi Yuan’s suggestion that the textual units all being of the jing category assured the preservation of the text still does not explain why the same preservation technique was not applied to other ancient Chinese texts.103 ———
101 Elsewhere, I have suggested that another ancient Chinese text the “Book of Songs” (Shiing, texts dated to the early 10th–late 6th centuries BC, compilation attributed to Confucius), in particular, its first part, “Guofeng” ഏ᧨ (Airs (literally “Winds”) of Principalities), the structure of which maps an ideal system of principalities of the Zhou dynasty (1046/45/40–256 BC), could be making use of such spatial layouts and transpositions, see Dorofeeva-Lichtmann (1991). It should be noted here that, as one can judge from the designation of each song as pian, the original writing medium of this text was bound rolls of bamboo slips, that is, a medium especially favourable for such practices. 102 For the total number of characters in each chapter and sub-chapter of the SHJ, see Dorofeeva-Lichtmann (1995, Tables 3–4, pp. 92–93). 103 Bi Yuan 1977: 1.
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Rather than trying to adapt the common meaning of jing in book titles to the case of the SHJ, Yuan Ke ಒṘ questioned it, arguing that jing here is used in the sense of jingli ᆖᖵ (“to go through, to pass, to undergo, to stretch over”), and not jingdian ᆖࠢ (“classic, canon, book”).104 He calls attention to the usage of jing in the former sense in the conclusion to the WZSJ, something also pointed out by Hao Yixing: છֳ:
֚Հټ՞Δ ᆖնՏԿۍԮԼ՞Δ քᆄՏնԼքߺΔࡺچՈΖ
“Yu said: [as far as] the famous mountains of the Under-Heaven [are concerned], [I passed through and thus linked by itineraries] 5370 mountains, [the established itineraries are] 64056 li long, [these are the dimensions of] habitable land.”
Hao Yixing elucidates the jing as follows: ᆖΔߢછࢬᆖመՈ (“Jing means [the itineraries that were] passed through by Yu”).
A reference to this passage is also found in commentary by Liu Zhao Ꮵਟ (fl. 502–520) to the “Junguo zhi” ಷഏ( ݳTreatise on Commanderies and Kingdoms) of the Hou Hanshu ৵ዧ (History of the Later Han [Dynasty]), “Treatises” by Sima Biao ್ (ca. 240–ca. 306), other parts by Fan Ye ૃᖢ (398–446). There are doubts about the proper place of the character jing in the commentary—in the beginning of the first phrase or in the beginning of the second phrase: ᆖټ՞նՏԿۍնԼΔ քᆄՏնԼքߺΖ
or ټ՞նՏԿۍնԼΔ ᆖքᆄՏնԼքߺΖ
———
104 Yuan Ke 1980: 180–184; cf. a review on this work by Fracasso (1986).
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Depending on where the jing is placed, it can be translated as follows: “[Yu passed through and thus linked by itineraries] the 5350 famous mountains,105 [the established itineraries are] 64056 li long.”
or “There are 5350 famous mountains; [the itineraries linking the mountains stretch over] 64056 li.”106
Yuan Ke prefers the latter position of jing in Liu Zhao’s commentary. He also regards the mingshan ټ՞ in the conclusion to the WZSJ as an adjective to jing, having placed a comma after the jing in his reference to this passage: ֚Հټ՞ᆖΔնՏԿۍԮԼ՞.107 In this case the passage should be translated as follows: “[As far as] the itineraries [marked by the] famous mountains of the Under-Heaven [are concerned]…” But whatever grammatical function of the jing one prefers, it is clear that it obviously refers to “itineraries”, and not to “classics” or “canons”. Even more important, this occurrence of jing summarises the description of the twenty-six itineraries of the WZSJ, each labelled as jing. Yuan Ke also points out that use of jing in the sense of “classic, canon, book” (jingdian) is relatively late. The use of jing in the sense of “to go through, to pass, to undergo, to stretch over” (jingli) in preHan texts, in effect, precedes its occurrences with the sense of “classic, canon, book”, and Yuan Ke provides some examples of these. Moreover, as far as the titles of Confucian classics comprising jing are concerned (e.g., the Shijing ᇣᆖ, Shujing ᆖ, Yijing ࣐ᆖ, the jing was added there after these texts have been circulating as simply Shi ᇣ, Shu and Yi ࣐ respectively, as a result of their recognition as “classics”. Yuan Ke calls attention to the radical difference of such texts from the case of the SHJ whose title never occurs without the jing. He regards these as the major argument in favour of his interpretation of the jing in the titles of the SHJ in general and all its subdivisions as an “itinerary”. In sum, Yuan Ke calls attention to the fact that the character jing has another secondary meaning even closer to its primary meaning of “warp” than “classic, canon, book”, that of a “(system of regularly established) passages or routes”, “to pass through, to pave (regular passages or routes)”, the meaning that proves to be of central impor——— 105 The total of mountains given by Liu Zhao is 20 items fewer than those found in the SHJ. 106 Hou Hanshu 1973: 3387, 3410. 107 Yuan Ke 1980: 183, note 3.
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tance for comprehending the title and sub-titles of the SHJ. The use of jing in this sense appears during the late Warring States to the Former Han, that is, within the time span of the compilation of the SHJ. A classical example of such use is found in the “Kaogong ji” ە ՠಖ (Records on Investigating Crafts) chapter of the Zhouli108 where it designates the nine “lengthwise routes” inside the capital city, namely, the routes crossing it from north to south (they are complemented by the nine “crosswise routes” – wei ᒮ “weft”): ٰԳᛜഏ Η ֱߺ Η லԿ॰ Η ഏխᆖ Η ᒮ Η ᆖῥ૩ Η The craftsmen plan the capital city. [It has a shape of] a square with a side of nine li long. Each side has three gates. Inside the capital city there are nine lengthwise (north-south) routes and nine crosswise (eastwest) routes; each lengthwise road has a passability of nine chariots.”109
This ideal design of the Zhou capital city proves to be not just a pure abstraction, but is apparently derived from some real organisation of space during the Warring States period. Specifically, some traces of a strikingly regular system of lengthwise (north-south) and crosswise (east-west) roads and paths was found as the result of topographical examination of the patterns of fields in China, in particular throughout much of the north, that is, the former areas of the Qin and Jin kingdoms.110 Although all the itineraries of the SHJ are referred to as jing regardless of their direction, in contrast to the routes mentioned in the “Kaogong ji” where crosswise and lengthwise routes are differentiated clearly, in both texts jing implies an orderly arrangement of a set of routes. Another interesting occurrence of jing related to an orderly system of routes is found a passage of the Zuozhuan under the 4th year of Xiang Gong (ᝊֆ 569 BC) concerning the mythical emperor Yu who “drew out and created the ‘Nine Provinces’; delineated and broadened the nine routes” (hua wei jiu zhou, jing qi jiu dao ڠΔᆖ ඔሐΖ). Taking into consideration the orderly character of the SHJ’s itineraries, the use of jing in the sense of a “[system of regularly established] passages or routes”, “to pass through, to pave [regular pas———
108 Boltz 1993: esp. 25. 109 Zhouli Zhengzhu, SBBY ed, 41/14b; Lin Yin 1984: 471, Biot, tr. 1969 [repr.
1851]: 556 (§ 23). For a representation of an idealised plan of the capital city, see Loewe and Shaugnessy, eds. (1999: p. 666). 110 Lewis 1990: 63.
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sages or routes]” seems to fit perfectly well in the case of the SHJ, if seen as a set of descriptions of the revealed itineraries. The use of the character jing in the sense of “itinerary” also brings to mind the character jing1 உ (differing from jing in its radical), but sharing with it the meaning of a “route”. According to the Shuowen ᎅ֮ (Elucidating on Writing) dictionary (ca. 1st century AD), jing1 உ is a “pedestrian route” (bu dao ye ޡሐՈ). A commentary by Xu Kai ஊㅥ (920–974) adds that it is “a route that does not accept chariots, that is why [it is] called pedestrian route” (dao bu rong che, gu yue bu dao ሐլ୲߫ΔਚֳޡሐՈ). Furthermore, jing1 உ seems to occur with the meaning of a principle “pedestrian path” in the “Minggui xia” ࣔՀ (Elucidating on Spirits or Clairvoyant Spirits, part III) chapter of the philosophical treatise Mozi ᕠ (ca. 5th–4th centuries BC). This chapter has some parallels with the SHJ in conceiving of features with respect to spirits.111 Jing1 is mentioned at the beginning of the chapter, in the combination “routes and roads, principle paths” (dao lu shuai jing1 ሐሁஉ), implying a certain opposition between “routes and roads” (dao lu ሐሁ) and the “principle paths” (shuai jing1 உ), the former most likely being intended for chariots and the latter for pedestrians only.112 Paths and roads (jing1 lu உሁ) also occur in the definition of the Trigram Gen ۤ symbolising mountain(s) found in the Shuogua ᎅ࠳ (Elucidating on Trigrams, late Warring States period), § 16: “Gen is mountain(s); is paths and roads,…” (Gen wei shan, wei jing1 lu,…ۤ ՞Δஉሁ). This definition establishes a relation between mountains (shan) and paths (jing1), especially interesting in the context of the system of itineraries marked by mountains and the use of jing in the SHJ. The link of the character jing to the semantic field of “route/path”, more often than not overlooked in sinological literature, needs a special study. The results of the present investigation into the system of itineraries of the SHJ and its relation to the structure of the text provide some highly interesting material for such a study. However, although Yuan Ke’s edition of the SHJ became an essential tool in subsequent SHJ studies, some scholars still prefer to keep to the common meaning of jing (classic, book) when translating the title of the SHJ, for instance, as found in the recent translations of the text by Riccardo Fracasso, Libro dei monti et dei mari (1996) and ———
111 Dorofeeva-Lichtmann 1995: 87. 112 Mozi xiangu ᕠၵဴ, Zhuzi jicheng ed., p. 138.
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Anne Birrell, The Classic of Mountains and Seas (1999).113 Surprisingly, Fracasso makes a reference to Yuan Ke’s interpretation of jing in the SHJ at the very beginning of his introduction,114 yet translates jing in the titles of the text and chapters as “Libro”. He also leaves the titles of sub-chapters of the WZSJ untranslated, but provides a summarising list of numbered “Itineraries” (Itinerraria), without translating the full titles of the sub-chapters where they are described in the “Geographical recapitulation” (Riepilogo geographico). 115 It seems that Fracasso tried to find a compromise between the usual translation of jing in book titles and Yuan Ke’s interpretation of jing in the SHJ. Other authors simply avoid translating the inconvenient jing, for instance, Rémi Mathieu (1983) and Cheng Hsiao-chieh ᔤ՛ௐ et al. (1985), who entitled their translations of the SHJ Etude sur la mythologie et l’ethnologie de la Chine Ancienne and Shan Hai Ching: Legendary Geography and Wonders of Ancient China, respectively.116 Attempts to find a more appropriate translation have long been made in sinological literature—the Catalogue of Mountains and Seas [Katalog gor i morey] (Elektra M. Yanshina 1977), the Records of Mountains and Seas (Suh Kyung Ho, 1993), Kompendium der Berge und Seen (Manfred W. Frühauf 1999; 2000), the Lists of Mountains and Seas (Vera Dorofeeva-Lichtmann 2003a). These translations highlight the list-like style of the text, but none has really solved the problem of the use of jing in the title. The right word does seem to have been found recently, though, by Richard Strassberg (2002), who translates the title as the Guideways Through Mountains and Seas, but, unfortunately, does not provide much elucidation on his innovative translation. Independently, as a result of investigating the representation of terrestrial space in the SHJ as a system of itineraries, I proposed the translation Itineraries of Mountains and Seas (Dorofeeva-Lichtmann 2003b). 117 These two rather similar translations of jing as “guideways” or “itinerary/itineraries” (I prefer the ——— 113 See the review of these two most recent translations of the SHJ by Campany (2000) who also makes useful remarks on the translation by Rémi Mathieu (1983). For review of Mathieu’s translation, cf. Casu (1988a). 114 Fracasso 1996, p. XIII, footnote 2. 115 Fracasso 1996: 119–126. The lists of numbered itineraries include names of all the mountains in an itinerary and names of rivers emanating from these mountains, as well as the cardinal direction and distance from mountain to mountain in the itinerary. 116 Cf. review of translation by Cheng Hiao-chieh et al. by Fracasso (1987) and Giovanni Casu (1988b). 117 My paper was submitted to the publisher prior to the publication of the book by Richard Strassberg.
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latter for its more neutral sense) correspond to another secondary meaning of the character jing – “principal route”.
Map-like textual layouts and the “lost” maps The proposed reconstruction of the textual layout of the WZSJ, in effect, has much in common with the supposition by Bi Yuan that the earliest version of the WZSJ on “bound rolls of bamboo slips” was a map (or maps). The major difference here is that Bi Yuan derives the text of the SHJ from “graphic representations”. According to him, the text was written as “elucidations” (shuo) on “graphic representations”. I, relying on the analysis of references to the SHJ in Chinese cultural tradition, give priority to the text, at the same time pointing out that the original form of the text had attributes of a “graphic representation”. I suggest that its original layout constituted a terrestrial scheme or map (its reconfigurative possibilities allowed making different schemes and maps), and that later pictures were aimed at illustrating descriptions found in the text.118 The resulting textual layout would somewhat resemble the layout of textual passages found in the Chu Silk Manuscript. However, in contrast to this considerably shorter text, the layout of the WZSJ existed only when the text was used and had to be “deconstructed” into constituent elements due to its considerable length. Some parts of this layout might have been conserved in the versions on “silk scrolls” that provided a larger space for writing, but none of these versions has survived.119 The spatial layout of the WZSJ especially resembles the reconstruction of the “Dark Palace” from the “Youguan”—an orderly spatial scheme of the palace filled out with text. The spatial ———
118 The original textual structure of the SHJ is also discussed by Kukhtina (1982). Her hypothesis, however, builds on the assumption that this text was originally engraved on the Nine Cauldrons. As a result, she discusses possible arrangements of the text on a set of cauldrons and does not mention other, apparently later from her point of view, writing media. As mentioned above, this assumption which is taken for granted in sinological literature originates from the interpretation of the text as dating from as late as the 3rd century AD. Rather surprisingly, Kukhtina does not pay much attention to the spatial titles of chapters and their corresponding layout. Her reconstruction does not include cardinal orientation or attributes of a general spatial scheme. At the same time, she makes interesting observations on the reconfigurative possibilities implied in the textual division of the SHJ. 119 Once silk started to be used as a writing medium, combining text and picture could be considered. From this point of view it seems more likely that the pictures were derived from the text rather than the text originating from pictures.
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layout of the lists of mountains would then constitute an orderly spatial scheme representing the “central” part of the world, whose parts are delineated and filled out by text. Complemented by the four itineraries delineated by the four chapters of “Outside the Seas” it would constitute a “global” scheme.120 Now let us return to the references to the lost ancient maps. As mentioned above, maps belonged to a broad class of “graphic representations”. Yet, relatively early, about the 3rd century BC, they became distinguished into a special sub-class—“terrestrial graphic representations” (ditu چቹ).121 Although this term was not applied consistently, and was quite often reduced to the single character tu, it still shows a certain demarcation from the other types of “graphic representations”. Traditional Chinese maps share many common features with spatial schemes. In particular, the majority of “global” maps known from Song and later dynasties have clear attributes of orderly survey schemes.122 In effect, many references to ancient [di]tu understood as maps 123 can equally imply maps and orderly survey schemes. The latter seem to be more likely when “global” mapping is mentioned. A good example is provided by the often cited reference to a “graphic representation” of Tianxia ֚Հ (Underheaven) at the beginning of ———
120 A certain complementarity between the WZSJ and “Outside the Seas” and their correspondence as, respectively, the centre and periphery is pointed out by Meng Wentong (1962: 43–70) and supported by Suh Kyung Ho (1993: 99 and 302– 9). My reconstruction of the system of itineraries and guardian spirits – itineraries and local spirits of the WZSJ encompassed by the four cardinally-oriented itineraries of “Outside the Seas” and the four gods of the cardinal directions – provides further evidence in favour of this hypothesis. For the representations of the itineraries, see Doroveeva-Lichtmann (2003a, Fig. 2.7 on p. 50, 2003b, Fig. 4 on p. 208, the system of spirits is reproduced on Figure 11a of this paper). 121 The earliest occurrences of the term di tu are found in late Warring States – Former Han texts: the Zhanguo ce ᖏഏ (“Plans of the Warring Kingdoms”, SBBY ed., 19/2b (§218), 31/5b and 6a (§440), the philosophical treatise Guan zi, which contains a special chapter (No 27) concerned with this term (SBBY ed., 10/7a–8a), and the Zhouli (for a list with comments of its multiple occurrences here, see Needham and Wang Ling 1959: 534). As can clearly be seen from comparison with the other occurrences of the character tu in these texts, di is quite often omitted in similar constructions, and is, therefore, optional. At least some of these early uses of ditu imply a cosmogram rather than referring to a map (cf., e.g., citations from the Zhouli by Chavannes 1903: 237). Needham and Wang Ling (1959), however, interpret all these early occurrences as “geographical maps”. 122 Good examples of such schematic maps are the Huayi tu, the Yugong jiuzhou qiangjie tu and the Yu dao shanchuan zhi tu mentioned in footnote 31. See also footnote 9. 123 E.g., those discussed by Chavannes (1903: 237–241) and Needham and Wang Ling (1959: 534).
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the “Zhifang shi”, which is followed by a description of the system of the “Nine Provinces” that has clear attributes of an orderly scheme. As I have tried to show using the example of the SHJ in general and the WZSJ in particular, such mapping can be realised by means of spatial textual arrangements, rather than by making maps accompanying the text. Such schemes filled out with text would not be much different from a certain type of later “global” maps that incorporate textual passages and have a shape similar to that of a regular scheme.
CONCLUSIONS In sum, in the case of the SHJ, maps seem simply not to be needed, as the spatial layout of the text would have combined the properties of a tu (scheme-map) and elucidation (shuo) on this tu. In this respect it would be similar to a series of ancient Chinese texts the layout of which—original (such as the Chu Silk Manuscript and the Mausoleum Plan) or reconstructed (the Youguan = Xuangong)—emulates a spatial model.124 One can further suggest that, at least in some cases when the “loss” of ancient “global” maps is reported, no maps accompanying texts were lost or indeed ever existed. The loss concerned the spatial layouts of the texts and the practices of using these texts. Since the idea of maps related to the SHJ appears surprisingly late it seems tempting to suggest that its map-like structure and properties were still recognised over a long period of time. A spatial layout of the WZSJ can be referred to as a textual cosmograph, which provides a process-oriented scheme, or a schemeprescription for determining the configuration of a spiritual landscape. Similar conclusions are drawn by Hwang Ming-Chorng as the result of his exploration of the “Outside the Seas” and “The Great Wilderness”. He argues that these parts of the SHJ were originally structured as cosmographs. 125 He believes, however, that these cos———
124 Dorofeeva-Lichtmann 2005b. 125 Hwang Ming-Chorng (1996: 494–509 and 537–677, respectively). He defines
“Outside the Seas” as a “cosmograph for ‘alien-nations’”, ibid: 502–506, Fig. 6.14 on p. 798 (reproduced on Fig. 4a), and “The Great Wilderness” as a cosmograph which was a “core of shamanistic knowledge”, ibid: 666–677, Fig. 6.13 on p. 797 (reproduced on Fig. 4b), respectively.
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mographs were comprised of spatially arranged pictures, 126 which would make them resemble the Chu Silk Manuscript.127 A new strong argument in favour of such suggestions is an original text-cosmograph found among the Mawangdui manuscripts (tomb 3, closed 168 BC),128 entitled Wu ze you xing ढঞ( ݮڶBeings and things do have a form), recently preliminarily investigated by Chen Songchang ຫ࣪९ with an emphasis on its parallels with the cosmograph design.129 Another important similar case to be considered is the layout of Laozi ۔ according to the structure of a cosmograph, as described in the preface to the Laozi zhigui ۔ਐូ.130 Such tools in the form of textual layouts could have served (or be meant to serve) in certain “space-ordering” practices. Several possibilities and their interrelationship can be explored here with respect to the SHJ, such as shamanistic rituals, 131 spirit quests, 132 official “world-making” practices “revived” with the foundation of the empire, 133 and the origins of geomancy. 134 Each of these possibilities would be fruitful material for future investigation. ———
126 Hwang Ming-Chorng 1996: 496–498. 127 This resemblance, however, raises again the question of which type of writing
media allowed the incorporation of multiple illustrations into a text, and only silk seems to provide this possibility. If we accept the suggestion by Hwang Ming-Chorng that “Outside the Seas” and especially “The Great Wilderness” are much older layers of the SHJ than the WZSJ (Hwang Ming-Chorng 1996: 665), and that they circulated as separate texts before the SHJ on “bound rolls of bamboo slips” was compiled, they could only circulate once they had been written down on silk. No evidence of this is found in extant ancient Chinese sources, in contrast to the references to the early versions of the SHJ of bound rolls of bamboo slips. 128 For Mawangdui tombs, see footnote 2 in Lo, this volume. 129 Chen Songchang 2006. The design of the manuscript apparently emulates a cosmograph structure—it has a square frame highlighted by red colour and a circle is delineated inside of it. A line of text accompanies the square frame from the inside and the circle from the outside. The center of the manuscript is filled out by text also designed in a circle form (see Col.Pl. VII). 130 See footnote 83. Röllicke (2005: 144–166) argues that such “graphic representation” or tu-diagram of Laozi text would serve as a “handbook for prognostication and divination” (ibid: 163). In any case, this layout can also be referred to as a “textual cosmograph”. 131 Yuan Ke 1986: 231–240, Chang Kwang-chih 1994: esp. 22–24, Mathieu 1987, Hwang Ming-Chorng 1996: 666–677. 132 Harper 1985: 479. 133 Dorofeeva-Lichtmann 1995: 88. For such rituals, see Bilsky (1975, vol. 2 [71]: 248–250). 134 In the bibliographical chapter of the Hanshu, which relies on the lost bibliography Qilüe compiled by Liu Xin, the editor of the SHJ, the latter is classified under the “Xingfa” (Methods of Forms) subsection, which seems to deal, first of all, with geomantic practices (Hanshu 1975: 1774–1775).
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hai: Commission mixte des oeuvres Franco-Chinoises, Office des publications. KUKHTINA, Elena K. 1982. “‘Shan’ hai tszin’: nekotorye problemy struktury i tipologii testa.” (‘Shan hai jing’: some problems of structure and typology of the text). 13 Nautchnaya Konferentziya “Obshchestvo i Gosudarstvo v Kitaie” (The 13th Scientific Conference “Society and State in China”), Abstracts of Papers, Vol. 1. Moscow: Nauka, pp. 120–130. LACKNER, Michael. 1990. “Die ‘Verplanung’ des Denkens am Beispiel der tu.” In: Lebenswelt und Weltanschauung in frühneuzeitlichen China, ed. Helwig Schmidt-Glintzer. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, pp. 134–156. LAGERWEY, John. 2004. “Deux écrits taoïstes anciens.” Cahiers d’Extrême-Asie 14: 139–171. LAWTON, Thomas, ed. 1991. New Perspectives on Chu Culture During the Eastern Zhou Period. Washington: Arthur M.Sackler Gallery (Smithsonian Institution), distributed by Princeton University Press. LEGGE, James, tr. 1865 [comprises original text]. The Chinese Classics. Vol. III, part 1 (Shoo King). Hongkong: At the Author’s – London: Trübner & Co. ——, tr. 1872 [comprises original text]. The Chinese Classics. Vol. V, part 1 (The Ch’un Ts’ew, with the Tso Chuen). Hongkong: Lane, Crawford & Co. – London: Trübner & Co. LEWIS, Mark Edward. 1990. Sanctioned Violence in Early China. New York: SUNY. ——. 2006. The Construction of Space in Early China. New York: SUNY. LI Ling ޕሿ. 1985. Changsha Zitanku Chuboshu yanjiu. ९ޥᐘᄑࢇઔߒ. Peking: Zhonghua shuju. ——. 1991. “Chuboshu yu ‘shitu’” ᄑࢇፖڤቹ. Jiang Han kaogu ۂዧײە 1991.1: 59–62. ——. 2000. Zhongguo fangshu kao խഏֱە. Peking: Renmin Zhongguo Chubanshe [revision of 1993]. LI Ling and Constance A. COOK. 1999. “Translation of the Chu Silk Manuscript.” In: Defining Chu: Image and Reality in Ancient China, ed. Constance A. Cook and John S. Major. Honolulu, University of Hawai’i Press, pp. 171–176. LI Xueqin ޕᖂႧ. 1994. Jianbo yiji yu xueshu shi ១ࢇ܊ᤄፖᖂە. Taibei: Shibao Wenhua Chuban ltd. LIN Yin ࣥձ. 1984. Zhouli jinzhu jinyi ࡌ៖վࣹվ. Guji xuandu congshu ៶ײ ᙇᦰហ series. Beijing: Shumu wenxian chubanshe. LOEWE, Michael. 1978. “Man and Beast: The Hybrid in Early Chinese Art and Literature.” Numen 25.2: 97–117. ——. 1979. Ways to Paradise: the Chinese Quest for Immortality. London: Georges Allen & Unwin. ——. 1994. Divination, Mythology and Monarchy in Han China. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. LOEWE, Michael and Edward L. SHAUGHNESSY, eds. 1999. The Cambridge History of Ancient China: From the Origins of Civilization to 221 B.C. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. LU Liangzhi ᗝߜݳ. 1984. Zhongguo dituxue shi խഏچቹᖂ. Beijing: Cehui chubanshe. LU Sixian ຬ৸ᔃ. 1998. “Yi tianwen lifa wei zhuti de yuzhou kuangjia – ‘Shan hai jing’ 18 pian xintan.” ֚֮אᖟऄ᧯ऱࡶڙਮ А ՞௧ᆖ 18 ᒧᄅ൶ Neimenggu daxue xuebao (renwen shehui kexue ban) փ፞ײՕᖂᖂΰԳ֮ षᄎઝᖂठα5: 78–84. MAEDER, Eric W. 1992. “Some Observations on the Composition of the ‘Core Chapters’ of the Mozi.” Early China 17: 27–82. MAJOR, John S. 1973. Topography and Cosmology in Early Han Thought: Chapter Four of Huai-nan-tzu. Diss. Harvard University.
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——. 1984. “The Five Phases, Magic Squares and Schematic Cosmography.” In: Explorations in Early Chinese Cosmology, ed. by Henry Rosemont. Chico: Scholar Press, pp. 133–166. ——, tr. 1993. Heaven and Earth in Early Chinese Thought (Chapters Three, Four and Five of the Huai nan zi). Albany: State University of New York Press. MATHIEU, Rémi, tr. 1983. Etude sur la mythologie et l’ethnologie de la Chine Ancienne. Tome I: Traduction annotée du Shanhai jing. Tome II: Index du Shanhai jing. (Memoires de l’Institut des Hautes Etudes Chinoises, Vol. 22). Paris: Collège de France – Institut des Hautes Etudes Chinoises. ——. 1987. “Chamanes et chamanisme en Chine ancienne.” L’Homme 27: 10–34. MASPERO, Henri. 1948–1951. “Le Ming-t’ang et la crise religieuse avant les Han.” Mélanges Chinois et Bouddhiques 9: 1–71. MENG Wentong ֮፞ຏ. 1962. “Lüelun Shanhaijing de xiezuo niandai ji qi chansheng diyu” ฃᓵ՞௧ᆖऱᐊࠡ֗זڣ܂ขچس. Zhonghua wenshi luncong խဎ֮ᓵហ 1: 43–70. MÜLLER, Claudius C. 1980. “Die Herausbildung der Gegensätze: Chinesen und Barbaren in der frühen Zeit (I. Jahrtausend v. Chr. bis 220 n. Chr).” In: China und die Fremden: 3000 Jahre Auseinandersetzung in Krieg und Frieden, ed. Wolfgang Bauer. München: Verlag C. H. Beck, pp. 43–76. NEEDHAM, Joseph and WANG Ling. 1959. 1959. Science and Civilisation in China. Vol. III. Mathematics and the Sciences of the Heavens and the Earth. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. PANKENIER, David. 2004. “A Brief History of Beiji קᄕ (Northern Culmen), with an Excursus on the Origin of the Character di ০.” Journal of the American Oriental Society 124.2 (April–June): 211–236. QIAN Baocong ᙒᣪ⓫, ed. 1963. Suanjing shishu ጩᆖԼ (Ten Mathematical Classics), vol. 1. Beijing: Zhonghua Shuju. QU Wanli ࡹᆄߺ. 1964. “Lun Yugong zhucheng de shidai” ᓵછಥထګऱழז. Zhongyang Yanjiuyuan Lishi Yuyan yanjiusuo jikan խ؇ઔߒࢬࡱ ע/ Bulletin of the Institute of History and Philology (Academia Sinica) 35: 53–86. REITER, Florian C. 1990. “Some Remarks on the Chinese Word T’u ‘Chart, Plan, Design’.” Oriens 32: 308–327. RICKETT, W. Allyn. 1985. Guan zi. Political, Economic, and Philosophical Essays from Early China (a study and translation). – vol. 1. chapters I, 1 – XI, 34, and XX, 64 – XXI, 65–66. Princeton: Princeton University Press. RÖLLICKE, Hermann-Josef. 2005. Die Herrschaftsmystik des Laozi zhigui: Philologie und Exegese. Habilitation Thesis, University of Hamburg (publication in preparation). SCHIFFELER, John Wm. 1980. “Chinese Folk Medicine: A Study of the Shan-hai Ching.” Asian Folklore Studies 39.2: 41–83. SEIDEL, Anna. 1983. “Imperial Treasures and Taoist Sacraments.” In: Tantric and Taoist Studies in Honour of R.A.Stein, ed. MichaelStrickmann, Vol. 2. Mélanges Chinois et Bouddiques 21: 291–371. SHATZMAN STEINHARDT, Nancy. 1999. Chinese Imperial City Planning, Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press [repr. 1990]. Shiji ಖ[by Sima Qian ್ᔢ (145?–87 BC)]. 1972. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju. SMITH, Richard J. 1996. Chinese Maps: Images of “All Under Heaven”. Hongkong – London: Oxford University Press. Songshu ݚ[by Shen Yue ާપ (441–513)]. 1983. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju. SOOTHILL, William Edward. 1951. The Hall of Light: A Study of Early Chinese Kingship. London: Lutterworth Press. STERCKX, Roel. 1996. “‘Transcending Habitats’: Authority, Territory and the Animal Realm in Warring States and Early Imperial China.” Bulletin of the British Asso-
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ciation of Chinese Studies: 9–19. ——. 1998. “Debating the Strange: Records of Animal Anomalies in Early China.” Working Papers in Chinese Studies / Xueshu lunwen (Centre for Research in Chinese Studies, Department of Chinese Studies, The National University of Singapore) 1, 27 pages. ——. 2002. The Animal and the Daemon in Early China. Albany: SUNY. STRASSBERG, Richard. 2002. A Chinese Bestiary: Strange Creatures from the Guideways Throught Mountains and Seas. Berkeley – Los Angeles – London: University of California Press. SUH, Kyung Ho. 1993. A study of “Shan-hai-ching”: Ancient Worldviews under Transformation. Diss., Harvard Univ. TAMBIAH, Stanley J. 1985. Culture, Thought and Action: An Anthropological Perspective. Cambridge, M.A. – London: Harvard University Press. WANG Chengzu ิګ׆. [1982] 1988. Zhongguo dilixueshi: Xian Qin zhi Ming dai խഏچᖂΔ٣۟ࣔז. Peking: Shangwu yinshuguan. WANG Qianjin ޫছၞ. 1993. “Shike ‘Liujingtu’ zongkao” ࠥفքᆖቹጵە. Ziran kexueshi yanjiu ۞ྥઝᖂઔߒ 12.1: 83–90. WANG Yizhong א׆խ. 1934. “Shan hai jing tu yu zhi gong tu” ՞௧ᆖቹፖಥቹ Yu gong છಥ 1.3: 5–10. WANG Yong ׆. 1998. Zhongguo dilixue shi խഏچᖂ. Shanghai: Commercial Press [repr. 1938]. WATSON, Burton, tr. 1969. Records of the Historian: The Shih Chi of Ssu-ma Ch’ien. New York – London: Columbia University Press. ——, tr. 1989. The Tso Chuan. Selections from China’s Oldest Narrative History. New York: Columbia University Press. WU Hung [1989] 1992. The Wu Liang Shrine: The Ideology of Early Chinese Pictorial Art. Stanford: Stanford University Press. ——. 1995. Monumentality in Early Chinese Art and Architecture. Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press. YAN Ping et al. 1998. China in Ancient and Modern Maps. London: Sotheby’s Publications (Philip Wilson Publishers Ltd). YANSHINA, Elektra M., tr. 1977. Katalog gor i morei (Shan hai tszin) (Catalogue of Mountains and Seas (Shan hai jing)). Moscow: Nauka (GRVL). YEE, Cordell D.K. 1994. “Cartography in China” (with the exception of Chapter 8, see Henderson 1994) In: Harley and Woodward 1994, pp. 35–202, 228–234. YU Xixian Պݦᔃ, 1990. Zhongguo gudai dilixue shilüe խഏچזײᖂฃ. Shijiazhuang: Hebei kexue zhishu chubanshe. YUAN Ke ಒṘ. 1980. Shanhaijing jiao yi ՞௧ᆖீ. Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe. ——. 1986. “Shanhaijing ‘gai gu zhi wushu’ shi tan” ՞௧ᆖ።ײհݥᇢ൶. In: Shanhaijing xintan ՞௧ᆖᄅ൶ , ed. Xu Nanzhou ஊতڠ, Duan Yu ྕ, and Li Yuanguo ޕഏ. Chengdu: Sichuan sheng shehui kexueyuan chubanshe, pp. 231–240.
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Fig. 1: John Major’s reconstruction of the representation of the world in the Shan hai jing ՞௧ᆖ. Reproduced from Major (1973: 99–100).
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Fig. 2: John Schiffeler’s reconstruction of the representation of the world in the Shan hai jing ՞௧ᆖ. Reproduced from Schiffeler (1980: 43).
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Fig. 3: Riccardo Fracasso’s reconstruction of the representation of the world in the Shan hai jing ՞௧ᆖ. Reproduced from Fracasso (1983, facing p. 660).
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Fig. 4a: Hwang Ming-Chorng’s reconstruction of the representation of the world in “Outside the Seas” (haiwai ௧؆). Reproduced from Hwang Ming-Chong (1996: 798).
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Fig. 4b: Hwang Ming-Chorng’s reconstruction of the representation of the world in “The Great Wilderness” (dahuang Օ). Reproduced from Hwang Ming-Chorng (1996: 797).
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Fig. 5a, b, c, d: Li Ling’s reconstruction of the representations of the world in the Shanhai jing ՞௧ᆖ: a/1) “Mountains” (shan ՞) – the Wuzang shanjing նፔ՞ᆖ; b/2) “Outside the Seas” (haiwai ௧؆) encompassing “Inside the Seas” (hainei ௧փ); c/3) “Inside the Seas” encompassing “Mountains”; d/4) “The Great Wilderness” (dahuang Օ ) encompassing “Inside the Seas”. Reproduced from Li Ling (2000: 138).
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Fig. 6a: Richard Strassberg’s reconstruction of the representation of the world in the Wuzang shanjing նፔ՞ᆖ. Reproduced from Strassberg (2002: 35).
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Fig. 6b: Richard Strassberg’s reconstruction of the representation of the world in “Outside the Seas” (haiwai ௧؆) and the four cardinally-oriented chapters of “Inside the Seas” (hainei ௧փ), juan 6–13. Reproduced from Strassberg (2002: 40).
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Fig. 6c: Richard Strassberg’s reconstruction of the representation of the world in “The Great Wilderness” (dahuang Օ) and the last chapter of “Inside the Seas” (hainei ௧փ), juan 14–18. Reproduced from Strassberg (2002: 41).
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Fig. 6d: Map of the Wuzang shanjing նፔ՞ᆖ reconstructed by Wang Chengzu (1988 [repr. 1982]: 19) redrawn and translated by Richard Strassberg. Reproduced from Strassberg (2002: 37).
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Fig. 7a: Suh Kyung Ho’s reconstruction of the representation of the world in the Wuzang shanjing նፔ՞ᆖ. Reproduced from Suh Kyung Ho (1993: 306).
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Fig. 7b: Suh Kyung Ho’s reconstruction of the representation of the world in “Outside the Seas” (haiwai ௧؆) and the four cardinally-oriented chapters of “Inside the Seas” (hainei ௧փ), juan 6–13. Reproduced from Suh Kyung Ho (1993: 307).
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Fig. 7c: Suh Kyung Ho’s reconstruction of the representation of the world in “The Great Wilderness” (dahuang Օ) and the last chapter of “Inside the Seas” (hainei ௧փ), juan 14–18. Reproduced from Suh Kyung Ho (1993: 308).
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Fig. 7d: Suh Kyung Ho’s reconstruction of the final representation of the world in the Shanhai jing ՞௧ᆖ (simplified 8b–c). Reproduced from Suh Kyung Ho (1993: 309).
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Fig. 8a, b, c: Dorofeeva-Lichtmann’s reconstruction of the representation of the world in the Shanhai jing ՞௧ᆖ as overlapping zones, according to three possible spatial models: concentric squares (9a), cruciform pattern (9b), 3x3 square grid (9c). Reproduced from Dorofeeva-Lichtmann (1995: 99).
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Fig. 9: Reconstructions of the layout of the “Youguan” ؔࡴ chapter of the Guanzi ጥ emulating the ground plan of the Dark Palace (Xuangong tu خ୰ቹ) [general outlines, for a detailed reconstruction, see Fig. 6 in Kalinowski, this volume]. a) Guo Moruo ພःૉ and Wen Yiduo ፊԫ( ڍ1956). b) Wang Meng-o ׆ኄᧉ (1966). c) Li Ling (1985). d) Hwang Ming-Chorng (1996). Reproduced from Hwang Ming-Chorng [1996: 727(a); 728(b–c), 729(d)].
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Fig. 10: The layout of the Wuzang shanjing Ѩ㞻ቅ㍧ and the “Outside the Seas” (haiwai ⍋), juan 1–9.
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Fig. 11a: Local spirits of the Wuzang shanjing նፔ՞ᆖ and the gods of the cardinal directions of “Outside the Seas” (haiwai ௧؆).
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Fig. 11b: Appearances of the local spirits of the Wuzang shanjing նፔ՞ᆖ.
MAPLESS MAPPING Title of juan
Name of the god
The cardinal direction South
„Southern Itinerary of Outside the Seas
Zhurong ఴᘜ
“Western Itinerary of Outside the Seas”
Rushou گಫ
West
“Northern Itinerary of Outside the Seas”
Yuqiang જᖅ
North
“Eastern Itinerary of Outside the Seas”
Goumang হ㡦
East
289 Appearance of the god Vehicle he uses beast’s body – human face rides in a chariot led by a pair of dragons has a snake in the left ear (as an earring) rides in a chariot led by a pair of dragons human face – bird’s body wears a pair of dark green snakes as earrings stands on a pair of dark green snakes bird’s body – human face rides in a chariot led by a pair of dragons
Fig. 11c: Appearances of the gods of the cardinal directions in the “Outside the Seas” (haiwai ௧؆).
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Fig. 12a: The Chu Silk Manuscript (Chu boshu ᄑࢇ). Reproduced from Barnard (1973, fig. 1).
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Fig. 12b: The outline of the “pictorial cosmograph” (tushi ቹ )ڤof the Chu Silk Manuscript, according to Li Ling (2000 [rev. 1993]: 111).
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Fig. 12c: Transcription of the Chu Silk Manuscript in its original layout by Li Ling. Reproduced from Lawton, ed. (1991: 180).
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Fig. 12d: Cosmograph-like representation of pictures of the Chu Silk Manuscript by Li Ling (2000 [rev. 1993]: 180).
Fig. 13: Cosmograph (shi ڤ, the liuren ք֙ type). After Kaogu 1978.5: 340, reproduced from Loewe and Shaughnessy (1999: 840).
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THE TABLES (BIAO) IN SIMA QIAN’S SHIJI: RHETORIC AND REMEMBRANCE Griet Vankeerberghen Sima Qian ್ᔢ has been credited not only with writing exhilarating historical prose, but also with setting the basic format for all subsequent dynastic histories by dividing his Shiji ಖ into five parts: the “Basic Annals” (benji ءધ), the “Tables” (biao ।), the Treatises (shu ), the “Hereditary Houses” (shijia ୮), and the “Biographies” (liezhuan ٨ႚ). Of these five parts, the “Hereditary Houses,” dealing with pre-imperial history, were discontinued in later dynastic histories. As for the Tables, the form was dropped in Hou Hanshu ৵ዧ only to be taken up again in Xin Tangshu ᄅା and subsequent dynastic histories. The Tables in Shiji have not often been the focus of study in their own right: scholars may draw upon individual tables to verify a name or a date, to make a table of their own, or to supplement or correct information found elsewhere in Shiji,1 but they tend to regard the Tables more as useful tools than as attractive “texts.” Mansvelt Beck, for example, writing on the divisions within the Dynastic Histories generally, states that “From a technical point of view the fourth part—called Tables—is superfluous, because all the dates in it—of appointments, enfeoffments, and other acts of state—should also be found in the three preceding parts.”2 This view, I will argue, does not do justice to the Tables in Shiji. Rather than being dull collections of data, I take the Tables (henceforth biao) to be filled with a strong, perhaps unsuspected, rhetorical power, and to contain strong authorial intent. A comparison with the Chunqiu ਞટ (the Annals) may clarify ——— 1 Exceptions are Loewe (2004), chap. 7 “The Tables of the Shiji and the Hanshu: Forms and Contents,” and chap. 8 “The Tables of the Shiji and the Hanshu: Two Faulty Passages;” Hardy (1993, 1999), and Ito (1994). 2 Mansvelt Beck 1990: 1. There are, however, several instances in which the tables, contra Mansvelt Beck, do include information not found elsewhere, see Loewe 2004: 251. Watson (1993) translates the prefaces to tables 3, 5, 6 and 7, but does not include the tables themselves in his translation. Édouard Chavannes (1967: 1–200) awards the tables a much fuller treatment: besides translating all available prefaces, he translates some of the content of the tables, and derives from them a number of tables and lists of his own.
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what I mean. Numerous times the Chunqiu has been described as a dry-as-dust chronicle, and, in origin, the text may have been just that. Still, even before the Western Han period, the Chunqiu fascinated scholars like no other work, and was seen as a text instilled by the great sage Confucius with hidden meanings and moral lessons that had to be carefully recovered. Sima Qian himself, in the preface to the second table, presents the Chunqiu as a text that, in a time of great chaos and decline, manages to recapture the essence of the greatness of the Zhou ࡌ. Although Sima Qian does not make the analogy explicit, we may read the biao in the manner that he reads the Chunqiu: as a series of texts/charts so constructed as to preserve something essential about the past that Sima Qian feels is on the verge of getting lost. I see Sima Qian’s biao as representing a double act of remembrance. First, the biao remember a great institution of the past: the institution whereby a ruler did not rule all the land himself, but doled out parts of it, on a hereditary basis, to members of his family, and to meritorious ministers. Although this institution had its problems (as, at times, the branches overwhelmed the root), it also created an image of China as a place where family relationships mattered, and where rulership was shared. The biao show, both with words and visually, how, in the second century BC, this system had lost its vitality. Second, they also remember the individuals who are listed in the various biao, especially the kings and marquises of the first century of the Han ዧ dynasty (202 BC–AD 220) who were swept up in this moribund system, and, more often than not, did not get a chance to make their mark. In total there are ten biao in Shiji: the first four treat pre-Han history; the last six deal with the first century of the Han dynasty. The titles of the tables suggest that the tables are of three different types: shibiao । (“generation tables”), yuebiao ִ। (“month tables”) and nianbiao ڣ। (“year tables”); these distinctions indicate whether the tables move forward in time by generation, by month, or by year.3 An alternative distinction, one not reflected in the titles of the biao, would distinguish between “horizontal” and “vertical” tables.4 In tables of the horizontal type, one follows what happened over time to the units listed at the very right hand side of the document (descendants of the Yellow Thearch and his seven sons for table 1, states for ———
3 Of these, tables 6 through 9 are not really year tables, as they move forward in time by reign periods, not by years. 4 I adopt this terminology from Loewe (2004: 210–214).
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tables 2–5, and great events and occupants of three important imperial offices in table 10) by moving leftwards through the table following set units of time (generations, months, or years). Tables of a vertical type (tables 6–9) list the relevant emperors’ reigns or reign periods on the right hand side of the document; at the top, from right to left, are the names of the various noble houses. They are vertical because one first focuses on a particular noble house, and then follows what happened to that house by moving the eye downward, over the reigns of successive emperors, or through successive reign periods of one emperor. Whereas the first four tables take us chronologically from the very beginning of Chinese history (here situated in the period of the Yellow Thearch) to the start of the Han dynasty, the last six tables all deal with the first century of the Han dynasty, recording what happened to different kingdoms and noble houses (tables 5–9), or providing a background to those regional histories by informing us about the power configurations at the imperial capital in Chang’an (table 10). Biao 10 is unique in that it carries no preface; the other tables all have prefaces of a length varying from 46 to 552 characters. To understand the tables, it is important to move back and forth between the prefaces and the tables themselves. For an overview of the biao we find in Shiji, see Fig. 1.
THE BIAO IN SHIJI AND THE “FUYANG YEAR TABLE” In 1977 a cache of bamboo strips was discovered in tomb 1 at Shuanggudui ᠨײഔ, Fuyang ॱၺ County, Anhui Province. Two hundred of these strips are classified as belonging to a nianbiao or year table. According to Hu Pingsheng ؓس, who studied the incomplete and badly damaged strips, the Fuyang Year Table would have recorded events between, roughly, the mid-ninth century and the end of the third century BC, covering, like tables 2 and 3 of Shiji, the history of the Spring and Autumn and the Warring States periods.5 Tomb 1 at Shuanggudui belonged to the second Noble of Ruyin ڿອ, ———
5 Hu Pingsheng [Porter, trans.] 1989: 2–6. Hu hypothesizes that there may not have been a strip for every one of those roughly 600 years, given that only 200 strips survive, and that only years in which important events occurred may have received a strip. If the format was the same of that of the horizontal tables in Shiji, more than one strip per year may have been necessary, but it is likely that the entries per year were less extensive than those we now find in Shiji.
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Xiahou Zao ঀ (posth. yi )ڎ, who died in 164 BC.6 Thus, the Fuyang Year Table must predate the biao in Shiji. I will make a few suggestions as to how the Fuyang Year Table can guide our understanding of the biao in Shiji. 1. A first point concerns the material on which the Fuyang Year Table was recorded, and the way this material was utilized: the document was written on bamboo strips with one column of text per strip, and bears horizontal markers that divide the document into different rows.7 Given the state in which the strips were found (the longest strip fragment being only 9.5 cm in length), it is impossible to reconstruct what the document as a whole must have looked like; however, aligning the rows in the proper manner must have presented a technical challenge.8 Shiji, it is generally assumed, was also originally written on bamboo strips. The biao in Shiji are even more complex than the Fuyang Year Table, as they contain many short explanatory passages, a feature not found on the surviving Fuyang strips.9 It is worth pausing to try to imagine how the biao, now invariably printed on paper, would have been represented on bamboo. Copyists must have faced problems of representation that did not exist for the other parts of the text. 2. Secondly, if the Fuyang Year Table is indeed a year-table like the ———
6 See Giele 1998–1999: 322–323. There is an entry for Xiahou Zao, who succeeded his father (ennobled in 201 BC for having been a loyal follower of Gaozu ల) in 171 BC, in table 6; Shiji 1959, 18/884. 7 Such markers are also found in other types of documents such as hemerological manuals (rishu ֲ). See, for example, the photos of the strips of rishu A found at Shuihudi (Shuihudi Qinmu zhujian 1990: 89–116). 8 So that the reader would know that King X listed in a particular year is, for example, the king of Chu ᄑ; the name “Chu” would have been indicated at the right hand side of the document. 9 We have no way of knowing to what extent the formatting of the biao in today’s printed versions of Shiji deviates from the original bamboo version. A comparison of Fuyang strip N002 and the corresponding lines in table 2 (a correspondence established by Hu Pingsheng)—which are supposed to deal with the year 502 BC—yields the following differences: 1. Whereas in Shiji King Zhao ਟ of Chu and Duke Xian of Zheng ᔤ are separated from one another by 5 more rows, on strip N002, they are only separated by a horizontal marker; 2. In Shiji we just find the number 14, as it was the fourteenth year of King Zhao’s reign, and the name of the king can be found 14 columns earlier, in the year his reign started; on strip N002, by contrast, both name and reign year are found (“King Zhao 14”), perhaps a way of avoiding confusion; 3. In the printed version in Shiji we find an entry of 12 characters (printed in 6 columns of 2 characters) in the slot for the 14th year of King Zhao of Chu that reads: “Zixi ۫ cried on behalf of the people. The people too cried. Lord Zhao ਟ of Cai ᓐ was afraid.” We find no trace of such an entry on strip N002, where we find just one column of characters; see Shiji (1959: 14/667) and Hu Pingsheng [Porter, trans.] (1989: 8).
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ones in Shiji, its mere existence tells us that Sima Qian did not “invent” the genre. This is somewhat contrary to the impression Sima Qian conveys in the prefaces. Although Sima Qian frequently mentions the sources that he used to draw up his biao,10 he also creates a strong sense of authorship where he uses the first person pronoun yu ܇in connection with verbs such as wei “to make”11 or biao “to draw up a table,”12 or when he uses an expression such as “I, Qian, carefully recorded…ᔢ᠃ಖ.”13 In the preface to the second table, he strongly criticizes the efforts of various groups of authors he regards as his predecessors. He presents table 2 as a kind of synopsis not only of the events of the period, but also of the two texts, the Chunqiu and the Guoyu ഏ, that dominate the historiography of the period. However, he claims that while his table truly presents the essence of the Chunqiu and offers a fully comprehensive view, his predecessors have all failed: the classicists (ruzhe ᕢृ) focus only on those fragments of the text that support the meaning they want to convey,14 traveling rhetoricians (chishuozhe ቍᎅृ) take too many liberties with the text, calendar makers (liren ᖵԳ) are only interested in sequences of dates, number people (shujia ᑇ୮) were obsessed with numinous cycles (shenyun 壀ሎ), and genealogists (pudie ᢜᘪ) focused exclusively on establishing family relationships.15 Since the Fuyang Year Table covers the same ground as the second table in Shiji, we must either assume that Sima Qian overstated his case and basically followed an already established format, or we must assume that he would have found the Fuyang Year Table as defective as the other categories of texts that he mentioned, subsuming it, perhaps, with those of the calendar makers or the genealogists. 3. If the Fuyang Year Table can place the presumed novelty of Sima Qian’s project into perspective, a comparison between the Fuyang Year Table and Sima Qian’s biao may, conversely, draw our attention to places where Sima Qian was truly innovative. Let us assume that the Fuyang Year Table was an effort to lay out clearly ——— 10 11 12 13 14
Shiji 1959: 13/488; 14/511; 15/687 Shiji 1959: 13/488. Shiji 1959: 15/687. Shiji 1959: 17/803 I take duan qi yi ឰࠡᆠ to be an abbreviated form of duan zhang qu yi ឰີ࠷ᆠ. For a comment on that practice, see Lewis (1999: 148). 15 Presenting the texts or views of others not necessarily as wrong but as onesided, and superseding these with a more comprehensive view, is a common trope in texts from the 3rd and 2nd centuries BC.
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the very complicated chronology of the Chunqiu and Warring States periods, and that tables 2 and 3 of Shiji, despite Sima Qian’s claims of superiority, set out to do the same thing. Table 4, the table that lays out month by month the bewildering events marking the transition from Qin to Han (from 209 to 202 BC) must have had a similar motivation: to try to bring clarity to the interlocking narratives of the fall of Qin, the rise and fall of Xiang Yu ႈ壅, and the ultimately successful quest of Liu Bang Ꮵ߶ to become emperor. Sima Qian’s innovation lies, I believe, not so much in any single table, but in the fact that he extended the biao to cover the whole of Chinese history, including those periods in which the chronology of events was much more straightforward, and less in need of visual exposition. Table 1, the table that starts with the Yellow Thearch and ends with the disintegration of the Western Zhou order, has often been called the least successful of the biao, if only because moving through time from generation to generation does not allow for a very precise aligning of the columns.16 However, I would argue that the table is important just for being there, since it takes us from the beginnings of “Chinese” history to the period covered in table 2. It also tells a unique story of Chinese history: starting from the fiction that all the later thearchs (including Yao , Shun စ, and the founders of the Xia , Shang , and Zhou dynasties) were descendants of the Yellow Thearch, the biao equates history with genealogy, and presents the Chinese, in all their diversity, as members of a single family.17 Loewe offers the plausible hypothesis that the biao dealing with the Han period (especially tables 5–9) derive from records relating to the kingdoms and noble houses that were kept at the capital in Chang’an.18 I believe that Sima Qian included them in his book, not because he felt obliged to do so for the sake of objectivity and completeness, but because through them he could complete the story of Chinese history that had begun with the Yellow Thearch. The inability of kings and nobles to hold on to their lands in the first century of the Han dynasty, demonstrated in the biao, underscores the momen———
16 Loewe voices this opinion, and also gives an overview of how Table 1 was received by scholars in the past. See Loewe 2004: 215–217. 17 The states that would rise to importance in the Chunqiu and Warring States period are also shown to be part of the family (this includes the state of Qin!): they are either direct descendants or close allies of the Zhou ruling family. 18 Loewe 2004, chap. 8. In the preface to table 6, Sima Qian presents himself in the act of reading (du ᦰ) such records; see Shiji 1959: 18/877.
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tous changes that accompanied the advent and establishment of the new dynasty, and, presumably was an important reason why Sima Qian decided to tell the story of the past, not only in the biao, but in Shiji as a whole. 4. Itǀ Tokuo emphasizes how the biao periodize Chinese history in a unique way: a long foundational period from the Yellow Thearch to the mid-ninth century; the Chunqiu period in which the dissolving Zhou order is preserved for posterity in Confucius’ Chunqiu; the Warring States period characterized by the steady rise to power of Qin; a brief transitional period; and, finally, the very sudden elevation of the Liu family with the foundation of the Han dynasty. This periodization, indeed, differs greatly from what we find in the Basic Annals where events are recorded dynasty by dynasty, or emperor by emperor. Itǀ relates this unusual periodization to Sima Qian’s intention to convey the history of the “feudal system (fengjian zhidu ৬ࠫ৫).”19 Indeed, the biao draw our attention away from the center of power, located in the dynastic capitals, and give us a bird eye’s perspective on the whole Chinese realm, conceived not so much in territorial terms but as the home of the many descendants of the Yellow Thearch. However, the Fuyang Year Table, once more, may show us how Sima Qian’s periodization was not necessarily unique, as both adopt roughly the same divisions of time. Also, as the prefaces to the biao indicate, the periodization may have been driven not so much by insights into the longue durée of history but by where the sources available to Sima Qian drew the lines. In other words, different biao draw upon a different source base. 5. If the biao, as a genre, indeed lead our gaze away from the center of power to more outlying regions, and validate these as integral parts of China, it can be no accident that the Fuyang Year Table was found in the tomb of a noble in what was then the South of China. The noble may have valued his Year Table as a sort of affirmation that his family, endowed with a hereditary noble rank, was a meaningful part of the structure of power even if they did not reside in Chang’an.
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19 Ito 1994: 275–290. Ito emphasizes how Sima Qian uses the tables to criticize Emperor Wu; Fujita (1995) points out how Sima Qian, in other parts of Shiji, feels little inhibition in criticizing the emperor.
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VISUAL ASPECTS OF THE BIAO That the Chunqiu was a source of inspiration for Sima Qian as he drew up his tables is something that he himself makes abundantly clear in the prefaces. However, the comparison with the Chunqiu can also take us too far, and blind us to certain features that are unique to the biao. To put it succinctly, whereas the annalistic format—the format of the Chunqiu—depends (almost) entirely on written language, a biao contains written language too, but arranges it in a visually revealing way. Ying Shao ᚨᬐ (ca. 140 to ca. 204) defined the word biao as follows: “A biao not only records events, but also represents them visually ।ृᙕࠡࠃۖߠհ.”20 In Sima Qian’s prefaces to the biao, terminology related to vision is omnipresent. Terms such as biaojian ।ߠ “show with a table,”21 or statements indicating how the biao will be useful for future readers as, through them, they will be able to observe (languan ᥦᨠ or lan ᥦ) the various historical principles and patterns22 are significant. “Observing” suggests a nonlinguistic activity, unlike “reading” du ᦰ, the activity Sima Qian engages in when he peruses the sources that went into the biao.23 Let me clarify how the biao work visually by means of some examples. 1. In his preface to table 5 Sima Qian sketches verbally the history of the Liu Ꮵ kings during the first century of the Han dynasty. He describes how the Liu kings, over the course of less than a century, suffered a dramatic loss of both territory and autonomy; this reduction in the power of the kings greatly helped to strengthen the central power in Chang’an. The table itself illustrates that trend visually. A snapshot early in the century shows a relatively small number of kingdoms (10 in 195 BC).24 Compare this to, for example, the year 137 BC. Here the entire column is filled with names of kingdoms, 24 in all.25 Although the table does not indicate the size of each king’s territory or the actual power he exerted over it, it does show how, as the first century of Han rule advanced, the same space (whether on the bamboo page or in territorial terms) ——— 20 21 22 23
Shiji 1959: 13/487. Shiji 1959: 14/511. Shiji 1959: 15/687; 17/803; 18/878. Shiji 1959: 13/488; 14/509; 15/685; 16/759; 18/877; 19/977. It is not clear to me whether the taishigong ֜ֆ who does the reading is Sima Qian or his father. 24 Shiji 1959: 17/812–813. 25 Shiji 1959: 17/854.
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had to be shared by many more individuals (see Figs. 2 and 3). 2. Above I described the distinction between tables of a horizontal and those of a vertical type. Sima Qian chose the horizontal type, not only for all the tables that predate the Han, but also for table 5, the one dealing with the kings. The vertical type is used for tables 6–9, the tables dealing with the noble families. That Sima Qian chose to present table 5 in horizontal format is, I believe, highly significant. Through this format he presents the kingdoms as subordinate to the central power which is at the top of the page, while also suggesting that power is shared by the center and the various kings: the central line is presented as a primus inter pares, moving through time in the same fashion as the collateral lines. The model here is that of the family, and is presented as continuous with the past. The situation in tables 6–9 is very different: the noble houses appear much more as a function of the power that was concentrated in the imperial capital; we follow their respective fates not in years but according to rhythms established by power transitions in Chang’an. The model here is not that of the family, but one of bureaucratic hierarchy. It is significant that in the biao in Hanshu ዧ the kings are also represented according to the vertical format, presumably reflecting the great loss in autonomy that they suffered (see Fig. 4).26 3. Quite a bit of ink has flowed over the issue of the inverted script (daoshu ଙ) in table 10.27 Table 10 has four rows: row 1 recording, year by year, the great events, rows 2–4 the names of those who occupied the positions of chancellor (xiang ઌ), general (jiang ല), and imperial counsellor (yushi dafu ൗՕ֛). We find inverted script only in the first three rows: each time the text in inverted script relates to something that happened to the holder of a position in the row immediately below it. Overwhelmingly, the messages in inverted script record negative events: deaths, dismissals, and judicial indictments of the top three officials, a contrast with the great events recorded in the first row in regular script. According to Zhang Dake ്Օױ, the ultimate goal of the ——— 26 Hanshu 1962, 13 and 14. 27 Loewe states his belief that table 10 may not be in Sima Qian’s hand, mainly
because it features in Zhang Yan’s ്ஶ list of 10 lost chapters of Shiji. Table 10 also has quite a different focus than the other tables, casting its gaze on events and crucial office-holders in the capital rather than in the kingdoms and noble houses. See Loewe 2004: 242–248. My remarks on this table should therefore be read with some caution, as there is a good chance that the table varies from the one that Sima Qian himself drew up.
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table is to show that over the course of the dynasty “great events” became increasingly rare, whereas negative events followed each other with increasing frequency.28 I propose, in Zhang’s spirit, to look at the inverted script as a form of graphic marker, marking the intervals in which the high officials were in power, and indeed revealing that these intervals became shorter and shorter (see Fig. 5).
THE BIAO AS ACTS OF REMEMBRANCE There is yet another quality to the tables that makes them unique as a historiographical tool. Several times Sima Qian states in the prefaces to the biao that his tables lay things out “from beginning to end” (zhong shi ึࡨ or shi zhong ࡨึ).29 In this way, he is making a crucial distinction between the biao and regular, narrative historical prose (the kind of prose that he practices, for example, in the biographies). Narrative prose is by nature selective: invariably one has to choose a particular angle, or skip those facts that would clutter one’s story and make it incomprehensible. A table, on the other hand, forces one to list all the data that fit the topic, format, and chronological range one has committed to; one cannot leave out facts that are insignificant, unpleasant, or simply too repetitive. Because tables, by definition, strive for exhaustiveness we tend to see them as inherently less interesting than narrative prose. Under certain circumstances, however, the exhaustiveness of a table can also give it an extraordinary rhetorical force, and turn it into a tool that draws the reader’s attention from the general to the specific, and from there to large philosophical questions. This, I believe, is the case with the tables in Shiji. As discussed above, seen as a whole, the tables in Shiji document an irreversible historical transition that has taken place in recent history: from a period in which kings and nobles had a true share in power to one in which they were almost completely at the mercy of the emperor’s wishes and whims.30 The tables, however, do much more than simply record this transition, and also pay tribute to the individual lineages that make up each era. Let me clarify what I mean with an example. In the preface to table 6 Sima Qian states how at the ——— 28 Zhang 1986: 116–117. 29 Shiji 1959, 14/511; 15/686; 18/878; 19/977. 30 For an account of how this played itself out in the life of Liu An Ꮵڜ, King of
Huainan ত, see Vankeerberghen 2001, part 1.
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outset of the dynasty over one hundred men received a noble rank because of their extraordinary service. Only in five cases, he continues, were their descendants able to retain the noble status for more than one hundred years; “all the others,” he claims, “because of some infraction of the law, lost their lives and forfeited their domains 塒ઃ݄ऄሷࡎՋഏ.” In a sense, this is a very apt summary of the table that follows the preface. Nonetheless, the table itself adds substantially to the preface’s statements. Table 6 lays out, one by one, the fortunes of the 143 lineages that received a noble title thanks to a meritorious founding father: names of individual nobles are mentioned; in addition, the table states the reasons why a noble rank was conferred, taken away, or transferred to other hands, and situates all the events affecting a noble house in time. By listing these noble houses one by one, Sima Qian achieves a double goal. First, although unable to restore sacrifices to the founding fathers of the various noble lineages, he makes sure that later generations can at least retrieve their names and histories, and thus performs his own moral and religious duties toward them.31 Second, the sheer repetitiveness of the histories of these individual noble houses (from foundation to decline) raises profound questions about any individual family’s powers vis-à-vis the forces of history. Much more powerful than the generalized statement in the preface, the table helps us to recognize the humanity, not only of the founders of a noble house, but also of those who contributed to its decline. Sima Qian’s tables should not be read as a critique of the centralization that took place during the first century of Han rule. In fact, as the prefaces make all too clear, Sima Qian is quite able to see the dangers of a system in which collateral lineages acquire too much power. He is also very even-handed in awarding praise and blame for what happened: on the one hand, he faults the increasingly strict laws with which the central government tries to curtail the lords; on the other hand, he points out how the descendants of the founders of kingdoms and noble houses often lost their moral compass and became increasingly arrogant. It is apt, however, to see the tables themselves as a uniquely individualized account of the immense changes that Sima Qian observed during his lifetime. In them, he illustrates the admirable service noble houses—founded by a ruler’s relatives or his meritorious ministers—provided since the Yellow Thearch’s time, honors those Han nobles who despite their excellence were denied ——— 31 For a reading of Shiji as a religiously motivated text, see Nylan 1998–1999.
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their descendants’ enduring sacrificial devotion, and meditates on the limited ability individual families have in shaping their own fate.
REFERENCES CHAVANNES, Édouard. Les mémoires historiques the Se-ma Ts’ien. Vol. 3. Paris: Adrien Maisonneuve, 1967 FUJITA, Katsuhisa ᢏضՆ. 1995. “Review of Itǀ Tokuo, Shiki jippyǀ ni miru Shiba Sen no rekishikan,” Kodai bunka ֏֮זײ47.10: 63–65. GIELE, Enno. 1998–1999. “Early Chinese Manuscripts: Including Addenda and Corrigenda to New Sources of Early Chinese History: An Introduction to the Reading of Inscriptions and Manuscripts.” Early China 23–24: 247–337. HARDY, Grant. 1999. Worlds of Bronze and Bamboo: Sima Qian’s Conquest of History. New York: Columbia University Press. ——. 1993. “The Interpretive Function of Shih chi 14, ‘The Table by Years of the Twelve Feudal Lords.’ ” Journal of the American Oriental Society 113.3: 14– 24. Hanshu ዧ [by Ban Gu ఄࡐ]. 1962. 12 vols. Beijing: Zhonghua. HU, Pingsheng ؓ[ سtrans. by Deborah Porter]. 1989. “Some Notes on the Organization of the Han Dynasty Bamboo “Annals” found at Fuyang.” Early China 14: 1–23. ITƿ, Tokuo ْᢏ䄧ߊ. 1994. Shiki jippyǀ ni miru Shiba Sen no rekishikan ಖԼ।Բߠ坕್ᔢ圸䅙䕋. Tǀkyǀ: Hirakawa. LEWIS, Mark Edward. 1999. Writing and Authority in Early China. Albany: State University of New York Press. LOEWE, Michael. 2004. The Men Who Governed Han China: Companion to A Bibliographical Dictionary of the Qin, Former Han and Xin Periods. Leiden: Brill. MANSVELT BECK, Burchard J. 1990. The Treatises of Later Han: Their Author, Sources, Contents and Place in Chinese Historiography. Leiden: Brill. NYLAN, Michael. 1998–1999. “Sima Qian: A True Historian?” Early China 23–24: 203–246. Shiji ಖ [by Sima Qian ್ᔢ]. 1959. 10 vols. Beijing: Zhonghua. Shuihudi Qinmu zhujian ጕॡچችێ១. 1990. [Ed. Shuihudi Qin mu zhujian zhengli xiaozu ጕॡچችێ១ᖞ՛ิ]. Beijing: Wenwu. VANKEERBERGHEN, Griet. 2001. The Huainanzi and Liu An’s Claim to Moral Authority. Albany: State University of New York Press. WATSON, Burton, trans. 1993. Records of the Grand Historian: Han Dynasty. Revised edition. 2 vols. Hong Kong and New York: Columbia University Press. ——, trans. 1993. Records of the Grand Historian: Qin Dynasty. Hong Kong and New York: Columbia University Press. ZHANG, Dake. ്Օױ1986. Shiji lunzan jishi ಖᓵᢥᙀᤩ. Xi’an: Shaanxi renmin.
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Fig. 1: An Overview of the biao in Shiji.
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Fig. 2: The 10 Kingdoms of 195–194 BC; from Table 5, Shiji 17/812–3.
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Fig. 3: The 24 Kingdoms of 137–136 BC; from Table 5, Shiji 17/854–5.
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Fig. 4: Noble Houses Created in Emperor Hui’s Time: Example of a Vertical Table; 19/978–
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Fig. 5: Inverted Script in Table 10; Shiji 22/1138-9.
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THE AVATAMSAKA–SÛTRA AS A “BODHI MANDALA TEXT”1 Hermann-Josef Röllicke Ludwig Wittgenstein’s Philosophische Untersuchungen (1953) begin with a quotation from the first book of St. Augustine’s Confessiones. Wittgenstein’s quotation starts from the middle of the following paragraph (italicized), indicating St. Augustine’s troubles with language learning during his childhood: Nonne ab infantia huc pergens veni in pueritiam? Vel potius ipsa in me venit et successit infantiae? Nec discessit illa: quo enim abiit? Et tamen iam non erat. Non enim eram infans, qui non farer, sed iam puer loquens eram. Et memini hoc, et unde loqui didiceram, post adverti. Non enim docebant me maiores homines praebentes mihi verba certo aliquo ordine doctrinae, sicut paulo post litteras, sed ipse mente, quam dedisti mihi, deus meus, cum gemitibus et vocibus variis et variis membrorum motibus edere vellem sensa cordis mei, ut voluntati pareretur, nec valerem quae volebam omnia nec quibus volebam omnibus. Prensabam memoria, cum ipsi appellabant rem aliquam et cum secundum eam vocem corpus ad aliquid movebant: videbam et tenebam hoc ab eis vocari rem illam, quod sonabant, cum eam vellent ostendere. Hoc autem eos velle ex motu corporis aperiebatur tamquam verbis naturalibus omnium gentium, quae fiunt vultu et nutu oculorum ceterorumque membrorum actu et sonitu vocis indicante affectionem animi in petendis, habendis, reiciendis fugiendisve rebus. Ita verba in variis sententiis locis suis posita et crebro audita quarum rerum signa essent paulatim colligebam measque iam voluntates edomito in eis signis ore per haec enuntiabam. Sic cum his, inter quos eram, voluntatum enuntiandarum signa communicavi et vitae humanae procellosam societatem altius ingressus sum pendens ex parentum auctoritate nutuque maiorum hominum.2 Haven’t I, from infancy following up here, come to boyhood? Or better, hasn’t it itself come unto me, succeeding infancy? And not has it broken off: where namely did it go away to? And yet, it was already not there any more. Indeed, not was I an infant any more, who wouldn’t speak, but already a boy, speaking, I was. And I remember this; and wherefrom I had learned speaking, I turned to later. Indeed, had not the elders taught me, offering me words according to a certain teaching or-
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1 For a short introduction to the same topic by the author, see Röllicke (1999). I am greatly indebted to Tony Howes, Heidelberg, for proof-reading and correcting the English draft version of this paper. 2 Latin text quoted from Bernhart (1987: 30–32).
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der, just like letters a little later, but I, through my own mind, which you gave me, my god, with sighs and varying voices and varying movements of the limbs I wanted to utter the senses of my heart, so that to volition way would be given, and neither was I strong enough for all that I wanted nor for all those for whom I wanted [it]. I grasped it through memory that they themselves stroke at some other kind of thing and that, according to its voice, they moved the body towards something: I saw and I kept with me this: that by them was voiced that thing itself, which they had sounded, since they had wanted to display it. But that they wanted this was disclosed out of the motion of the body, so to speak: out of natural words of all peoples, which come to be through countenance and winks of the eyes, through the acts of the other limbs, and through the sound of the voice, indicating the affection of the soul in demanding, possessing, rejecting, or fleeing from things. While in this way words were set to their places in varying sentences, and, gradually being heard of what things they were signs of, I steadily collected [them] together, and as my volitions had already been tamed to these signs, with my mouth through them I announced [my volitions]. So with those, among whom I stayed, signs of volitions to be announced I communicated, and into human life’s stormy society deeper ingress I had, depending on the authority of parents and the instruction of elderly people.
Wittgenstein comments on the italicized paragraph in the following way: In diesen Worten erhalten wir, so scheint es mir, ein bestimmtes Bild von dem Wesen der menschlichen Sprache. Nämlich dieses: Die Wörter der Sprache benennen Gegenstände—Sätze sind Verbindungen von solchen Benennungen.—In diesem Bild von der Sprache finden wir die Wurzeln der Idee: Jedes Wort hat eine Bedeutung. Diese Bedeutung ist dem Wort zugeordnet. Sie ist der Gegenstand, für welchen das Wort steht.3 In these words we obtain, it seems to me, a particular picture of the essence of human language. Namely this: The words of language name objects—sentences are connections of such namings.—In this picture of language we find the roots of the idea: Each word has a meaning. This meaning is attached to the word. It is the object for which the word stands.
Wittgenstein has probably somewhat misread St. Augustine’s description of a child’s language learning. First of all, what Wittgenstein calls “objects” are, in fact, res, “things”, in the Latin text, which is certainly not the same as an “object”. It is by no means necessarily a “thing” that is in need of a noun in occidental language use. Second, St. Augustine does not say that “each word has a meaning”. He says ——— 3 Wittgenstein 1971: 15.
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instead that words are rerum signa, “signs of things”. More precisely, these signs are signs of volitions of the soul, which means, that in St Augustine’s words res is not simply an external or physical “object”, but an action of the soul’s will (voluntas animae). The crucial event, in which people and things come into contact, is given in the Latin phrase …cum ipsi appellabant rem aliquam… Wittgenstein reads appellare to mean “to name, to call something this or that”. Although at first sight this is correct, the semantic core of appellare is the same as that of appellere (2nd conjugation). That core means first of all “knocking” or “striking at something”. Thus the act of appellare is at first not yet verbal at all. As soon as you “knock” or “strike” at something, it vibrates and makes a sound. You give it its voice. The same thing happens in man’s soul when the spirit turns to a thing and touches it. In St. Augustine’s text the voice (vox) is “sounded” (sonata) by someone who has moved their eyes and limbs towards that “thing”.4 The contiguity of people and “things” is much more like a dance in St. Augustine than like an act of labelling or ticketing objects, as Wittgenstein imagines it. The crucial point of that contiguity is not the invention of “meaning”, but the annunciation of the soul being moved by some event: “With sighs and varying voices and varying movements of the limbs I wanted to utter the senses of my heart,” he says. The movements of the heart are first of all speechless impulses of things. They are movements originating from the thingness of things themselves. That thingness is the mover of the human voice, because the voice is the immediate sign of the heart being moved. So appellare, “naming something”, is the consequence of appellere, “knocking at it”. The counterpart of St. Augustine’s philosophy of language as it is mirrored in the passage quoted here is not the ambiguity of language use or practice, as Wittgenstein thinks—St. Augustine calls this vitae humanae procellosa societas, “the stormy society of human life”—but the silence or untouchedness of the soul, or “heart”. So language seems to lead through yet another door: not only the one guiding us deeper and deeper into the stormy sea of society and communication and into the excitement of the soul, but one that leads into a silence, in which at the same time any kind of excitement is al——— 4 Behind this is certainly the text of Genesis 2,19, where Yahweh leads man to all the creatures he has made in order to see (sic) the “voice”, by which man would call each of them (loyiqro’). The way in which Jahweh creates everything by “naming” (wayyiqro’) differs markedly from the human way of “naming” all creatures.
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ready extinguished. As the Diamond-sûtra repeatedly says, this double structure of trained awareness is the very reason why the Buddha uses words at all and uses them justly and for good reasons. So we have to put the question: In what way is language adopted in Buddhist sûtras? Is it entirely for the sake of doctrine and “meaning”, as Wittgenstein would have it, or are there dimensions of a non-semantic kind and use of language? Heather Stoddard in her article on “Dynamic Structures in Buddhist Mandalas” quotes Alex Wayman as saying: In the case of a tantric text, it will always be a mistake for any reader to think that his proven intelligence (by university degrees and the like), or his proven intuition (by life experience and the like) will enable him to penetrate the meaning of a basic Buddhist tantra text, because the meaning is in the doing of it …5
In one way, this statement seems to sound very similar to what Wittgenstein had been up to, since according to Wayman the meaning of a tantric text “is in the doing of it”. But in another way, it leads us astray, since it still insists on the theory that texts fulfil their foremost duty in expressing a meaning. If we want to discover textual dimensions that have, for the sake of silence of the heart, broken the yoke of meanings, we have to ask, what help is there in the linguistic appearance of those texts themselves that guide us in a different direction? I should like to probe into this question in the case not of a tantric text, but in that of the Huayan jing ဎᣤᆖ [Avatamsaka-sûtra]. My thesis is that this sûtra is organized according to a certain mandala structure, and that it therefore cannot be simply read and commentated upon for the sake of its mere meaning or doctrinal and intellectual understanding. It has indeed to be loudly recited in its vast entirety and engrossment of time, and its own liturgical structure has to be ritually followed. Its enormous augmentation of societally organized time extinguishes the floating character of time.6 This is itself already part of its “doctrine”. Insofar as meditation follows the daĞabhûmika, the “Ten Grounds” or “Stages” of the Bodhisattva path, while meditation time has abandoned the floating character of physical time, it is nevertheless aware that there is still transition from one stage to another by jumps. The enigma of the century-long process and effort in the making of this sûtra lies first in the elaborate building of its own architectural time structure, or its music, and second in the irresistible ——— 5 Wayman 1973: 42; Stoddard 1999: 169–213, see p. 172, n. 23. 6 This is even more the case in the German and English translations.
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volatilization of coming and going in time in the heart of the listener. Compared with the older 60-scrolls text, the younger 80-scrolls text does not really add much to the Avatamsaka doctrine, but brings to mature perfection the architecture of the work in time and space. The Huayan jing is not a “text mandala” in the sense that a mandala form is laid out beforehand and inscribed with a text afterwards, as is the case for instance with the Tibetan Zung ‘khor mandala of the 9th century from Dunhuang (now in the British Museum, Stein-No. 18). It is equally not a “text mandala” in the sense that a mandala form must be deciphered according to the doctrines preached in a book, as must indeed be done in the case of two Avatamsaka mandalas from Dunhuang held by the Musée Guimet at Paris7 and the Shingon “Mandalas of the Two Worlds” held by the Kyôô Gokoku-ji (Tô-ji) at Kyôto: The Mandalas of the Two Worlds give concrete representation of the theories expounded in the Mahâvairocana-sûtra and the Vajrasekharasûtra, which are two of the three scriptures held most sacred by Esoteric Buddhists of the Shingon Sect.8
Taking a book as a mandala is also not the same as reciting a sûtra in front of a painted or sculptured mandala in expectation of miraculous changes accomplished during the mandala ritual. Although one could say that in a certain sense every mandala is a text, what I have in mind here is a text whose books, parts, and chapters were meant to be doctrinal and deserving masterly interpretation from the beginning, and which were successively transformed into a monumental word mandala in order to mark out the doctrine in a dimension of voice and sound which is not doctrinal any more. Painted and sculptured mandalas, sand mandalas (as in Tibetan Buddhism), and architectural mandalas have been richly and broadly studied. Mandalas are regularly differentiated according to the following types: karma-mandalas (using statues demarcating the ritual space), samaya-mandalas (original-vow mandalas, in which the deities are only hinted at by certain signs like circles and dots), and bija-mandalas (seed-mandalas, with all the sectors being upheld by Sanskrit syllable initials of the “true words”). But the idea of a “mandala text”—I use this term to differentiate from “text mandalas” like the Zung ‘khor—seems not to exist. This must have something to do with the supposition that a mandala is normally “a fixed material object”, ——— 7 See Vandier-Nicolas 1974. 8 Shunshô Manabe 1978: 8.
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as Stoddard puts it.9 A mandala text is no “fixed material object”, and thus the mandala in it is not simply a “meditation support”,10 as she says, but the time-space or space-time of meditation itself. In a certain sense, seed mandalas are text mandalas. The syllables therein appear as initials of words, i.e. of something already having language character. The question is: What is, for the sake of a philosophy of language, the difference and identity between the “seed” of the true word syllable and the fully expanded gigantic cosmos arrangement of the entire Huayan jingҏ ဎᣤᆖ? Although this sûtra is extremely long and time-consuming—it is one of the mahâ-vaipulyasutras—, it is not shoreless. It is because of its very mandala structure that it is never in danger of becoming chaotic, orderless, or shoreless. The order of this mandala is first of all an heroic attempt to tame masses of texts that were originally independent and not necessarily structured according to mandala rules. But this is at the furthermost extreme from any idea of an opening of seed syllables into the flourishing extensiveness of the sûtra’s syntactic compartments and corridors, of colloquial words, phrases, and sentences, in the same way as the colours and figures of a painted mandala can be regarded as phenomena of the seed syllables of their respective fields. A mandala, whether it is a sûtra or not, is always itself a ritual and never simply an “object” of worship or veneration.11 Therefore, mandalas are, as a rule, specialities and often secrets of those who are initiated into the ritual concerned. It is thus necessary to study each mandala singularly, although certain basic features of mandalas are shared by all of them. The question of who or what voyages through the mandala of the Huayan jing, has been authoritatively answered by the third patriarch of Huayan, Xianshou Fazang ᔃଈऄ៲ (643–712) in his Huayan youxin fajie jiҏ ဎᣤཾ֨ऄಖ. According to him, it is always the “heart”.12 To him, even Bodhisattvas are not “objects” of a venerating optic, but “hearts” that are opened and developed to Buddhahood. It is this “Bodhisattva heart”, whose attention is awakened to veneration at the sight of a Buddha or Bodhisattva figure on a temple altar. This is emphatically stressed in the “Fa puti xin” ࿇ဆ༼֨ chapter of the ———
9 Stoddard 1999: 173. 10 Ibid., p. 173. 11 For the veneration of sûtras—as is well known, a stronghold of the prajñâ-
pâramitâ tradition—as focuses of worship in place of Buddhas or Bodhisattvas in Mahâyâna communities see McMahan (1998: 249–274). 12 Fazang, Huayan youxin fajie jiҏ ဎᣤཾ֨ऄಖ, T. 1877, vol. 45.
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Huayan jing, to which Fazang has devoted a special commentary.13 Thus the time-space of the heart is also the time-space of the mandala. Meditation follows both an inward and an outward path, or, as Stoddard put it, a “centripetal” and a “centrifugal” direction. There are, as is well known, mandalas that spiral from inside to outside, and others, like that of candi Borobodur in Java, that spiral from outside to inside. But even if only one path is followed, it will simultaneously be complemented by the opposite movement. Strictly speaking, there is no difference in time between the period during which the adept walks the centripetal way, and the period during which he walks the centrifugal way, since the theology of the mandala always involves the simultaneousness of any time. If he walks along an inward mandala, he will recognize that the turn inside, which intensifies his concentration and makes his path wind tighter and tighter, is at the same time an opening of mind, a widening of space and a lifting up out of the “crawling” position endured during his stay in the lower corridors. The gradual closing of the horizontal ambitus means that, even as it becomes smaller, the circle is gradually lifted up. Even if a pilgrim circumambulates a sacred hill many times along the same path, he is still lifted along the axis of the mountain internally, or along the attracting power lines of its deity. In the mandala, reiteration never means a repetition. But manifold repetition along the same line is highly helpful to forget this line and thus enter into the mandala. In a way, the experience of a mandala realizes what Isabelle Robinet and others have described as the Daoist rite of chongxuan ૹخ, or “double mystery”, as Cheng Xuanying ګ خ (fl. 631–652) adopted it.14 Superficially, the way in and the way out follow each other in periods of life-time, are differentiated in liturgical movements, and will be executed in linear succession. But if the second is not the very fulfillment of the first, the first is an empty movement. Descriptions of mandalas as “objects” or “material supports” give the user an idea of the mandala as if it was an apriori construction, suggesting that the construction is already there before the meditator enters into meditation. It would then be a pre-performed laying-out, as in an invitation for a walk in a mirror cabinet or in a ghost train. But a mandala is, in fact, a particular “as–if structure” of a rite.15 In the ——— 13 Fazang, Huayan “Fa puti xin” zhangҏ ဎᣤ࿇ဆ༼֨ີ, T. 1878, vol. 45. 14 For an updated discussion of this, see Yu Shiyi (2000). 15 For a preliminary exposition of the concept of “as–if structures” of rites, see
Röllicke (1996: 415–426).
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Huayan jing, the mystery and the riddle of the “as–if structure” comes explicitly to the fore shortly before the end, when the Gandavyûhasûtra unveils that the whole voyage of Sudhana had happened without a single bodily movement. He had not left the fixed spot of his meditation seat at all. This is the precondition that enabled him to go on his voyage. The lotos seat locks the feet and obstructs the adept’s walking around, or his circumambulation of physical mountains and altars, whether the circumambulation in the manner of pradaksina, in the clockwise or “paternal” order, or of apradaksina, in the counterclockwise or “maternal” order. Thus the mandala of the Huayan jing as a whole is always the spot of the Buddha’s awakening, vyupaĞama in Sanskrit, Jimie daochang hui ഭᄰሐᄎ in Chinese, the place of “Silent Emptiness”, at the city of Gayâ in the country of Magadha. To the theravâdins, the name of that place had always been equivalent to nirvâna. And the exegetical tradition of the Chinese Huayan school has always taken the gathering there as the general assembly of all the assemblies which follow in the text of the sûtra. The Mahâ-Vairocana-sûtra has been regarded as the text from which East Asian Buddhist tradition as a whole extracted its fundamental notion of mandala. ĝubhâkarasimha (637–735) and the âcârya Yixing ԫ۩ॳ⿂ර (683–727),16 who in 725 translated this sûtra into Chinese, also wrote the first Chinese commentary on it, the Da Piluzhena chengfo jingshuҏ Օḛ ᗝᔟ ߷ګ۵ᆖ ง. 17 In that commentary they explain: ֛ደಁᢅृټፋႃ. վࠐڕאటኔפᐚႃڇԫ. ԯ۟Լპቺ ᑇܑཕٱᔚႽᘿྃ.18 ᜠ᎖Օֲ֨׆. ࠌԫ֊ฒسཏ॰ၞᔊ. ਢਚᎅደಁᢅՈ.19 Now a mandala is called an assemblage. Once truth and plenty, merit and virtue of the Tathâgatas are amassed at one single spot, the knowledge reaching out to all the multifariously different grains of dust of the ten worlds seals up the spokes of the perfectly rounded cakrawheel20 at the hub.
———
16 He is one of the “Five Patriarchs” of the Chinese “Secret Teaching” of Buddhism, mijiaoҏ യඒ. 17 T. 1796, vol. 39, p. 579 ff. 18 Reading fucou ᘿྃ in the sense of fucouҏ ᘿᙂ, “the spokes at the hub”, and thus “a place of concourse”. 19 T. 1796, p. 626:a. 20 Since mandala is often understood and translated as “the great wheel”, the Bodhisattva “Great Wheel”, Mahâcakra, is also called “Bodhisattva Mandala”. He accomplishes the mandala by taking the corresponding “original vow”—his original vow creates the mandala. He occupies the first seat in the southern quarter of the
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The heart king Great Sun (Mahâvairocana), as a pole-beam flanking the carriage, causes all the masses of living beings to advance quickly through the gate of one-and-all. This is the reason why we speak of a mandala.
The Samdhi-nirmocana-sûtra starts with a description of the Bhagavan dwelling in an immeasurably precious palace with uncountable Bodhisattvas seated around him. That space, the text says, is “well-apportioned into distinctive sections”, “limitless in reach”, and “an unimpeded mandala”. 21 It proves the validity of ĝubhâkarasimha’s and Yixing’s definiton. Introducing each of the assemblies in the Huayan jing—eight in the short text, and nine in the long text—, the sûtra stresses, with a sense of scenic, or theatrical, responsibility, that the central Buddha, Vairocana, changes his place without the slightest movement of his mind or body. He moves without a movement. So the path that the Buddha himself took from teaching to teaching during his lifetime is an ever unchanging path insofar as what he has to teach is the mere oneness of times and spaces. It is itself a mandala. In the 80-scrolls text the name of the first and basic assembly is not translated semantically, but phonetically, as alanruo fa puti changҏ ॳᥞૉऄဆ༼. The meaning of this is exactly the same: “Silent Emptiness” (aranâ – “fightlessness”), to which also belongs a particular samâdhi named after it. Glossing over the meaning of the name of the general assembly, the Zeng yi ahan jing ᏺԫॳܶᆖ states: ԫ֊۩ྤൄ, ڽڶؘृس, լؘسլڽ, ڼᄰ່ᑗ.22 Among all things in their frailty, void of any enduring disposition, those who are born, necessarily possess death, and those who are not born, necessarily do not die. If [both of] these are extinguished, this is to be taken as the highest of joys.
——— Garbha World Mandala of Secret Buddhism. His seed syllable is hûm. He has three pairs of arms and hands. Turning the palms of the upper pair of his hands outside and lifting them above his head, he carries the diamond cakra seal, jingang lunyinҏ ८ଶᔚ ٱ, the seal of the “wheel”, i.e. the seal of the mandala itself, in them. The iconography of this figure fits perfectly ĝubhâkarasimha’s use of language in the passage quoted here. 21 English translation from the Tibetan text by Powers (1995: 5). 22 ԫ֊۩ྤൄ corresponds to ԫ֊壆۩ྤൄ, sabbe sankhârâ aniccâ in Pali. This sentence marks the first of four “dharma seals” (Skr. dharma-uddâna, Chin. si fabenmoҏ ऄأء, or si youtannaҏ ᐡᚽ߷) preached by the Ekottara-âgamasûtra (Chinese version translated by Gautama Samghadeva in 397 under the title given, T. 125, vol. 2, pp. 549–830). For the line quoted see juan 23, p. 672:b. Uddana is a form of prajña (wisdom) that is upward-flowing and works like an escape hatch for the soul at the time of death; see Hayashima Osamu ڰ (1995: 378–383).
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It is necessary to lay out the path of the meditating heart in order to witness the extinction of the heart’s movements, of which birth is the most fundamental. Birth is a movement of the heart. Since meditation is a deep diving into different spheres, or grades, of samâdhi, a “mandala text” must be qualified as a verbal layout of samâdhi topology.
II. The Huayan jing as an architectural whole is a late achievement. Several of its books and parts had been circulated independently of any idea of making them cornerstones of a mahâvaipulya-sûtra, a “great and expansive” sûtra. This is especially true of the last chapter, comprising no less than one quarter of the whole book, the Gandavyûha-sûtra, which is estimated to have been written around 50 AD. It is also true for the tradition of the “Ten Stages”, or the “Ten Abodes of the Bodhisattva” tradition, which leads to a longer series of different texts. Zhiqianҏ ֭ᝐ, working early in the 3rd century AD, still under the Eastern Han regime, translated into Chinese a work called Dousha ೧[ ޥTushita] in one scroll as an independent piece of literature. This later became a textual brick of the famous “Rulai minghao” ټࠐڕᇆ chapter, “On the Name of the Tathâgata”,23 and of the “Rulai guangming jue” ࠐڕ٠ࣔᤚ chapter. He also translated a text called Pusa benye ဆ៳ءᄐ [The Root Exercise of the Bodhisattva]. This is an integral piece of text that was later incorporated into the “Jingxing” ἑ۩, “Procedures of Purification”, and “Shizhu” Լ۰, “The Ten Abodes”, chapters. These are only a few examples of the patchwork of independent texts that make up the Huayan jing.24 At the earliest on the 10th day of the 3rd month of the year 418 AD Buddhabhadra (359–429), staying at the Daochangsi ሐ ڝtemple at Yangzhou ཆڠ, started his translation of certain volumes of Sanskrit texts into the Da fang guang fo huayan jing Օֱᐖ ۵ဎᣤᆖ [Sûtra of the Glorification of the Vast, Regulating, and Omnipresent Buddha with Flowers]. This title already indicates one of the most basic meanings of the Buddhist use of the Vedic word man ———
23 There is a separate English translation of this sûtra by Cheng Chien (1993); German translation of this English translation by Bandini (1997). 24 A preliminary chart of independent early texts that were interwoven into different Huayan jing chapters is given in index volume 5 of the Taishô edition of the canon, p. 3.
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dala, in the words of Ulrich Mammitzsch: As arenas marking the benevolent descent of Buddhas and Bodhisattvas, mandalas came to be known as splendidly adorned places decked with garlands of beautiful flowers. They were surrounded by an aura of overwhelming splendor which legitimized them as places of descent and attracted beings of lesser degree of spiritual advancement.25
Buddhabhadra finished his translation on the 28th day of the 12th month of the year 421. This book is regularly called the “old text”, or the “60-scrolls text”, comprising 34 chapters.26 It was another 278 years before the Avatamsaka mandala came to its numerical perfection. During the years 695w699 ĝikĞânanda (652–710) prepared a new translation under the same title, but adding five chapters of new text. His work, in 39 chapters, is known in general as the “new text”, or the “80-scrolls text”.27 With the completion of this text, the path of assemblies follows these stations: 1.) VyupaĞama – Jimie daochang huiҏ ഭᄰሐᄎ. Although this place is still the locale of historical record, it is radically separated and distanced from the world of ordinary men. From the beginning it is described in the way of pure lands, jingtu Ւ, embellished with the finest of jewels, a place where every single being exercises the tenstage Bodhisattva path. 2.) The first move to another assembly does not yet leave the horizontal plane, but switches to the puguang fatangҏ ཏ٠ऄഘ, the “Dharma Hall of All-Embracing Brightness”. This is a roofed pavilion at one of the sides of the Jimie daochang. In the dramatic scenery of the whole, it is the place from where the upward direction will next be taken. The assembly will ascend unhindered through the roof. After the voyage of assemblies has passed the first plus the following five vertically positioned heavens of desire, it will find itself back here for one more assembly in the short text and for two more in the long text. The general topography of the long text does not add another location. Its idea is not to create a different place or scenery, but to be able to count the assemblies up to nine instead of eight. The philosophy of the number nine is the attracting factor of the new redaction. 3.) It is from this place which the ascension by Buddha Vairocana of Mount Sumeru begins. Although Sumeru is the axial mountain of ——— 25 Mammitzsch 1991: 16. 26 T. 278, vol. 9. German translation by Doi Torakazu 1983 (vol. 1); 1981 (vol.2);
1982 (vol. 3); 1978 (vol. 4). 27 T. 279, vol. 10. English translation by Cleary 1984–1987.
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the universe, the ascension starts from a side building of the “Exercise Ground of Silent Emptiness”. We can probably assume that the side hall called “All-Embracing Brightness” is the beginning of a spiraling upward movement around the axis of the Avatamsaka mandala, and that the first move upward is no more than taking a few steps that lead from the flat ground of the grove to the height of the hall. From that hall Buddha Vairocana and his assembly introduce themselves to Indra’s palace, renli tiangongҏ ֚ܓݴ୰, the “Heavenly Palace of Indulgently Receiving Gains”. 4.) Next on the axis comes the “Heavenly Palace of King Yama” (Yemo tiangongҏ ࡙ᐰ֚୰). It is the third of six heavens of desire. Its name means a “good” or “healing proportion of time”, or a “Profitable Moment”. With the teachings at this place, the ascension of Mount Sumeru continues. 5.) Without mentioning Maitreya, the text leads the assembly next to the “Heavenly Palace of Tushita” (Doushuai tiangongҏ ೧֚୰), which is another grade upward. It is the fourth of the six heavens of desire, a heaven of great joys, sexual lust, vast stores of food and drink, and a good fill. Other texts differ from the Huayan jing, in that we are told that Tushita has an inner and an outer court. The inner court is the abode of fully awakened Bodhisattvas and the “Pure Land” of Bodhisattva Maitreya. Having listened to the Dharma for 4,000 Tushita years—one year here takes 400 years on the earth of men—, the Bodhisattva will be reborn among men under the longhuashuҏ ᚊဎᖫ, the “dragon-flower tree”, and awaken to complete Buddhahood there. The inner court is made up of a carré of 49 elementary courts. The Mile shangsheng jing ᚦ೬Ղسᆖ relates that these courts are palaces made of jewel dust. They are metamorphoses of light-rays that the Buddha himself had once sent out.28 In the secret tradition of Buddhism, mijiao യඒ, which starts its genealogy from Nâgârjuna and has the Chinese monk Huiguo ༡࣠ (746–805) as its decisive transmitter to Japan, Tushita appears in both mandalas, the Garbha World, and the Diamond World mandala. It is noteworthy that the Diamond World mandala in its Shingon version is also a mandala of nine sectors with Vairocana in the middle of it.29 This is congruent ———
28 T. 452, vol. 14, p. 419:a. 29 To the mandala of the Huayan jing, it is important that the Buddha at its centre
is the cosmic Buddha Vairocana of whom each and every being in the assembly is an embodiment. This is not only at the core of the doctrine of the book, it is also a prerequisite for the possibility of the all-pervasiveness of the mandala as such. The personnel of the Huayan jing is also categorically the same as that of the esoteric
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with the late Avatamsaka structure of nine assemblies, although the nomenclature of the sectors in the Diamond World mandala is entirely different. Tushita is normally situated in the north-west, and its seed syllable is tam. 6.) The next palace, one level higher, is Para-nirmita-vaĞa-vartin in Sanskrit, tahua zizai tiangong ֚ڇ۞֏ה୰ in Chinese. It is the sixth and last of the six heavens of desire. The lifespan of its inhabitants is 16,000 years, with one day of their life corresponding to 1,600 years of human life on earth. In the Garbhadhâtu mandala and in the Diamond World mandala it covers a field in the northeast. Its seed syllable is pam. The ascension of Mount Sumeru is an ascension of the heavens of desire. As we can read from the changing time proportions, whose numbers increase by jumps, the spaces must grow tighter and tighter. 7./8.) After having visited the last of the heavens of desire on the sixth level of ascension, the seventh (and also the eighth in the longer edition) returns to the side hall of Bodhgayâ. But this place is now no longer the same. The ten stages of Bodhisattvahood have been taught. The tenfold Bodhisattva-path has been completely demonstrated. The teaching of the irrevocable initial decision of the Bodhisattva has been heaved up from deep samâdhi. His “Ten Returns” are now clarified. His “Ten Grounds” have been laid out. His “Ten Clarifications” have been explained. His “Ten Endurings” have been analyzed. Unending heaps of tens and tens of equal sounding sentences and paragraphs have been accumulated. Every person who has endured the reading of the sûtra to this point feels the long walk through the seemingly limitless redundancies of vastly stretching corridors of text in his or her bones. Nobody leaves the audience in the same way he or she had entered it in the beginning. The listener becoming the crown witness of the text, the text changes him or her from hour to hour, from day to day, from month to month. The effect is very much like praying a rosary or a litany, or patiently and devotedly singing and speaking the prayers on a week-long pilgrimage. Nirvâna is always there, it has not changed its time and place. For the listener, the reiterative structure of hours and hours of almost identical textual bricks, with only very ——— mandalas of the Two Worlds. “Esoteric Buddhism” was first propagated and established in China around 700 AD or not much earlier. We may assume that the mandala rituals of that teaching in China belong to the 8th century. Legend has it that Huiguo was in possession of the painted mandalas of the Two Worlds which he entrusted to his pupil Kûkai or Kôbô Daishi (774–835), who finally transmitted them to Japan.
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small changes in each paragraph, lead to a dissolution of the question: What does it mean? How long did it take? Where did it happen? Who am I? All these questions are cooked away by the ascesis of the mandala. A text like this hums its listeners into meditation. Even if they had not decided to enter into it, as long as they listen to the text they are led deeper and deeper. After several hours, they have to decide how they would like to stand it physically, what kind of bodily posture fits best for listening silently for such a long time. The posture listeners have to assume will necessarily be a healthy and painless one. It will be such that they are led onto the trail of samâdhi more easily. The text is the sphere of samâdhi itself, provided that it is performed completely.30 9.) “Pilgrimage” is, indeed, the keyword for the last part of the sûtra. This takes place in the garden of crown prince Jeta, and performs the travels of the young boy Sudhana ever southward to the abodes of 53 teachers.
III. Of all the texts of East Asian Buddhist tradition that bear the words hua yan jing in their titles, the respective Sanskrit originals are missing. Neither is there any witness of the basic text of Buddhabhadra’s (359–429) shorter translation, finished in 421 AD, nor a corresponding Sanskrit document of ĝikĞânanda’s (652–710) longer text, which he translated during the years 695 to 699. The existence of the Tibetan version31 proves that a congruent Sanskrit original (or several originals) had existed and that the Chinese “translations” were not agglomerations on the translators’ own authority. The question is, however, what forced ĝikĞânanda to change the Buddhabhadra tradition, and what is the motive behind this? ĝikĞânanda’s text includes changes in two respects: (1) it adds five chapters: four in the first ———
30 From July to September, 1999, and continued from April to June, 2000, the complete German translation of the “Shorter Huayan jing” by Doi Torakazu was read to the public at the “Foyer” of the EKÔ Centre of Japanese Culture, Düsseldorf, Germany, subjecting the lecture to a simple rule: Every working day of the week from 18–19 h the text was delivered serially in a normal voice and tempo, abandoning any kind of talk or discussion before and after. From day to day it became clearer and clearer that for the mandala experience of this recitation the obvious weaknesses and shortcomings of the translation no longer played any role. 31 The Sans-rgyas phal-po-che zes-bya-ba sin-tu-rgyas-pachen-po’i mdo, Tôhoku University Catalogue No. 241.
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assembly, plus the “Shiding” Լࡳ, “Ten Determinations”, chapter on the trespass from the sixth to the seventh assembly; (2) and it reserves the “Shidi” Լ چchapter alone, of which a version of the famous DaĞabhûmika-sûtra [The Sûtra on the Ten Grounds of Bodhisattvahood] is the original, for the sixth assembly.32 In doing this, it cuts all the rest of the following chapters, i.e. former chapters 23 through 32, off from that assembly, making them the carrier of a separate, i.e. the seventh assembly, while the transmitted seventh and eighth assemblies thereby become the eighth and ninth assemblies. What is indeed intriguing here, is not so much the augmentation of the first assembly by four new chapters, because this only lengthens the same scenery in time, but the insertion of the DaĞabhûmika-sûtra as an independent Dharma assembly into the usual sequence of Vairocana’s congregations. To do this, the fifth of the new chapters, “Ten Determinations”, is endowed with a crucial role, in that it takes over the architectural part of the former DaĞabhûmika as the doctrinal opener of the tahua tiangong hui ֚֏ה୰ᄎ. No element of doctrine is added; the change is a change in structure alone. The Da zhidu lun Օཕ৫ᓵ describes the heaven of that palace congregation in the following way: ֚ڼኆ۞ۖ֏ࢬהୡᑗ, ਚߢڇ۞֏ה.33 This heaven settles [or ‘determines’] the changes taking place on beings of the other [heavens] as its own pleasure and joy; therefore it is called ‘tahua zizai’, giving itself its own [joyful] presence through [nothing but] the changes of the other heavens’ beings.
It is certainly correct to treat this definition as the underlying program of the transition from Tushita heaven to the supreme heaven of the “Clouds of the Dharma” after two more assemblies. I have deliberately translated duo ኆ in the lectio difficilior sense of duoding ኆࡳ here, “to settle,“ “to determine”, because the Chinese translator would have used a more formal and unstressed word than duo, like , if he had wished to say no more than “this heaven regards the changes taking place on others as its own pleasure and joy”. What the text seems to say instead is that the change of others is the only reason for the settlement and determination of these beings in the supreme world of the highest Dharma. It is their tenfold resolution which makes the realm of this heaven existent and sanctifies it. Their nirvâna is reachable at this very moment, it is irrevocable, and no relapse is possible ——— 32 For a translation of this sûtra see Honda (1968). 33 T. 1509, vol. 25, juan 9, p. 122:a.
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any more. What I am describing here is the beginning of the final movement of the third third of the whole sûtra.
IV. The alteration of the arrangement of the text took place some time between 421 AD and 695 AD, not regarding the question whether this change was stimulated by Indian or by Chinese developments. We have seen, that this change is not so much doctrinal, but structural. So the next question is: What is, between the middle of the 5th and the end of the 7th cent. AD, the motif of storeying up the old text from eight to nine levels and thereby making it a faultless mandala? The fourth patriarch of the Huayan school in China, Qingliang Chengguan 堚ළᑢᨠ (737–838), reacted euphorically to the new edition of the text, which had entered into circulation in 699. He wrote a treatise on the basis of the new numerical order of the sûtra, called the Xinyi Huayan jing qichu jiuhui song shi zhangҏ ᄅဎᣤᆖԮᄎቈᤩ ີ.34 The salient point of the augmentation lies at the transition from the sixth to the seventh assembly. The new text makes the whole arrangement coincidental with mandalas reigned by the number nine, with a clear difference of lay-out of the last three realms. It puts everything that follows after the teaching of the “Ten Stages of Bodhisattvahood” (in assembly no. 6), i.e. assemblies nos. 7 to 9, on a level beyond them. So the number nine for the arrangement of assemblies parallels the ascension in its grid of 1+5+3 congregations with the teaching of the “Ten Stages” and the realization of the world of the Dharma clouds, the completion and perfection of the dharmakâya, the omnipresent cosmic body of the Buddha. At the same time we have to consider carefully, that the ascending movement of assemblies nos. 7 to 9 is at the same time a descending movement. Not everything coincides with the “Ten Stages” concept. It is a descending movement in that the instruction of scenes brings us back to the puguang fatangҏ ཏ٠ऄഘ, the “Dharma Hall of AllEmbracing Brightness”, in the seventh and eighth assemblies of the new text. That hall had already set the scene for the second assembly at one side of vyupaĞama (jimie daochangҏ ഭᄰሐ), the “Abode for the Practice of Silent Emptiness”, in the country of Magadha. The ——— 34 T. 1738, vol. 36.
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ninth assembly is set in yet another of the most famous places visited by the historical Buddha, namely in a garden of crown-prince Jeta, son of king Prasenajit, of the kingdom of ĝravasti, called shiduo yuanlin ຓڍႼࣥ, “Garden of Fleeing the Multitude”. Congregation no. 3 had taken place at the palace of Indra, no. 4 at the palace of Yâma, no. 5 in Tushita Heaven, and no. 6 in Para-nirmita-vaĞa-vartin. The text instructs us that this return to human abodes is equal to an ascension along the axis of Mount Sumeru. In this way Buddha Vairocana turns out to be the true deity of that mountain. Thus, the Huayan jing, performing through a mandala grid, ritualizes the unification of the adept with that deity. It is therefore congruent with the program of ascending Mount Sumeru. Taking into consideration the topics of the chapters that cover assemblies nos. 7 to 9, we find, that in no. 7 the text aims at expounding the Tathâgata doctrine, including the famous chapter “Puxian xing” ཏᔃ۩, “On the Practices of Samantabhadra”, followed by the chapter “Rulai chuxian” נࠐڕ, “On the Appearance of the Tathâgata”. No. 8 consists of one chapter only, the “Li shijian” ҏᠦၴ, “Leaving the World”. And no. 9 is the summit chapter of the whole architecture, “Ru fajie” ҏԵऄ, “Entering the dharmadhâtu”, the “Realm of the Dharma”, comprising about one fourth of the entire textual volume of the Huayan jing. This is the well-known Gandavyûha-sûtra. All of these places, nos. 7 to 9, are no “worlds” any more, as had been those of the Heaven kings. The historical and topographical “worlds” Siddhartha had lived in as a Buddha are the very spots and places where awakening, bodhi, had come to pass. This is the crucial criterion, which already bestows these spaces with their mandala character, even if their particular grids cannot yet be perceived: Mandalas as places where bodhi manifested itself in tangible form evoked the memory of the particular spot—called bodhi-manda or bodhi-mandala—where Shâkyamuni had gained his enlightenment.35
The DaĞabhûmika-sûtra is a text that exercises the same ascension on ten doctrinally fixed stages as does the new text Huayan jing as a large mandala text during nine ascending assemblies. The first five stages are preparations; the sixth is on the Bodhisattva’s facing the immediate presence of the “twelve links of dependent origination” (pratîtyasamutpâda), i.e. his insight that they are all empty; and nos. 7 to 10 are on his entry into the dharmadhâtu, the Dharma realm. Thus, ———
35 Mammitzsch 1991: 17.
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the central event is the extinction of the Abhidharma exposition of pratîtyasamutpâda just in the sense of the Mûlamadhyamaka-kârikâs of Nâgârjuna. They begin with the following hymn: anirodham anutpâdam anucchedam ashâshvatam anekârtham anânârtham anâgamam anirgamam yah pratîtyasamutpâdam prapañcopashamam shivam deshayâm âsa sambuddhas tam vande vadatâm varam36
Kumâra Jîva’s translation runs like this: լٍسլᄰ, լൄٍլឰ, ҏլԫٍլฆ, լࠐٍլנ, ҏ౨ᎅਢڂᒴ, ᄰ壆ᚭᓵ, ҏݺᒝଈ៖۵, 壆ᎅխรԫ.37 ‘Not born and also not extinguished, Not ever-lasting and also not broken-off, Not one and also not different, Not come and also not gone’ – To him, who is able to preach this pratîtyasamutpâda And who benevolently extinguishes all playful discussions,38 I bow my head and venerate the Awakened One, The first [i.e. the best] among those, who have preached.
The last two of the ten stages are equivalent to the arrangement of the Huayan jing, in that they ponder on the adept’s imperturbability and his unification with the Tathâgata. When Dagmar Doko Waskönig tried to decipher the architecture of the Borobodur according to the DaĞabhûmika-sûtra, she had the problem that she needed nine layers of text equalling the nine-layered construction of Borobodur. 39 But unfortunately the “Ten Stages of Bodhisattvahood” comprise ten stages, i.e. one too many. We might say, that the “Ten Stages” concept fits the cross-section of the sixth assembly of the Huayan jing alone. It spirals upward from stage to stage, starting from the ground level of Heaven Para-nirmita-vaĞavartin, until it reaches the trespass to the worldlessness of the three highest realms. Not the DaĞabhûmika-sûtra, but the Huayan jing as a ——— 36 The lost Sanskrit text was first reconstructed by Louis de La Vallée-Poussin during the years 1903–1913 from Candrakîrti’s commentary to the Kârikâ (reprint Osnabrück: Biblio Verlag, 1970); a revised edition on the basis of Nepalese manuscripts and the work of Guiseppe Tucci was done by J. W. de Jong (1977), followed by (1978); after that, several corrections were added by Akira Satô (1985). 37 T. 1564, Bd. 30, S. 1:b. 38 The Chinese xilun ᚭᓵ translates Sanskrit prapañca. Xi ᚭ means “play”, “joke”, “fun”, “amusement”, “theatre”, and “spectacle”. The original Sanskrit word means “unfolding” and “display” of imaginations, conceptions, and ideas. 39 Waskönig 1998: 14–19.
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whole coincides with the arrangement of Borobudur according to this particular criterion: In Borobodur, the trespass from levels six to seven changes the architectural feature completely. That change is just as crucial as it is in the Huayan jing. Insofar Waskönig is perfectly right: the “Ten Stages” are the key to that trespass. In Borobodur, there are five storeys of corridors. This, too, coincides with the Huayan jing arrangement of the new text. The first floor is extended unproportionally in comparison with the five following layers of angularly surrounding corridors, so that the sequence of layers amounts to a sum of 1+5+3. The formula is the same for the aggregation of assemblies in the new text Huayan jing. The last three levels of candi Borobodur are not angular any more. They are concentric terraces with a stûpa in the middle of the highest platform.40 There is still something beyond the Bodhisattva path which became crucial for the mijiao, “Esoteric Teaching”, lineage of Buddhist rituality. The teaching on “The Sea of Bodily Marks of the Tathâgata” in chapter 34 (in the 7th assembly of the new text) of the Huayan jing is a teaching for the accomplishment of the dharmakâya. In his Sokushin-jôbutsu-gi, probably written in 817/18, Kôbô Daishi Kûkai says—I quote from the German translation by Eihô Kawahara and C. Yûhô Jobst: Die Geheimnisse des Leibes umschreiben die Drei Geheimnisse des Dharma-kâya-Buddha. Sie sind selbst für das Auge der erwachten Buddhas kaum zu schauen, geschweige denn für die Bodhisattvas der zehn Stufen zu erspähen, daher die Benennung mit Geheimnis des Leibes.41 The mysteries of the body circumscribe the Three Secrets of the Dharma-kâya-Buddha. Even to the eye of the awakened Buddhas they are hard to see, how much less are they to be peered at by the Bodhisattvas of the ten stages—hence the naming: secrets of the body.
The “secrets of the body” are to be found not in the Huayan jing, but in the Mahâvairocana-sûtra,42 a text supposedly composed around the middle of the 7th century in Western India, and one of the basic ———
40 As is well known, scenes from the Gandavyûha are sculptured in relief along the lower corridors of candi Borobodur, but not pivoting its mandala, see Gómez and Woodward, eds. (1981) and Ryûshô Hikatas contributions to Indogaku bukkyôgaku kenkyû ٱ৫ᖂ۵ඒᖂઔߒ 8:1 (January 1960), p. 366, and to Nakano kyôju koki kinen ronbunshû խມඒײ࿕ಖ࢚ᓵ֮ႃ [Studies in Indology and Buddhology Presented in Honour of Professor Gishô Nakano on the Occasion of his 70th Birthday] (Koyasan University, 1960), pp. 1–50. 41 Eihô Kawahara, C. Yûhô Jobst (1992: 20). 42 T. 848, vol. 18, p. 21.
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texts of “Esoteric Buddhism”. But as we have already said earlier, the body of the adept in the Huayan jing goes through the same sublimation as soon as he transforms into Tathâgatahood, leaves the world behind, and enters dharmadhâtu. In 670 AD, Vajrabodhi, one of the central figures of „Esoteric Buddhism“ and an important exponent of the Mahâvairocana- and the VajraĞekhara-sûtras, was born in Kanci, South India. In 717, he arrived by ship at Sumatra and followed on from there to Java. We know that during his epoch these two texts were wide-spread. 43 Borobodur and many more candi were built on Java during the Buddhist Shailendra Dynasty (ca. 760–830).44 We might speculate that one of the motifs of rebuilding the architecture of the Huayan jing into the new edition was under the influence of “Esoteric Buddhism.” Its unfolding and sedimentation was a cosmopolitical phenomenon resulting in many works of art in the East and South East Asian oikumene. If we assume that candi Borobodur was built in the middle or at the end of the 8th century AD, this is not far from the time at which the new text of the Huayan jing was constructed. I do not say that immediate physical connections between the two can be documented. The iconography of Borobodur is in many respects extremely close to the Huayan jing, but in others it is quite obviously not. Besides that, we do not know what kind of ritual was performed at Borobodur. Since a mandala can only be finally understood, when its ritual is known, we are not in the position to draw further conclusions.
V. The earliest transmitted text of Huayan exegesis in the Chinese canon is Jizang’s ( ៲ٳ549–623) Huayan youyiҏ ဎᣤཾრ. 45 That text mainly expounds extremely elaborate consequences of the Madhyamika tetralemma (siju )for the understanding of the Huayan jing. But regarding our question, Jizang’s introduction is of special interest. He begins by relating a legend with the figure of Nâgârjuna at its centre, aiming at the insertion of his own Huayan exegesis into the Madhyamika tradition. Although it is not mentioned in the sûtras, he says, there is a “mutual heritage” (xiang chengҏ ઌࢭ) telling the ———
43 See Miksic 1991: 21. 44 Soekmono 1995: 205–248. 45 T. 1731, vol 35.
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following story.46 Nâgârjuna had an eloquent pupil exhorting him to being transformed “together with ĝakyamuni”. The master’s knowledge and virtue being like this, he was fit to become the new Buddha and not at all in a state to be regarded as a pupil of ĝakyamuni. This being the case, when he uttered certain words he restrained the sun and the moon. Above that, he made the laws, and garments that he newly prescribed for the main part coincide with those of old. Sitting in the “Water Cristal Building” (shuijing fangҏ ֽ 壄 ࢪ ), 47 he concentrated his thoughts on nothing but this. At that time, the Bodhisattva “Big Dragon” felt deeply sorrowed with him and brought him back to his Dragon Palace. There he showed him an immeasurable amount of sûtras of all the Buddhas of the three worlds, and he further showed him the sûtras of the seven Buddhas of the immediate past. At the Dragon Palace, during nine sessions of ten days each, Nâgârjuna read the tenfold layout of the country of Jambudvîpa, i.e. Southern India. The rest of the topics he was not able to go through any more. When Nâgârjuna had to leave the Dragon Palace, the Dragon King presented him with that single part of the sûtras. This is the reason, why we have received this sûtra on Jambudvîpa, i.e. the Huayan jing.48 This non-canonical mythical legend makes severel points clear. First, it tells Madhyamika adepts that the Huayan jing is a sûtra which was secretely and solitarily revealed to Nâgârjuna and is thus part of ———
46 Kumâra Jîva’s “biography” of Nâgârjuna, the Longshu pusa zhuanҏ ᚊᖫဆ៳ ႚ, which is nearly the only historical source at our hands, does not mention the following legend. It may have not yet been in existence at his time. 47 For the usual, but sometimes problematical identification of shuijing ֽ壄 with Skr. sphatikâ, Pali phalika, “crystal”, “glass”, or “pearl”, being one of the “Seven Precious Gems”, see Mayer (1991): 176, n. 807). In the present case the identification of shuijing with sphatikâ seems to be consonant because the shuijing fang must coincide with the yue gongdian ִ୰ᄥ in a legend related in the Xuanying yinyi خ ᚨଃᆠ (juan 2, 6, and 20), the Huiyuan yinyi ᐝଃᆠ (juan 1), and the Huilin yinyi ᐝྱଃᆠ (juan 4, and 41): Sphatikâ comes into existence in caves. After a thousand years, water drops crystallize into glassy pearls. In the heat of the western regions, secretion of water is rare. So watery pearls cannot emerge, and only a stony species is possible, whose essence is fire. The “Sun Palace” (ri gongdianҏ ֲ୰ᄥ) is built of the fiery species of pearls, while the “Moon Palace” (yue gongdianҏ ִ୰ᄥ) is built of the watery one. In Jizang’s reference it is said that Nâgârjuna’s words had “overcome” or “restrained the sun and the moon (ke riyueҏ ঝ ֲ ִ )”. As a consequence of this, he sat meditating in the shuijing fang, the “Water Essence Building”, which seems to me to be just the yue gongdian, the “Moon Palace” made of the water essence. That palace is situated in the near reach of the “Dragon Palace” (long gongҏ ᚊ୰) star constellation. The “Sphatikâ Palace” legend, which Jizang repeats, is certainly a post mortem myth in veneration of the Bodhisattva Nâgârjuna on the edge of being declared equal to Buddha ĝakyamuni himself. 48 T. 1731, vol 35, p. 1:a.
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the Madhyamika line of thought itself. Second, this book is a means to fulfill the wish of an unnamed “eloquent pupil”, who confronted his teacher with the task to transform a human being “together with ĝakyamuni”, i.e. to die and be reborn as ĝakyamuni himself. Third, this legend obviously preserves a ritual of reading the Huayan jing in the Madhyamika school. At the Dragon Palace, Nâgârjuna goes through nine periods of reading, each comprising ten days. This story is so amazing here, because at Jizang’s time the Huayan jing consisted of eight assemblies only, and the nine assemblies text was not yet existent. So there is foresight in the legend. But there is even more in the rest of Jizang’s introduction. He goes on to tell the reader that preaching, expounding, and arguing over the Huayan jing was not undertaken by “earlier masters”, but that it started only on mount Sheshan ᥊՞ close to the city of Nanjing. This is highly important contemporary information. Formerly, the monk Fadu ऄ৫ (437–500), who was a follower of Pure Land Buddhism, had built himself a hut there. After some time, he was allowed to construct a monastery at the same spot for the Pure Land order, which he named Qixiasi ཨដ“( ڝMonastery of the Perching Rosy Clouds”). Moreover, he became famous for donating a precious seated statue of Buddha Amitâbha for the same monastery.49 In 551, during the reign of emperor Liang Wudiҏ ඩࣳ০, a monk called Senglang ቖி arrived at the monastery. He continued Fadu’s Pure Land tradition, but he also subtly understood and expounded the Huayan jing, and he did that by means of sanlun Կᓵ, i.e. Madhyamika exegesis. Jizang says, that this “overwhelming master taught the [Pure Land] benefactors of the convent (Skr. dânapati, Chin. tanyueҏ ᚽ။)”. Starting by doing the ritual of „wisdom vyûha,“50 which I imagine must have been a sanctification ceremony using flowers and the like for ornamentation of the teaching space, and ending by leading his listeners into zhiguan ַᨠ, sitting quietly in deep contemplative ——— 49 See Liang Gaoseng zhuanҏ ඩቖႚ, T. 2059, vol. 50, juan 8. 50 Mammitzsch (1991: 23) says: “In the Sino-Japanese tradition of the Mahâ-
Vairocana-sûtra, a mandala is the sacred ground where Mahâvairocana reveals himself in concrete form. This mandala is both altar and palace: altar in the sense of providing a focus for veneration, ritual, and meditation; palace in the sense of providing the proper surroundings and elements for the splendor (vyûha) of this manifestation.” Jizang’s term “wisdom splendor” thus clearly marks a palace-like ritual or meditational sphere, not a discursive one devoid of liturgical sense. There are several criteria, that bring the Mahâ-Vairocana-sûtra, which is in a sense a handbook on mandala performance, together with the Huayan jing. The most important is, of course, their common central figure, Vairocana, as the omnipresent and allembodying deity of the cosmos.
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samâdhi, he always gave one single session expounding one single congregation of the sûtra. This shows that the demarcation lines between the assemblies—or the levelling of the corridors, galleries and terraces of its mandala—are extremely important for the way the sûtra was practiced. The ritual sessions were not simply nine on an equal line, but they were parabolic intensifications on the way of “transformation together with ĝakyamuni”, i.e. unification with the deity of the mandala, Buddha Vairocana. This transformation is, indeed, the topic of Jizang’s exploration, stressing that “transformation of the host” (hua zhu ֏ )was one of four major Pure Land “transformation” demands. Since the sûtra at that time had eight assemblies—not to forget: each of them with one and the same “host”—, the whole ritual of expounding and meditating the sûtra took eight sessions. Jizang does not tell us how many hours and days each session took at Qixiasi, but he cannot have related the Nâgârjuna legend a few lines before without drawing a conceptual connection to the master’s own reading of the same sûtra during nine sessions of ten days each. This is, then, a possible ritual time frame for the Avatamsaka mandala. With all of this, we have to keep in mind that the exegetical ritual in this case was a Pure Land enterprise. A Huayan school of its own right did not yet exist. So we have two results: First, there is an innate impetus in the Madhyamika legend of Nâgârjuna’s reading of the Huayan jing to discover nine instead of eight assemblies. Second, there is a Pure Land ingredient in making the vyûha, the “land of bliss”, the “Pure Land”, which is the mandala space of the Huayan jing itself, correspondent with a grid of nine fields. The importance of the number nine, instead of eight, for the lay-out of the Pure Land of Amitâbha has long been studied and is well-known.51 These events belong to the early 6th century. As we have seen, ĝikĞânanda, working during the last years of the 7th century, has isolated the “Ten Stages of Bodhisattvahood” and reserved that chapter alone for the crucial sixth assembly. Now Jizang states that exactly this text was among the most important topics of Pure Land practice at mount Sheshan. Therefore, a strong Pure Land tradition is reflected in ĝikĞânanda’s giving special weight to this text by entrusting a complete assembly to it. This would not be conspicuous if the next was simply ———
51 See ten Grotenhuis 1995. I am especially indebted to Jorinde Ebert, Würzburg and Vienna, for bringing this paper to my attention. See also ten Grotenhuis (1985) and (1983).
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read sequentially one after another, without bothering about time frames and liturgically relevant perikopes. But it is, indeed, as soon as the corridors of text deserve clear-cut portions of ritual time. In the new text, more time, and ideally a period of ten days, is reserved for the reading and exegesis of this chapter alone, while in the order of the old text this chapter is only one of eleven parts of one and the same session. The old text deprives the contemplation of the “Ten Stages” of its time-place, and it undervalues the ritual importance of that section. So ĝikĞânanda’s new text can be seen as a restoration of a certain Pure Land doctrinal tradition, and as an harmonization of the exegetical ritual, as it was inherited from the Qixiasi monastery, with the Nâgârjuna legend. The close connection of ritual and exegesis in this case is breathtaking. If we consider again Pure Land mandalas, the importance of the number nine for the lay-out of Amitâbhas realm is evident. Although Jizang’s discussion focusses only on the question of unity or difference of ĝakyamuni and Vairocana and on the consequences of one or the other for the Madhyamika tetralemma, the ritual field of exegesis as it must have been prepared on mount Sheshan is the vyûha, the Pure Land, of Amitâbha. It is identical with Jambudvîpa, i.e. Southern India, and India is China, and China is the Dragon Palace, and the Dragon Palace is any palace or heaven on the axis of mount Sumeru. The exegesis, and not only the reading, of the sûtra lies at the core of ritual practice, but it is not part of a public discourse, as we should suspect from our own academic textual experience today. As we learn from Jizang, listeners of the sûtra practiced zhiguan in it (“stopping and contemplating”). And since the ritual time and space are made perfectly congruent with the time and space structure of the sûtra, that contemplation is what the sûtra imparts structurally and not only doctrinally. What Senglang performed, was a zhiguan ritual, but the focus of that ritual was the exegesis of a sûtra. Since zhiguan rituals end with an act of extinction, a sûtra ritual necessarily ends with the liturgical “extinction” of the sûtra. In modern public academic discourse, we shall probably ask, what the meaning of a certain sentence, paragraph, chapter, or book is; but in an exegetical ritual of this kind the “meaning” is the mandala. The mandala, and therefore ritual, presence of the text has, in my view, much more to do with what St. Augustine called the “appellative”
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function of language. It knocks on something to learn its “sound”. The “sound” is the same as the “voice” we give it. The mandala is not the semantic, but the voice of each thing in its transformative relation to us (i.e. it “transforms” us), insofar as the mandala carries the language as well as the doctrine. In the case of the Huayan jing, the doctrine also carries the mandala, since in the mandala everything doctrinal can be finally extinguished. As Alex Wayman wrote, “the meaning is in the doing of it”. We now learn that “doing it” must necessarily mean “not doing it”. Therefore “meaning”, among others, will be “stopped” and, as if from a far distance, “contemplated” in its extinction.
REFERENCES BANDINI, Giovanni. 1997. Alles ist reiner Geist: Die Stufen der Erkenntnis und der erhabene Zustand der Buddhaschaft. Bern, München, Wien: O. W. Barth (German translation of the English translation by Cheng Chien 1993) BERNHART, Joseph. 1987. Augustinus Bekenntnisse: Lateinisch und Deutsch. Frankfurt/M.: Insel Taschenbuch. CHENG Chien. 1993. Manifestation of the Tathâgata: Buddhahood According to the Avatamsaka Sûtra. Boston: Wisdom Publications (German translation of this English translation by Bandini 1997). CLEARY, Thomas, tr. 1984-1987. The Flower Ornament Scripture. 3 vols. Boston & London: Shambala. DE JONG, J. W. 1978. “Textcritical Notes on the Prasannapadâ.” Indo-Iranian Journal 20.1/2 (April). ——, ed. 1977. Mûlamadhyamaka-kârikâ. Madras: Adyar. DE LA VALLEE-POUSSIN, Louis, ed. 1903-1913 (original edition). Mûlamadhyamakakârikâ. [repr. Osnabrück: Biblio Verlag, 1970]. DOI Torakazu, tr. 1983 (vol. 1); 1981 (vol. 2); 1982 (vol. 3); 1978 (vol. 4). Das Kegon Sutra. 4 vols. Tôkyô: Doitsubun-Kegonkyô-Kankôkai. Ekottara-âgama-sûtra. Chinese version translated by Gautama Samghadeva in 397. T. 125, vol. 2, pp. 549–830. FAZANG. Huayan “Fa puti xin” zhang ဎᣤ࿇ဆ༼֨ີ. T. 1878, vol. 45. ——. Huayan youxin fajie ji ဎᣤཾ֨ऄಖ. T. 1877, vol. 45. GÓMEZ, Luis O., and Hiram W. WOODWARD, eds. 1981. Barabudur: History and Significance of a Buddhist Monument. Berkeley. HAYASHIMA Osamu ڰ. 1995. “On dharma-uddana in the Mahayanasutralamkara XVIII.80,8.” Journal of Indian and Buddhist Studies 44.1: 378–383. HONDA, Megumu. 1968. “Annotated Translation of the Dasabhumika-Sutra.” Studies in South, East, and Central Asia, ed. by Denis Sinor. New Delhi. KAWAHARA Eihô and Christlieb Yûhô JOBST. 1992. Kûkai: Ausgewählte Schriften. München: Iudicium. Liang Gaoseng zhuan ඩቖႚ. T. 2059, vol. 50. MAMMITZSCH, Ulrich H. R. 1991. Evolution of the Garbhadhâtu Mandala. New Delhi: International Academy of Indian Culture and Aditya Prakashan. MANABE Shunshô. 1978. “The Meaning of the Mandalas.” In: Eros and Cosmos in
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Mandala: The Mandalas of the Two Worlds at the Kyôô Gokoku-ji. Tôkyô: The Seibu Museum of Art. MAYER, Alexander L. 1991. Xuanzangs Leben und Werk, Teil 2, Cien-Biographie VII. Veröffentlichungen der Societas Uralo-Altaica. Ed. Annemarie von Gabain and Wolfgang Veenker. Vol. 34. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. MCMAHAN, David. 1998. “Orality, Writing and Authority in South Asian Buddhism: Visionary Literature and the Struggle for Legitimacy in the Mahâyâna.” History of Religions 37.3 (February): 249–274. MIKSIC, John. 1991. Borobodur: Das Pantheon Indonesiens. München: Prestel. Nakano kyôju koki kinen ronbunshû խມඒײ࿕ಖ࢚ᓵ֮ႃ [Studies in Indology and Buddhology Presented in Honour of Professor Gishô Nakano on the Occasion of his 70th Birthday]. 1960. Wakayama: Kôyasan University. POWERS, John. 1995. Wisdom of the Buddha: The Samdhinirmocana Sûtra. Berkeley, Cal.: Dharma Publishing. RÖLLICKE, Hermann-Josef. 1996. “Das ‘Als-ob’ der Riten-Erklärung Xunzis.” In: “Selbst-Erweisung": Der Ursprung des ziran-Gedankens in der chinesischen Philosophie des 4. und 3. Jhs. v. Chr. Europäische Hochschulschriften, Asiatische und Afrikanische Studien, vol. 51. Frankfurt/M. et. al.: Peter Lang, pp. 415–426. ——. 1999. “Das Textmandala des Avatamsaka-sûtra.” EKÔ-Blätter: Mitteilungen des EKO-Hauses der Japanischen Kultur 11 (Winter): 12–14. SASO, Michael. 1991. Homa Rites and Mandala Meditation in Tendai Buddhism. New Delhi: International Academy of Indian Culture and Aditya Prakashan. SATÔ Akira. 1985. “Textcritical Remarks on the Mûlamadhyamakakârikâ as cited in the Prasannapadâ.” Indogaku Bukkyôgaku Kenkyû 33: 24–28. SNODGRASS, Adrian. 1997. The Matrix and Diamond World Mandalas in Shingon Buddhism. New Delhi: International Academy of Indian Culture and Aditya Prakashan [repr. of 1988]. SOEKMONO, R. 1995. “Die Architektur der klassischen Zeit.” In: Versunkene Königreiche Indonesiens. Exhibition Catalogue, Roemer- und PelizaeusMuseum, Hildesheim, Germany. Ed. by Arne and Eva Eggebrecht. Mainz: von Zabern, pp. 205–248. STODDARD, Heather. 1999. “Dynamic Structures in Buddhist Mandalas: Apradaksina and Mystic Heat in the Mother Tantra Section of the Anuttarayoga Tantras.” Artibus Asiae LVIII.3/4: 169–213. TEN GROTENHUIS, Elizabeth. 1995. “Nine Places of Birth in Amida’s Western Pure Land.” Paper given at the Taniguchi Symposium, July 1995. ——. Elizabeth. 1983. “Rebirth of an Icon: The Taima Mandala in Medieval Japan.” Archives of Asian Art 36: 59–87. ——. Elizabeth. 1985. The Revival of the Taima Mandala in Medieval Japan. New York: Garland Publishing. VANDIER-NICOLAS, Nicole. 1974. Bannières et peintures de Touen-Houang conservées au Musée Guimet. Mission Paul Pelliot 14–15, avec le concours de Mme Gaulier et al., édité avec le concours de l’Academie des inscriptions et belles-lettres du Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique et de l’Institut des Hautes Études Chinoises, sous la direction de Louis Hambis. Paris: Imprimerie nationale [Adrien-Maisonneuve]. WASKÖNIG, Dagmar Doko. 1998. “Der Borobodur: Ein einzigartiges Monument des Bodhisattva-Weges.” Lotusblätter 2: 14–19. WAYMAN, Alex. 1973. The Buddhist Tantras: Light on Indo-Tibetan Esoterism. New York. WITTGENSTEIN, Ludwig. 1971. Philosophische Untersuchungen. Frankfurt/M.: Suhrkamp Taschenbuch Verlag.
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YU Shiyi. 2000. Reading the Chuang-tzu in the T’ang Dynasty: The Commentary of Ch’eng Hsüan-ying (fl. 631–652). Asian Thought and Culture, vol. 39. New York et. al.: Peter Lang.
DIAGRAMS AS AN ARCHITECTURE BY MEANS OF WORDS: THE YANJI TU Michael Lackner According to Charles Sanders Peirce, iconic representation can be divided into two types: images and diagrams. “Images” are characterized by the fact that many aspects of the signified can be found in the signifiers themselves, whereas “diagrams” are restrained to selected structural aspects of the signified.1 No such distinction is possible for the traditional Chinese concept of tu ቹ and its practice which encompasses both: images and diagrams.2 Yet, during a certain period of time (roughly from the Mid-Song to the Yuan Dynasty), a general tendency towards increasing rationalisation in various fields produced a phenomenon which came very close to the second type of iconic representation, the genuine diagram in the sense of Peirce. The diagrams discussed in this paper almost exclusively deal with textual analysis and/or the interpretation of phrases from the Classics and the sayings and writings of the founders of Daxue ሐ ᖂ , the NeoConfucian school. Although the period that witnessed the appearance of diagrams as tools for the visualisation of textual analysis was rather short-lived, a considerable amount of these tools is present in works of the NeoConfucian school. This paper will mainly focus on Wang Bo’s ׆ਹ (1197–1274) Yanji tu ઔ༓ቹ (“Diagrams on the Fathoming of Initial Stages”),3 but I will also touch on a few other authors, such as Li Yuangang ޕցጼ (fl. ca. 1172, author of the Shengmen shiye tu ᆣ॰ ࠃᄐቹ), and Xu Qian ᝐ (1270–1337, author of the Du Sishu congshuo ᦰហᎅ, both BBCS ed.). Despite the fact that all of these authors and even some of their diagrams have been studied extensively,4 relatively few research has been dedicated to the formal aspects, interpretive strategies and implications of their diagrams.5 In ——— 1 2 3 4 5
May 1995. Reiter 1990. Cf. Cheng 1967. Cf. de Bary 1989: 32 and 59, Kalton 1988. Chan 1988a, Lackner 1990, Lackner 1992, Lackner 1996a, Lackner 1996b,
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this paper, I will therefore undertake, firstly, an inquiry into possible predecessors and models of the particular kind of tu I am dealing with here; secondly, a discussion of the possibilities diagrams offered for the interpretation of texts in contrast to linear argumentation; and, finally, some considerations on diagrams in comparative perspective.
I. MODELS AND INFLUENCES Visualizing a text by means of one or more diagrams means to organize the text in an unusual, non-linear way. Although there is a number of earlier examples of non-linear arrangements of texts in pre-Song China, none of these examples can compare to the degree of sophistication represented by a diagram by Wang Bo (Fig. 1a) whose interpretation will be given later. Suffice it here to say that this diagram attempts, on the one hand, to give a grammatical and pragmatic analysis of a passage from the Zhongyong խ (§27, Fig. 1b), and, on the other hand, a semantic interpretation. In order to achieve this objective, a concomittance of many different technical factors was necessary. I propose to proceed in an ascending order, starting from the most direct and finishing with the more remote and general models and influential factors.
a) Buddhist kewen One of the most influential and directly related models for tu as tools for textual analysis was the Buddhist kewen (ઝ֮ “exegetical texts”, used for teaching purposes; for an example see Fig. 2a); the diagram is organized according to stemmatic, i.e. arborescent principles with lines guiding the reader in various directions. In contrast to a merely linear reading, the kewen allows to illustrate the intertwining dependence of textual segments. Although most of the extant kewen come from a period much later than the Song (present example: Zhenjie ట ᎂ 1589; but see also Fig. 2b, a kewen ascribed to Zongmi ࡲയ [780– 841]), it is generally assumed that the first kewen was produced by Dao’an ሐ( ڜ4th century). Of greater interest in our context is the fact that the diagram Zhu Xi ڹᗋ (1130–1200) used to illustrate his ——— Lackner 2000.
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text “On humaneness” (ոᎅ Renshuo, Fig. 3) 6 to a certain extent follows the pattern of a Buddhist kewen, in particular by stressing parallelisms occurring in the text. There are, however, several important differences: firstly, the kewen does not reproduce the entire text, but rather gives the headings or numbers of paragraphs, whereas Zhu Xi presents the complete text; furthermore, key terms which occur repeatedly in the text (like ࿇ fa, “to arise/to be aroused”) are emphasized by their central graphic position. It is not surprising that Zhu Xi became important for later tu studies, as, according to the criteria of traditional scholarship, he combined the teachings of “meaning and pattern” (ᆠ yili) with those of “Images and numbers” (ွᑇ xiang shu). Only the latter school had indulged in the production of tu, whereas the proponents of the former (the Cheng brothers and Zhang Zai) had not produced any important tu.7
b) Stemmatic Genealogies The most important predecessor of stemmatic/arborescent diagrams, which, in the case illustrated above, visualize the arbor of speech, seems to have been the genealogical map with its ramifications. It is relatively easy to compare the hierarchical derivation of a family or a school (Fig. 4) to the one of a book (Fig. 5 and Fig. 6 for two alternative interpretations of the structure of the Zhongyong), an argument or a phrase. Just as the history of a school, speech is performed in time; but while families or schools exist synchronically, parallelism in language is always diachronic and can only be inferred by means of logic and interpretation. In consequence, we might say that although spatial representation of parallel phenomena is the same in genealogical and textually oriented diagrams, the background for the respective analytical tools is different. Let us note that the conventional format of a genealogical tree has in almost all cases a descending stemma. c) Memory and Meditation: The xinfa ֨ऄ It might seem commonplace to state that diagrams in general are characterized by a strong mnemonic element, and that one of their princi———
6 Cf. also Chan 1988b. 7 Chan 1988a: 360.
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pal functions consists in helping to memorize given facts or interpretations. We might also observe that all iconic representations are mental constructions and that an act of interpretation of reality is indispensable for their production. However, there is an—at least gradual, in terms of abstraction—difference between the representation of, let us say, the arrangement of objects and persons in a ritual assembly (Fig. 7) and the visualizing of competing interpretations of a passage from the Zhongyong (Fig. 8 and Fig. 9). This assumption becomes somewhat clearer when we look at the diagram Cunxin yaofa ֨ژऄ (“Essential Method for Relying on the Heart”) by Li Yuangang (Fig. 10): in this diagram, passages from the Zhongyong, Lunyu, and Mengzi are arranged according to something which seems to be a parallel order at first glance; when examining more thoroughly, we observe that there is only a very superficial parallel order which consecutively groups sentences and words around the centre. There is no intellegible reason, for instance, to cut the famous sentence xi nu ai le wei fa ৷ᑗآ࿇ (“when joy, anger, sorrow and happiness are not yet aroused”) into two segments—except for the number of characters. The sentence finishes only at the very bottom of the diagram: fa jie zhong jie ࿇ઃխ. (“when they are aroused, and all in their due measure, we call it the state of harmony”). The same holds true for an wei cun wang zhi ji ژٲڜՋհᎾ (“the transition between safety and danger, between existence and perdition”) below. On the contrary, there are reasons to assume that the principal message conveyed by the diagram lies in its graphical structure itself—the character for “centre”, zhong խ , which constitutes the “body” of the whole tu. Parallelism is here not a means to reveal the intrinsic parallelistic dimension of a text or a concept in linguistic terms, but a more or less decorative device for the demonstration that the crucial message of the sentences and words consists in the “centre” whereon the “heart” relies. The graphic form acts as a kind of revelation of the one interpretative concept behind all quoted passages. Consequently, the purpose of the diagram is to support meditation and memorization (in terms of a “Method of the heart”, xinfa) with the help of a miraculous graphic revelation. The interest of Li Yuangang, i.e. the object which has to be memorized, does not predominantly lie in textual analysis and exegetical understanding, but rather in seizing the “general meaning” (dayi Օᆠ) of the text. Once again, older examples for this kind of graphic representation can be found in the Buddhist tradition (see
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Fig. 11a for a sutra in the form of a pagoda).8 Even the predominantly analytical tu in the Yanji tu include a diagram which explicitly states that “the whole forms the character ‘attention/reverence’ (jing ᄃ; Nr. 9 in Li Huang’s “Ten Diagrams on Sage Learning”, see Fig. 11b.
d) The Twofold Character of Revelation: The Appeal to Authority In his preface to the Yanji tu, Wang Bo states that “only Saints and Worthies were able to be at the origin of the recently revived study of tu, only illuminated and sage men can have transmitted it.” He further quotes Hetu ࣾቹ, Luoshu ᆵ, Hongfan jiuchou ੋᒤᡱ (the “River Chart”, the “Luo-River Writing” and the “Nine Divisions in the Great Plan [i.e. the “Hongfan” ੋᒤ chapter of the Shujing ᆖ]”) as the founding documents of human culture. Relying on the age-old distinction between books ( shu, in our context: linear discourse) and tu (non-linear discourse), he states the priority or—at least—equality of tu as opposed to shu. 9 Chen Chun ຫෆ (1159– 1223), a famous disciple of Zhu Xi, said that “Master Zhou Dunyi received the Diagram of the Supreme Ultime directly from heaven.”10 This is in part an argument of authority, which brings tu in a close connection with a very specific form of revelation, namely, the appearance of cosmological knowledge with mystical connotations. However, besides the religious and magical connotations of revelation, Wang Bo’s preface invites us to take into consideration yet another kind of revelation, the intellectual one: “the meaning(fullness) of one single tu can not be exhausted by millions of words” and “the Diagram of the Supreme Ultimate is prior to the Tongshu ຏ by master Zhou Dunyi”. In other words, the claim for the diagrams’ revelatory character is twofold: in terms of cultural history, the tu belong to the great revelations which unfold Truth to humankind; in terms of individual epistemic capacities, the tu facilitate the understanding of whatever object they may illustrate because of their comprehensive nature. Diagrammatic presentation of information was both more immediate and more economical than an account in prose. Already in the 12th century, the historian Zheng Qiao ᔤᖱ (1104– 1162), who was an outspoken enemy of magical interpretations of tu, ———
8 Cf. Lackner 1992: 155. 9 For a complete translation of this preface cf. Lackner 1990: 148. 10 Beixi ziyi קᄻڗᆠ 1986: 76.
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had established a “rationalistic” analogy between tu and shu: ቹЈཬढЈᆖЈွЈ۩ЈፋЈ᎘Јؐ Ј೯ढЈᒮЈЈᜢЈཋЈૹЈ׳ tu = plants = jing (classics) = images (xiang) = form/shape = condensation = light (as opposed to heavy) = left shu = animals = wei (apocrypha) = principle (li) = sounds = dissipation =heavy = right11
The fact that tu had played a considerable role in the formation of early Song thought certainly facilitated the amplification of this tool for didactic and analytical purposes. In a certain contrast to the Taiji tu ֜ᄕቹ, where the diagram was thought to be prior to the explanation, the didactic and analytical tu were themselves meant as explanations. In the words of Wing-tsit Chan: “The first [i.e. the Taijitu shuo ֜ᄕቹᎅ i.e. a written commentary] serves to explain a tu, not to illustrate a meaning by a tu.”12 We should also note that without the printing facilities of the epoch, the production as well as the circulation of these sometimes highly sophisticated tu would have been much more difficult.13
e) The Changes As Tu Par Excellence Except for the Hongfan jiuchou, all diagrams cited in Wang Bo’s preface (including the xiantian tu) stand in more or less close connection with the Yijing ࣐ᆖ, the Book of Changes. Interestingly enough, even after the decay of Neo-Confucian tu-practice, the visualization of relationships between the Book of Changes trigrams and hexagrams by means of tu was continued. The very structure of the Book of Changes is prone to graphic representation, since the lines structuring the trigrams and hexagrams are in themselves of a graphic nature. This fact has been realized by a large number of scholars in the 12th and 13th centuries. Consequently, Wang Bo’s Yanji tu comprises a considerable amount of diagrams concerning the Book of Changes; however, it is characteristic for his style that the overwhelming majority of these diagrams deal with sentences from the commentaries, not with the relationship between the hexagrams. One important con———
11 Tongzhi lüe ຏݳฃ, SBBY ed., 72/1a. 12 Chan 1988a: 360. 13 Cf. Drège 1991.
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sequence is the fact that in the Yanji tu stemmatic diagrams prevail over geometrical ones.
II. SELECTED DIAGRAMS: INTERPRETATION Unfortunately, it is still difficult to assess for which purposes the kind of tu we find in the work of Wang Bo or other authors was used. The use of designs in teaching seems to have been quite familiar to outstanding scholars: besides Zhu Xi, we observe that his eminent disciple Chen Chun towards the end of his life “made designs and spoke [to his disciples] but did not bother himself with writing.”14 The impression one gets when examining the tu by Wang Bo is indeed that they were produced for didactic purposes. However, this is not always the case: the tu by Xu Qian, for instance, reflect much more the process of an isolated intellectual attempt to cope with the inherent difficulties of a text (some sort of intellectual Selbstverständigung) than the preoccupations of a school teacher.15 It should be noted that, although the tu practice was rather widespread (we find similar tu for textual analysis in the Taoist canon, see Fig. 11c for an analytical diagram), there is a local tradition which was particularly strong in the production of language-related tu: The Lize ᣝᖻ Academy in Jinhua ८ဎ, where Zhu Xi had taught for some time; later on, Huang Gan ႓ი, his son in law, had transmitted his teachings to He Ji ۶ഗ (1188–1269) who was, in turn, to become the teacher of Wang Bo.16 In his preface to the Yanji tu, Wang Bo explicitly mentions his activity at Lize Academy as related to the creation of his work on tu. Another scholar who contributed important analytical tu was Xu Qian (1270–1337), a disciple of Jin Lüxiang ८ᐌ壁 (1232–1303) who himself had studied with Wang Bo as his teacher. Before attempting a detailed analysis of two diagrams, let me give a brief overview of some of the graphic specifities of the particular kind of diagrams in question. Besides the lines expressing interdependence or subordination of two or more compounds of words/expressions, there is the barred line which, in some cases, can represent negation (see Fig. 12 for the ——— 14 Gujin tushu jicheng ײվቹႃ ګ1970: 297/279, pp. 2–3. 15 Lackner 1996b; see also Liao 2005: 395–443. 16 Cf. Lackner 1990: 149, note 65 for a list of works containing diagrams in rela-
tion to the Lize Academy.
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Mencian idea that the Five Senses will never acquire knowledge if the disposition of the knowing person is impure). Similarly, lines constituting a rectangle can express the idea that the passages in question will not be continued: the respective branch is “dead”, without any further ramifications. Circles around certain words or expressions usually mean that these words/expressions repeatedly occur in the text and that they are, as it were, the point of intersection wherefrom parallel construction starts or whereto these constructions lead. In yet another use, circles simply stress the fact that we deal with key terms of the text (Fig. 13). In some cases, we find two opposed parts of one diagram expressing the relationship between topic and comment (Fig. 14, for the “Western Inscriptions” of Zhang Zai). Let us now turn to the interpretation of a diagram which is meant to visualize a passage from Xici zhuan ᢀႚ A2; the passage reads as follows (See Fig. 15a for the text; the translation is mine): “Therefore it is the order of the Changes where the Superior Man finds his rest and peace. It is the verbalizations of the lines where he finds his happiness and which he rolls [in his mind]. Therefore, when resting, the Superior Man observes the Images (of the Changes) and rolls the words [in his mind]. When moving, he observes the alternations and rolls [in his mind] the prognostications.”17 At the first glance, the diagram (Fig. 15b) reproduces only some key terms: we find the “Superior Man”, the words for “at rest” and “in motion”, “observing”, “Images”, “alternations”, “rolling [in the mind]”, and, finally, “verbalizations” and “prognostications”. All the other sentences (“looks once and decides”; “in the Changes, there are first images and only then verbalizations” [Eight Trigrams, Six Lines]; “in calculation, there is first alternation and only then then prognostications”; “examines whether the regulations are appropriate or not”; “examines whether there will be good or bad fortune”, “turns it back and forth untiringly”) have been introduced on the basis of Zhu Xi‘s commentaries to the Changes (Zhouyi benyi and Yixue qimeng). Since “observes” and “rolls [in his mind]” occur twice in the part of the text on which the diagram focuses, these words are surrounded by a circle. The recurrent parallelism in the passage is rendered by three bifurcations: the first after the “Superior Man” who, although not being named in any of the sentences (hence no circle around the word), is the subject of the whole passage. The rest proceeds in ac——— 17 The translation follows Peterson (1982: 96), with slight modifications.
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cordance with this same principle. The diagram makes syntactic subordination (in terms of Western grammar: subject – adverbial definition of state – verb – object – verb – object; the direction of reading starting from the right side) visible. Two observations can be made here: first, the diagram gives an unambiguous interpretation of the passage: along the lines of Zhu Xi’s comments, it may be said that the Changes encompass two dimensions which have to be regarded as two complements of a whole; divination (left side – activity [“moving”] – alternations of the lines – oracle = prognostications) and something we could call “world-view mediated by the Changes as a system” (right side – quietness [“resting”] – images – words = verbalizations). In the Yulei, Zhu Xi answers to a question concerning the meaning of our passage: “If one is not able to understand this [first sequence, images and words], how will divination be possible? This principle must always be understood, only then can one proceed to divination.”18 The illustration of the syntactic structure of the passage cannot be separated from the illustration of the message, i.e. the grammatical (or should we rather say “proto-grammatical”?) concern is inextricably linked with semantical interpretation. Secondly, with some effort, we may detect the shape of a human being illustrated by the diagram (“contemplating” as a head etc.); it is, of course, not certain whether this was intended. If this be the case, we were confronted with yet another connection (rare in the Yanji tu), namely between the iconic message destined for meditation, internalization, and memorizing, the message which “brings something to the point” (just as did the “centre” in Li Yuangang’s diagram) on the one hand, and, on the other hand, the textual analysis of a given passage. Let us now turn to a second example, the diagram illustrating par. 27 of the Zhongyong (for the text, see Fig. 1b) which reads: “How great is the Way of the Saint! [It] is overflowing, [it] sends forth and nourishes all things and rises up to the height of heaven. All-complete is its greatness! It embraces the three hundred rules of ceremony, and the three thousand rules of demeanour. It waits for the proper man, and then it is trodden. Hence it is said: Only by the perfect virtue can the perfect Way be crystallized. Therefore, the Superior Man honours his virtuous nature, and maintains inquiry and study, seeking to extend it to its breadth and greatness, so as to omit none of the more refined and subtle points which it embraces, and to raise it to its greatest height and clarity, so as to pursue the course of Zhong, the ——— 18 Zhuzi yulei ڹᣊ 1986: 47/1888.
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centre. He revives old knowledge, and is continually acquiring new. He exerts an honest, generous earnestness, in the esteem and practice of all propriety.”19 The diagram (Fig. 1a) looks like a scale at whose left and right sides further scales are engendered. In terms of subordination, the principal clause is “How great is the Way of the Saint” to which two subsequent sentences of the upper half of the diagram are subordinated: “[It] is overflowing” and “all-complete is the greatness”; these two, in turn, act as principal clauses to which again two respective sentences are subordinated. The parallel structure of the text is visually rendered by consecutive subordination of the first or the second half of the first part of the passage. Whereas the sentence “It waits for the proper man, and then it is trodden” is not illustrated, we find an inversion of the expressions “perfect virtue” and “Crystallized Way” which appear in a different order in the linear text. As for the lower half of the diagram, the sequence becomes somewhat more complicated, because the subordinated clauses which depend either on “honours virtuous nature” or “maintains inquiry and study” are not listed consecutively, but alternatingly: “breadth and greatness” belong to “virtuous nature”, but the sentence immediately following “breadth and greatness”, namely, “omits none of the more refined and subtle points which it embraces”, is listed below “inquiry and study”, and so forth.20 In the lower half of the diagram, an intertwining, alternating parallel rendering was chosen. While the illustration of parallelism is quite evident in the upper half of the diagram, its representation in the lower half is apparently the result of a previous interpretation which can only partly rely on syntactic evidence. The prerequisite necessary for a proper understanding of the diagram’s specifity is the commentary to the Four Books by Zhu Xi.21 Here Zhu Xi states that, for instance, “‘Perfect Virtue’ means the proper man, whereas the ‘Perfect Way’ is related to the two sentences above”; hence it is not surprising that we find the “Crystallized [perfect] Way” in the upper half of the diagram. The somewhat artificial symmetry of the diagram is the result of an act of interpretation. Moreover, in his commentary Zhu Xi ascribes “virtuous nature” to a ———
19 Translation by Legge (1967: 323). 20 According to this reading, Legge’s translation is rather misleading because of
the logical relationships it implies, for instance, “breadth and greatness so as to omit none of the more....”, or “to raise it to its greatest height and brillancy so as to pursue the course...”. Both Zhu Xi and Wang Bo would have rebuked this translation. 21 Sishu zhangju jizhu ີႃု 1983: 35f.
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field which he calls “the greatness of the body of the Way” (ሐ᧯հ Օ daoti zhi da) through “being founded on the heart” ( ֨ژcun xin); on the other hand, “inquiry and study” belong to “the details of the body of the Way” (ሐ᧯հา daoti zhi xi), because their purpose is the “extension of knowledge” (ીव zhi zhi). We find these latter two expressions at the bottom of the diagram. In the same commentary, Zhu Xi ascribes several of the subordinated expressions to either “virtuous nature” or “inquiry and study”, thus implying to proceed likewise with the remaining expressions. To follow the lines of Zhu Xi’s interpretation enables us therefore to account for certain irregularities in the diagram with regard to the linear discourse of the text (as the inversion of “Perfect Virtue” and the “Crystallized Way” or the alternate subordination of the last eight expressions); besides, we can also envision the conception behind the whole tu. First of all, we can roughly divide it into four parts, left and right, and top and bottom. The more important division for the tu (and for Zhu Xi) seems to be the one into left and right; it is not explicitly stated in the commentary, but all the more visible in the diagram, that “greatness of the body of the Way” and, consequently, “being founded on the heart” hold not only for the lower part, but also for the upper part of the diagram. Thus, the diagram shows that there is (in the upper half) a macrocosm (a “Crystallized Way”, ningdao ᕩሐ), divided into a cosmic (overflowing, nourishing sphere, rising up to the height of heaven) and a human (the rites and ceremonies) part; and (in the lower half) a microcosmic, merely human part (“Perfect Virtue”), divided into the forms in which “virtuous nature” is displayed, and the forms of “inquiry and study”. In an analogous way, the “ceremonies and rituals” of the upper part can be connected to the sphere of “inquiry and study”. Knowing the commentarial origins of the diagram’s arrangement has helped us considerably for understanding its composition; yet, we may still ask, with the words of Wang Bo, whether “the meaning of one single tu can be exhausted by millions of words”. Would a thorough examination of the diagram not have taught us the same interpretation, even without having read Zhu Xi’s commentary? A careful reading of the tu enables us without doubt to conceive even more of the core of an interpretation than reading its explicit, linear argumentation. The diagram is intelligible without additional verbal explanation.
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At the same time, the diagram constitutes an utterance sui generis: contrary to a linear text, it cannot be read aloud—it has become a merely visual experience. Accordingly, memorization will be effectuated by the eyes, not by the ears, a phenomenon which reminds us of the famous transformation of poems in the “Chinese Language Game”.22 True, the very existence of a diagram of textual analysis presupposes a high degree of familiarity with the original text; if one does not know the text by heart, any diagram of the kind I am discussing here will be useless. However, the exegesis through visual aids transcends all previous forms of exposition, representation and memorization. In any case, the diagram is unambiguous as far as exegesis is concerned. Various other visual renderings of Zhongyong 27 can be imagined. I have stated elsewhere that in case one has to choose between a semantic and a syntactic interpretation of a given text, the semantic concern is always stronger than the interest in the grammatical structure.23 The fact that textual analysis never proceeded in a way completely detached from meaning, i.e. that semantics was never separated from syntax, was perhaps the greatest obstacle for the birth of an explicit grammar; this is also true for tu. It seems interesting, however, that the most advanced grammatical analyses in Song and Yuan China were produced by means of diagrams rather than in explicit linear discourse. On the other hand, the imperative, unambiguous character of interpretations conveyed by diagrams was perhaps one of the reasons for the relatively early decay (except for belated phenomena like the “Ten diagrams on Sage Learning” by Li Huang [1501–1571]) 24 of the special kind of tu practice I have described here. We might say that it is the ambiguity of texts which asks for the continuous effort of interpretation. The exclusive exegetic character of the tu was an obstacle to interpretive liberty. We could of course ask whether there were at least some competing diagrams concerning the same textual passage; 25 however, these remained an exception and never became the rule.
——— 22 23 24 25
Herdan 1964: 29–35, Hart 1981. Lackner 1992: 145. Cf. Kalton 1988 Cf. Lackner 1996b.
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III. EUROPEAN PARALLELS From a comparative perspective, it can be said that the Chinese tu as tools for textual analysis are not a singular phenomenon; the use of diagrammatic illustrations to expound theoretical ideas was characteristic of the European Middle Ages (Evans 1980) as well. In Europe we find examples for both functions of this specific kind of illustration: diagrams were regarded as an aid to memory and as a tool for clarifying arguments. As in the Chinese case, the stemmatic type prevails over other possible types of visual aids (geometric, in China used for the illustration of the Changes, and emblematic which is not our topic here). A strong emphasis lies on the didactic aspect. We also find the idea that image and word represent parallel possibilities (pictura quasi scriptura); 26 that the image could serve as a short, compact way of reproducing the word. Contemplation of graphic representations was one stage in approaching the divine. Consequently, images were credited with the power of a mystical means of elevation to the Truth. This latter quality, which was never more than a cautious recognition of the mystical, however, was restricted to images rather than diagrams. More specifically, diagrams were used to visually analyse a topic into its parts and sub-parts (Fig. 16). Graphic means were employed for logical demonstration. Graphic arrangements were also employed to form words or images as an expression of the message of the entire text (Fig. 17);27 as is also the case for the Cunxin yaofa of Li Yuangang. The differences between the Chinese and the European diagrams must rather be measured in terms of quantitative proportions; the Chinese tu seem to prefer the interpretation of specific textual passages, while the content of European diagrams tends towards general concepts (for instance, the dissection of the ens reale, Fig. 16), like the “division of sciences” (arbor scientiae/turris sapientiae) or the “division of virtues” (scala virtutis). However, a closer examination of, for instance, the famous “Tree of Porphyry”, which set out the seemingly very general topic of the relationship between genera and species, shows that it originated as an illustration to commentaries of Porphyry’s Isagoge (late 3rd century AD; see Fig. 18), and was by no means separable from its textual basis. On the other hand, there is no ———
26 Cf. Esmeijer 1978. 27 Adler and Ernst 1987; for an overview cf. Jäger and Mazzoni 1988.
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precise and specific textual basis for the “Diagram for investigating classification” Jilei tu ᗨᣊቹ (Fig. 19 Yanji tu), which presents us with an all-pervading classification of the world according to the dissection of the Changes into Yin and Yang. Once again, the difference lies more in our willingness to perceive “cultural” distinctions than in the evidence of the facts.
REFERENCES ADLER, Jeremy and Ulrich ERNST. 1987. Text als Figur. Visuelle Poesie von der Antike bis zur Moderne. Wolfenbüttel: Acta humaniora VCH. Beixi ziyi קᄻڗᆠ [by Chen Chun ຫෆ (1159–1223)]. 1983. Peking: Zhonghua. CHAN Wing-tsit [Chen Rongjie]. 1988a. “Zhuzi zhi tujie” ڹհቹᇞ. In: Chan Wing-tsit, Zhuzi xin tansuo ڹᄅ൶ . Taipei: Taiwan xuesheng, pp. 360366. ——. 1988b. “Renshuo tu” ոᎅቹ. In: Chan Wing-tsit, Zhuzi xin tansuo ڹᄅ൶ . Taipei: Taiwan xuesheng, pp. 371–374. CHENG Yuanmin. 1967. “Yanjitu de zhucheng chuanbu he zhenwei deng wenti de tantao” ઔ༓ቹऱထګႚؒࡉటೕംᠲऱ൶ಘ. In: Kong Meng xuebao 13: 187–216. DE BARY, William Theodore. 1989. The Message of the Mind in Neo-Confucianism. New York: Columbia University Press. DREGE, Jean-Pierre. 1991. “La lecture et l’écriture en Chine et la xylographie.” Études chinoises 10.1–2: 77–111. ESMEIJER, Anna C. 1978. Divina Quaternitas. A Preliminary Study in the Method and Application of Visual Exegesis. Amsterdam: Van Gorcum. EVANS, Michael. 1980. “The Geometry of the Mind.” Architectural Association Quarterly 12: 32–55. Gujin tushu jicheng ײվቹႃګ. 1970. Taipei: Taiwan Zhonghua shuju. HART, Sarah. 1981. Calembours visuels. Origines, Histoire et analyse des devinettes chinoises. Ph.D. diss., Paris. HERDAN, Gustav. 1964. The Structuralistic Approach to Chinese Grammar and Vocabulary. The Hague: Mouton & Co. JAGER, Georg, and Ira Diana MAZZONI. 1988. “Bibliographie zur Geschichte und Theorie von Text–Bild-Beziehungen.” In: Text und Bild, Bild und Text. DFGSymposium 1988, ed. Wolfgang Harms. Stuttgart: Metzler, pp. 475–508. KALTON, Michael. 1988. To Become a Sage. The Ten Diagrams on Sage Learning by Yi T’oegye. New York: Columbia University Press. LACKNER, Michael. 1990. “Zur Verplanung des Denkens am Beispiel der t’u.” In: Lebenswelt und Weltanschauung im frühneuzeitlichen China, ed. Hellwig Schmidt-Glintzer. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, pp. 133–156 ——. 1992. “Argumentation par diagrammes: le ximing depuis Zhang Zai jusqu’au Yanjitu.” Extrême–Orient Extrême–Occident 14: 131–168. ——. 1996a: “Jesuit Memoria, Chinese Xinfa: Some Preliminary Remarks on the Organisation of Memory.” Western Humanistic Culture presented to China by Jesuit Missionaries, ed. in: Federico Masini. Rome: Institutum Historicum Societatis Jesu, pp. 201–219. ——. 1996b. “La position d’une expression dans un texte: explorations diagrammatiques de la significatio.” Extrême–Orient Extrême–Occident 18: 35–49.
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——. 2000. “Was Millionen Wörter nicht sagen können: Diagramme zur Visualisierung klassischer Texte im China des 13. bis 14. Jahrhunderts.” Semiotik 22.2: 209–237. LANGLOIS, John D. 1974. Chin-hua Confucianism under the Mongols. Princeton: Princeton University Press. LEGGE, James, tr. 1967. Li Chi. Book of Rites. An Encyclopedia of Ancient ceremonial Usages, Religious Creeds, and Social Institutions. New York: University Books [reprint 1885]. LIAO Yunxian. 2005. Yuandai Lunyuxue kaoshu ցזᓵᖂە૪. Taibei: Xin wenfeng. MAY, Michael. 1995. “Diagrammatisches Denken: Zur Deutung logischer Diagramme als Vorstellungsschemata bei Lakoff und Peirce.” Zeitschrift für Semiotik 17: 285–305 PETERSON, Willard. 1982. “Making Connections: ‘Commentary on the Attached Verbalizations’ of the Book of Change.” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 42.1: 67–116. REITER, Florian. 1990. “Some Remarks on the Chinese Word T’u. Chart, Plan, Design.” Oriens 32: 308–327. Sishu zhangju jizhu ີႃု [by Zhu Xi ڹᗋ (1130–1200)]. 1983. Peking: Zhonghua. Tong zhi lüe ຏ[ ݳby Zheng Qiao ᔤᖱ (1104–1162)], SBBY edition. Zhuzi yulei ڹᣊ. 1986. Peking: Zhonghua.
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Fig. 1a: Diagram of “Doctrine of the Mean” Zhongyong խ, § 27. [Yanji tu 8b, 13th century].
Fig. 1b: Zhongyong խ, §27.
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Fig. 2a: Buddist kewen ઝ֮. [Zhenjie టᎂ, 1589].
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Fig. 2b: Buddist kewen ઝ֮ ascribed to Zongmi ࡲയ (780–841). [Yuanjue jing lüeshu B 15, 9th century?]
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Fig. 3: Diagram of the “On humaneness by Zhu Xi ڹᗋ (Renshuo tu ոᎅቹ). [Zhuzi yulei, 1233]
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Fig. 4: Diagram of the transmission of the “Book of Documents” (Shangshu/Shujing ࡸ/ᆖ). [Wujing tu B 2, 12th century]
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Fig. 5: One of two diagrams showing different interpretations of the structure of the Zhongyong խ (see Fig. 6 for the second diagram). [Yanji tu 7b–8a, 13th century]
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Fig. 6: A diagram showing a distinct interpretation of the structural arrangement of the Zhongyong խ (as compared to Fig. 5 above). [Yanji tu 7b–8a, 13th century]
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Fig. 7: Diagram of different arrangements of persons during a court ritual.. [Sanli tu, 13th century]
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Fig. 8: Diagram of the composition of the opening passage of the Zhongyong խ. [Yanji tu 9b, 13th century]
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Fig. 9: Alternative diagram depicting the structure of the Zhongyong խ in form of a table of contents. [Yanji tu 41a, 13th century], Cf. Figs. 5–6.
Fig. 10: Li Yuangang’s ޕցጼ diagram Cunxin yaofa ֨ژऄ# of different passages from Confucian Classics, arranged in the shape of the character “centre” (zhong խ). [Shengmen shiye tu ᆣ॰ࠃᄐቹ 5, 12th century]
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Fig. 11a: Buddhist sutra in the shape of a pagoda found at Dunhuang ཉᅇ. [Huang Yongwu, ed. Dunhuang baozang, 42/5410, 410 (7th century)]
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Fig. 11b: No. 9 of the “Ten Diagrams on Sage Learning (㎇䞯㕃☚; ᆣᖂԼቹ)” by Li Huang =( ✸ޕYi Hwang 㧊䢿, 1501–1570). [Yanji tu 3b, 13th century]
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Fig. 11c: Diagram elucidating Laozi ۔§42. [Daozang 0490, 13th century]
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Fig. 12: Diagram of Mengzi 7B:24. [Yanji tu 11b, 13th century]
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Fig. 13: Diagram of Zhongyong խ§20. [Yanji tu 9a, 13th century]
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Fig. 14: Diagram of “The Western Inscriptions” (Ximing ۫ Ꭾ ) by Zhang Zai (1020–1078). [Yanji tu 40b–41a, 13th century]
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Fig. 15a: Passage A2 from the “Great Commentary (on the Yijing)” (Yijing) Xici zhuan (࣐ᆖ)ᢀႚ.
Fig. 15b: Diagram visualizing the above passage A2 from the Xici zhuan ᢀႚ. [Yanji tu 21a, 13th century]
Fig. 16: Diagram of ens reale, manuscript (13th century). [Evans 1980]
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Fig. 17: Poem in the form of a pyramid. [Paschasius, Poesis artificiosa, 150 (17th century)]
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Fig. 18: The “Tree of Porphyry” as interpreted in medieval commentaries on Porphyry’s Isagoge (late 3rd century AD). [16th century AD]
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Fig. 19: “Diagram for investigating classification” Jilei tu ᗨᣊቹ. [Yanji tu 29b, 13th century]
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PART TWO PICTURING REALITY? TU AS TECHNICAL ILLUSTRATIONS
I. THE IMPORTANCE OF THE MEDIUM
IMAGINING PRACTICE: SENSE AND SENSUALITY IN EARLY CHINESE MEDICAL ILLUSTRATION1 Vivienne Lo If we define medical imagery as any representation of the body that has a function in medical praxes, then we have but a handful of examples extant from the early imperial and mediaeval periods in China. Even the few images that survive from the Western Han tombs at Changsha Mawangdui ್׆ഔ (tomb closed ca. 168 BC),2 of the old Han kingdom of Chu ᄑ, and on the figurine excavated at Yongxing ةᘋ, Shuangbaoshan ᠨץ՞ (latest date 118 BC)3 in the south-west of China, do not easily translate into therapy—especially if we take medical practice in a limited way according to the interaction between a practitioner and their patient in the treatment of illness. Making sense of the images may demand a prior knowledge of a select corpus of written texts: with the help of the Mawangdui textual accounts and those from another tomb at Jiangling Zhangjiashan ۂର ്୮՞ (closed ca. 186 BC),4 as well as some contemporary accounts ———
1 This paper was written and researched while I was a fellow of the history department of SOAS, London University. I am very grateful for the generous research grant provided by the Wellcome Trust during that time. My thanks are also due to the countless scholars who gave me invaluable help and advice. In the preparation of this paper I am particularly indebted to Donald Harper, Roel Sterckx and John Moffet. Park 1995: 112–113. 2 The Mawangdui burial mound is located in the northeastern section of Changsha ९ޥ, Hunan, formerly the Western Han Kingdom of Changsha, and was excavated in the early 1970s. It contains three tombs. Tombs no. 1 and no. 2 belonged to the Marquis of Dai ⃬ঀ, Li Cang ܓ፧, and his wife (who was buried in tomb no. 1). Tomb no. 3, from which the manuscripts were excavated, was occupied by their son, who died in 168 B.C. at the age of about 30. For the excavation reports see Hunansheng bowuguan and Zhongguo kexueyuan kaogu yanjiusuo (1974: 39–48). Cf. Harper (1998) for a complete translation of all the medical manuscripts as well as a comprehensive and scholarly discussion of the manuscripts themselves and their circumstances. 3 Cf. Sichuan sheng wenwu kaogu yanjiusuo (1996: 13–29) for the excavation report. 4 Judging by his mortuary goods, the owner of tomb 247 at the Jiangling, Zhangjiashan site in Hubei was probably not of status equivalent to the Lord and Lady of Dai, of Mawangdui, nor the owner of the Shuangbaoshan tomb. A register buried in the tomb records that the anonymous tomb owner was bingmian ఐ“( ܍absent from
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of practice,5 this paper begins by examining the figurine as a response to the body in illness and, specifically, as evidence in our understanding of the development of jiu ߁—moxibustion and cautery treatments. In contrast, mediaeval moxa-cautery loci charts discovered in the cache of manuscripts at Dunhuang, and in the Hama jing ᓚᝂᆖ (Toad canon) bring together simple textual instructions with practical illustration. 6 Together, image and text seem to demonstrate the transmission of knowledge in popular medical practice. The proximity of text and image in the latter cases may suggest a relatively direct relationship with practice, but we must be wary of searching for a simple healing function for those less obviously explicated images of the body. Recent scholarship demands that we pay attention to how changing sociopolitical realities impacted upon the construction of the early Chinese body, or how the theoretical priorities of astro-calendrical computations configured its surfaces, such as in the Mawangdui and Shuihudi drawings designed for foretelling the fortunes of a newborn baby.7 The latter are examples of the body as a passive repository of knowledge and experience. In addition, the following analysis, in the wake of those who are more interested in how the body itself participates in culture, offers another radically different approach, examining some of the same source material as an expression of sensory ——— court because of illness”) for a period taken from the first year of Hui Di (194 BC). But the two boxes found in the coffin room contained, after Mawangdui, the second richest cache of medical manuscripts recovered from the second century BC. The first description of the contents of the Zhangjiashan bamboo manuscripts appeared in 1985, followed by a transcript of Maishu ౧ published in 1989 and Yinshu ֧ in 1990. See Jiangling Zhangjiashan Hanjian zhengli xiaozu (1989: 72–74) (hereafter “Maishu shiwen”) and Zhangjiashan Hanjian zhengli zu (1990: 82–86) (hereafter “Yinshu shiwen”). As the binding thread that tied the slips had rotted away, the slips were scattered and confused and had to be reordered. Yinshu and Maishu are written in lishu ជ, Han clerical script, and each one is marked with a title on the back in the hand of a single scribe, probably in the process of cataloguing. But as the script pre-dates graphic standardisation, many terms remain unknown and positive identifications are often speculative. Some of the graphs were also mutilated to the extent that it is not possible to establish an accurate graph count. Three texts, however, are more complete editions of those texts that describe the mai also found at Mawangdui and can be used to restore lacunae in the latter. 5 In the course of this study I will also refer to the biographies of Chunyu Yi ⏇Ѣ ᛣ and of Bian Que ᠕卆 in Sima Qian’s Shiji 㿬 (The Grand Scribe’s records). Shiji, juan 105, 1959: 2785–2820. 6 The Dunhuang charts in question are S6168 and S6262, held in the British Library. A transcript of most of the medical manuscripts including copies of the charts is in Ma Jixing, Wang Shumin et al. (1998). 7 Mawangdui Hanmu boshu 1985: 133, reproduced in Harper (1998: 372–373). See also Shuihudi Qinmu zhujian (1990: 89–141).
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experiences associated with both health and illness. Rather than mapping the body’s functionality some of these images portray and convey aesthetic knowledge where aesthetic refers to its earlier meaning of “things perceptible to the senses”.8 And it is this codification and instruction of the body’s sensual nature that is the main theme of this paper. Vivid images of the body can be found on the well known Mawangdui silk chart styled the Daoyin tu ᖄ֧ቹ “Guiding and Pulling Chart” (see Col.Pl. VIII) 9 at a form of medical gymnastics designed to rejuvenate aging and stiffening bodies and transform pain and discomfort. Daoyin tu sets out forty-four robed and semi-robed figures engaged in different exercises—some upright, some bending, with arms and legs stretched and contorted in different postures. Some of the diagrams have captions such as Long deng ᚊ࿆ (Dragon Ascending) and Yin xi tong ֧ᓃ࿀ (Pulling Knee Pain). Zhangjiashan Yinshu ֧ (The Pulling Book), a recently excavated manual describing similar exercises, provides further help to translate the images into action. From Yinshu we know that the art of daoyin was not simply a therapy for illness, but also a year’s health regimen in four parts that adjusted personal hygiene, grooming, exercise, diet, sleep and sexual behaviour to the changing qualities of the four seasons. Seven or more of the Daoyin tu captions and some twelve Yinshu exercises relate to movements associated with animals, and the last part of this paper will discuss how these animal images serve to convey a specialised form of knowledge. Far from representing carnal passions full of shame, such as the beasts of Christian gnosticism of the 1st to 3rd centuries AD, use of animal imagery in early Chinese self-cultivation served to measure and transform bodily passion into the essences for strengthening and prolonging life.10
———
8 I use aesthetic in contrast to anaesthetic in this earlier meaning rather than in the sense of “criticism of taste”. 9 The title was given by the editors of Mawangdui Hanmu boshu. See Tang Lan 㰁 in Mawangdui Hanmu boshu zhengli xiaozu, ed. (1979: 1–10). A photographic reproduction and transcription of the extant captions on the Daoyin tu can be found in Mawangdui Hanmu boshu (1985: 49–52). Ma Jixing (1992: 849–866) provides explanatory notes. See also Li Xueqin (1991: 7–9). 10 See Williams 1989: 129–147.
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THE MAI ౧ During this first section of this paper I will keep returning to a discussion of the phenomenon of the mai, what the term referred to and what it meant in practical medical terms. Until recently, the problem posed by the mai has been to reconcile apparently conflicting meanings of “blood vessel”, “channel” and “pulse “where contexts seem to demand different translations. Various solutions are proposed: Harper translates “vessel”, which draws out early association with the arteries and veins, Unschuld favours “conduit”, Sivin “tract”; I prefer a more neutral “channel”, which also embraces muscular and topographical elements of the concept that are evident in the early texts and images. 11 Kuriyama points out that the divisions of structure and function differentiated by the terms vessel and pulse may be an artefact of translation—of the inseparable development of anatomy and the theory of blood circulation in Western medical culture, beginning with the Greek experience. His challenge, then, is to give a positive account of the mai.12 Li Jianmin has begun to meet that challenge, maintaining that early concepts in mai theory do not simply organise observations of “empirical experience, but are attempts to inscribe the movement of the heavens onto the body, opening it out as “a field of temporal spaces”. 13 Simultaneously, and perhaps within the same social milieu, those involved in the theory and practice of selfcultivation used the concept of mai to explain the movement of qi and the experience of circulating the breath.14 If we simply assume that these mai were a primitive version of the mature jingluo ᆖ system of acupuncture, we will miss a great deal about the process and context within which they were conceived. How did the mai translate into medical practice? What were the processes linking the art of pulse taking to the instruction to apply cautery ———
11 See Harper 1998: 77–90. I prefer to follow the contemporary analogy with du េ “channel” or “canal” found in the Maishu ౧. See Jiangling Zhangjiashan Hanjian zhengli xiaozu 1989: 74. The translation “channel” also serves to emphasise the relationship of the mai to the superficial anatomical channels as defined by muscle and bone, as they were understood before the more elaborate theories of the jingluo and jingmai found in the Huangdi neijing ႓ ০ փ ᆖ (Yellow Emperor’s Inner Canon). Jingluo or jingmai has been variously translated as “conduit”, “meridian”, “circulation tract” etc. See Sivin (1987: 34, 122 n. 11) and Unschuld (1985: 75, 81– 83). 12 Kuriyama 1986: 211–212. 13 Li 2001: 107–140. 14 This was the subject of my Ph.D. thesis. See Lo 1999. See also Lo 2000: 15– 65.
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or needle to open the mai? What was the space of the body defined by the mai? Can we learn anything about therapy from medical illustration? Concentrating attention on the practical application of image and text will provide new insights to deepen our understanding of the development of this most fundamental concept in classical Chinese medicine. Shuangbaoshan, Mianyang ጿၺ, Sichuan Excavations during 1993 of a tomb at Shuangbaoshan, two man-made burial mounds in an area which is well known for its Han and Six Dynasty period tombs, yielded an artefact that adds yet another facet to the history of the concept of the mai (see Fig. 1).15 The tomb was shallow in comparison to the three at Mawangdui, but from its size and mortuary goods we can tell that the tomb owner was of high rank. The mortuary goods in the antechamber were arranged by theme. Most notable were the stable goods, chariots and cavalry, which include one hundred large lacquerware horses (74 cm high and 71 cm long). From these and the twenty chariots both single and double harnessed, the cavalry and the quivers, it would seem that the tomb owner held a significant position in the army. The tomb is also situated on the Shudao ᇋሐ the way between the kingdoms of Shu and Qin, site of many battles during the Warring States period and is likely to have been a military outpost of the Han court. Of the fifty lacquerware items recovered at Yongxing, Shuangbaoshan the form of the cups, jugs, plates and bowls closely resemble those found at Hubei, Jiangling Fenghuangshan ଅ೩՞ tomb 168. We can assume that the owners of these tombs along the course and hinterland of the Yangzi River shared a common burial culture. The red design on a black background is also similar to lacquerware found at Mawangdui, as are the motifs of paired birds and cloud configurations. But a lacquered wood carving of the human body, 28.1 cm high, is unique. It was wrapped in a red woven fabric and placed in the outer coffin compartment. The figurine, unusually, is naked and carved with some concern for anatomical accuracy. It bears nine red lacquer lines, which extend from the extremities to the head and one ———
15 I have discussed the figurine in detail in He and Lo (1996: 81–124). See also He (1994: 4) for the first description of the discovery of the figurine. A detailed discussion of the figurine can be found in He (1995: 116–120).
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which follows the mid-line of the posterior surface of the torso over the spine traversing the spine to the bridge of the nose. I have, elsewhere, compared and contrasted the anatomical pathways of the figurine to routes of the mai “channels” as they are described in four texts excavated from tombs at Zhangjiashan and Mawangdui, and closed at earlier dates in the Western Han period.16 The many inconsistencies described in that paper suggest that text and figurine may reflect different theoretical constructions of the body. In particular I have noted the absence of the Yin channels of the leg, and the addition of a medial posterior line that might resemble the most Yang channel known later as the dumai. The lines on the figurine differ in number and route to those described in the texts and although both clearly share a fundamental spatial awareness of the body, we should be cautious about attributing to them a common source. In this paper I will revisit the relationship between text and artefact, concentrating on their relationship to practice. We can think of the figurine as a visual aid to guide medical intervention, and this will be the first concern of this paper. But whether intervention is styled in relation to a model of breath cultivation, to contemporary theories of pathological physiology or simply patterns of symptoms is as yet unclear. Secondly, we must be wary of how the excitement of textual corroboration of the detail on the figurine can dominate our interpretation and blind us to the information offered to us simply by the mute presence and position of the figurine in the Han tomb. We should consider how the figure and the knowledge that it represents relate to or mediate older mortuary beliefs and practice. Was the inclusion of the figurine part of a project to mimic and sustain real life in the afterworld for the benefit of the deceased or was it self-consciously representational? In form and structure the figurine parallels the Chu interest with real human form, insomuch that it uniquely attempts to convey detail of superficial anatomy, but this is not a figure that we can say is a replica of the real world.
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16 He and Lo 1996: 93–105.
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SENSE Blood Vessels A first approach to interpreting the Shuangbaoshan figurine is to relate it to the structure and function of the mai as we understand it from both received and excavated texts. Zhangjiashan Maishu ౧ (The Channel Book) [hereafter Maishu] comprises 65 slips. Harper divides the manuscript into six core texts which he describes as “Ailment List”, “Eleven Vessels”, “Five Signs of Death”, “Care of the Body”, “Six Constituents” and “Vessels and Vapor. His titles indicate well the content of each text. I shall adopt his divisions, numbering the texts (1) – (6).17 Three of those texts identified by Harper are editions of texts also found in the Mawangdui medical manuscripts. Maishu (1) associates the mai “channels” with holding, or, at least, controlling the movement of blood. It is a lexicon of illnesses, which begins to give an elementary differential diagnosis. In the section on illnesses of the bowel it states: when the illness is...in the bowel – when there is pus and blood, and pain in the perineum, the spleen, the buttocks and lower abdomen, this is bowel flushing. When on eating it immediately comes out, this is diarrhoea. When blood comes out everywhere first, this is mai.18
Mai in this context is a technical name for an illness which is characterised by bleeding from the bowel. In Wushier bingfang նԼԲఐ ֱ, one of the Mawangdui medical texts, maizhe ౧ृ refers to a type of haemorrhoid.19 Given the common symptoms accompanying such haemorrhoids, the maizhe may also refer to a small blood vessel protruding from the anus, which will inevitably tend to bleed. Both these early illness names may then be understood to connect mai with blood or with blood vessels. Referring to the figurine we can see that, on the back of the hand, the forearm and at the lateral edge of the head there are patterns of lines, which obviously model the superficial arteries. The lines on the forearm, groin and neck clearly pass through areas where one could easily draw blood. They simultaneously pass through the places at the wrist, elbow, neck and temple where the pulses are most easily felt, ——— 17 Harper: 1998: 31. Ma Jixing establishes only five texts (Unpublished paper, Changsha 2001), while Gao, using a different schema, conflates the last three. See Gao 1992. 18 “Maishu shiwen”: 72. 19 Mawangdui Hanmu boshu 1985: 53.
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but do not pass the deep pulses at the abdomen or the superficial pulse at the ankle. The figurine evidently demonstrates a knowledge about and concern for the superficial arteriovenous pathways in their simple spatial relationship to the places where one can detect the sensation of pulsation. (See Fig. 2).
IMAGE: PAIN AND MUSCULAR DEFINITION The eleven mai of Maishu and the editions of Zubi shiyi mai jiujing ߩᜩԼԫ౧߁ᆖ (Cauterization Canon of the Eleven Foot and Arm Channels) and Yinyang shiyimai jiujing ອၺԼԫ౧߁ᆖ (Cauterization Canon of the Eleven Yin and Yang Channels) of Mawangdui are not simply blood vessels. Like the figurine they have a more vertical arrangement running from limbs to torso and head. A theory, once advanced by Bridgman, is that the mai were not based upon a knowledge of blood vessels, but on routes of pain as it is transmitted around the body.20 Huangdi neijing lingshu [hereafter Lingshu] 13, the treatise entitled jingjin ᆖ, describes a map of the body that is similar to the jingmai of acupuncture theory, but which is also more focused on a somatography of the body defined by its muscular definition. Many features of Maishu and Yinshu also demonstrate an awareness of pain and muscular definition as the guiding structure of their architecture of the body.21 Well over half of the symptoms associated with the eleven mai described in Maishu (2), for example, are of pain or discomfort along the mai in question. The juxtaposition of Daoyin tu, chart of therapeutic gymnastics, with Yinyang shiyimai jiujing (see Col.Pl. IX), a channel text which does not mention cautery, suggests alternative physical therapy for disorders of the mai. With the added testimony of Yinshu, the Zhangjiashan daoyin manual, we can see that the type of illnesses treated with daoyin match closely those associated with each of the mai. Over 60% are pain and discomfort or motor problems associated with ——— 20 See Bridgman 1981: 10. During the centuries around the turn of the millennia in China, the widespread medical theorising about the physiology of the body, and in particular that leading up to the formation of ideas about the circulation of qi, could have taken in all of these ideas, even if at any one particular time or in one text they were not all assimilated to the concept of the mai itself. 21 See for example the following quote from “Maishu shiwen”: 74, “So bone pain is as if being hacked at, muscle pain is as if being bound, blood pain is as if saturated, channels pain is as if flowing, flesh pain is as if floating and when the qi is agitated there is chaos.”
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co-ordination of the limbs. Thus this early Western Han movement therapy, which we shall see is also a form of “inner alchemy”, was concerned with alleviating pain and discomfort and was related to a body organised around mai. Working solely from the figurine we can see that many of the lines follow the natural planes and valleys of the body. In particular the lines of the spine, the lower edge of the ribs, the lower jaw etc., mark muscle and bone boundaries on the body.22
INTERPRETATION: DIAGNOSIS In the channel texts the descriptions of the mai shang Ղ “rise” and xia Հ “fall”, ru Ե “enter” and chu “ נcome out”. Significantly, the channels tend to “come out” at the major points at which one can feel the pulse. On the one hand, the mai are like roads, which paradoxically, without moving, travel in certain directions, and on the other, they emerge from the body in the form of pulsation. While it is through the quality of pulsation at different points of the body that early medical practitioners determined which of the mai were in disorder, it seems that the mai were thought to move in a variety of different ways. Treatises in the later canonical medical compilations, such as Huangdi neijing suwen [hereafter Suwen] 4.14 and Lingshu 1.1 speak similarly of the shen 壀 “spirit” and jing 壄 “essence” moving through the guan ᣂ and ji ᄕ, strategic passes and junctures of the body, just as if they are discrete entities.23 We will see in the course of this paper that knowledge of the whereabouts of these entities is an important feature of the development and control of moxa-cautery practice. After each of the eleven descriptions of the mai in Maishu there is a list of symptoms that is introduced with the phrase shi dong ze bing ਢ೯ঞఐ “when it ‘moves’ then there will be illness”. The last section of Maishu elucidates the question of movement most clearly: ———
22 I have discussed the role of pain in the construction of the early Chinese medical body in Lo (1999: 191–210). 23 Suwen (juan 4, pian 14; SSBY vol. 204, fasc. 1, 5b) and Lingshu (juan 1, pian 1; SBBY vol. 205, fasc. 1, 1). Lingshu (juan 1, pian 3; SBBY vol. 205, fasc. 1, 8) also notes the difference between guan and ji in crude and sophisticated attention to the joints. It adds a distinction between zhengqi إ (“proper qi”) and xieqi ߵ (“deviant qi”), the former associated with guarding the shen 壀 (“spirit”) and the latter with ke ড় (unwelcome “guests”).
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VIVIENNE LO The way to examine the channel is to press it with the left ƑƑƑƑƑ; place the right hand directly on the ankle bone and palpate there. If the other channel is overflowing and this one alone is depleted then this controls the illness resides. If the other mai are slippery and this one alone is rough, then this is where the illness resides. If the other mai are quiet and this one alone moves (in agitation), then it generates illness. Now as for the certain movement in the mai ౧ࡐڶ೯ृ: the Lesser Yin of the Shin, the Great Yin and Lesser Yin of the Forearm are where the illness resides. If it becomes fast then there will be illness. This is how one discerns mai that have guo መ “excess”—as for the rest—carefully observe the excess on the relevant channel.24
The mai in this passage refers to the route of the channel and, simultaneously, to pulsation emanating from the channel. It is no coincidence that “certain movement” is on the three Yin channels that pass through the major pulses at the carotid, the ankle, the wrist and the femoral artery. If these pulses speed up it signifies a pathology on the relevant channel. Where dong contrasts with jing ᙩ “quiet”, the text implies a pathological speed of the pulse and we should understand “agitation”. This is followed by the observation that a fast pulse is related to illness. So mai that is in a pathological state moves in the temporal sense—it speeds up—while it also travels in a spatial sense around the body and out from a site beneath the surface of the body to the surface. Determining the condition of a channel being guo መ “in excess”, is the stated aim of diagnosis. Apart from causing excessive speed of the pulse on the given three Yin mai, guo reveals itself on the other channels through certain types of pathology, listed in relation to each channel. So this last passage from Maishu also defines the relationship between temporal and spatial agitation by matching symptomatology on the site of the channel with the excessive speed of the pulse. Chunyu Yi, the Western Han physician active around 154 B.C. whose professional life was set out in a biography by Sima Qian, records case histories that are roughly contemporary with Maishu.25 His pulse diagnosis is also concerned with detecting pulses that are in excess, but he adds many layers of complexity to interpreting the pulse in its relationship to the dynamic between Yin and Yang. For example if the Yin and Yang of one patient is bing ( ڢaligned in ———
24 This penultimate statement provides a clue to the practice. The channels that have pulses located along their route can be assessed by the quality of that pulse— those that don‘t, have to be assessed by the symptoms along the whole course of the channel. 25 See n. 5.
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some way), the prognosis is good, but if they jiao ٌ (cross, or encroach upon each in other in some way), then the condition is fatal.26 Whether this transgression is understood as the relative speed or movement of individual pulses, an invasion of the space of the channels, lesions or something more esoteric remains a fascinating mystery to me. Chunyu Yi also treats channels and pulses that are more closely linked to some concept of the liver, lung, spleen, heart and kidney and the qi (the fundamental stuff of life) of those viscera.27 He can detect certain syndromes and the exact position of symptoms from the relative speed, regularity, strength, size and movement of the pulse. The qualities that he feels are far more intricate than the four qualities recorded in the Maishu passage translated above. It is impossible to find a unitary concept of mai, one that is represented equally in the excavated texts and in the Shuangbaoshan figurine: not in the structure of the mai, be that a formalisation of the muscular body or the arteries, veins or the pulse, nor is it in a circulatory tract for the movement of a discrete entity such as mai, qi, shen “spirit” or jing “essence”.28 It may be safer to assume that the term ——— 26 Shiji, juan 105, 1959: 2800. 27 Qi (popularly rendered ch’i) is a complex and changing concept which defies
simple lineal histories. In the mid-Warring States references to qi tend to refer to atmospheric and environmental conditions, especially those moist vapours—clouds and mists—and, by analogy, to formless, clustering qualities that can be discerned with careful observation, like smoke, ghosts or the vibrant, martial aura of an army. By the mid fourth century qi often indicates the fundamental stuff in nature which both promotes and indicates vitality in the phenomenal world. It may enter the body in various ways—through the orifices and the skin—but its movement within the body is not formalised. Some historians translate qi as “vapour” and, in doing so, underline the amorphous watery qualities of steam and mist which are formative influences both in the early period and as an enduring feature of the concept. As qi begins to be applied to the phenomena of the inner body, the ideas, although never totally distinct from the early versions go through significant transformations. Rather than replacing the old meanings the range of meanings grow inclusively—a process that is continuous to the present day. I have not translated the term—and shall refrain from doing so because of the substantive changes that take place as qi itself begins to figure in the inner body. 28 Jing ㊒ is a term which is frequently found in medicine and self-cultivation in a triad with shen (“spirit”) and qi (see below). In sexual-cultivation jing may refer directly to semen. At other times , and when in combination with qi, it seems to refer to the finest quality of qi which is the universal vitality out of which things condense and into which they dissolve. Shen in Warring States literature such as Guanzi, Zhuangzi and the Zuozhuan, often designates spirits and divine entities that dwell outside the human body. Elsewhere shenming comes to mean characteristics of divine beings that allow them a spirit-like wisdom, a sharpness and clarity of perception rather than a mechanical or analytical intelligence. In Warring States and Early Imperial self-cultivation the shen began to refer to the spirit in-dwelling in the human body, conceived as an individual entity. The term continued to convey the qualities of a mysterious and radiant intelligence as represented in its earlier meaning.
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mai is flexible and has popular, technical and specialised usages, all of which come to bear on one another at different times. For diagnostic purposes, for example, the significant elements are knowledge of the relationship of the pulse to symptoms, and of the symptoms to the physical layout of the mai. The figurine may not be a representation of any of these individual elements, but we might adduce elements of all of these phenomena. Both texts and figurine, after all, share a common conceptual framework in the way they contour the body with their parallel structure of lines running from head to toe, and little evidence of pathways leading to the inner organs. Together they form a distinctive image that contrasts with the integrated system of jingluo fundamental to acupuncture theory.
ACTION: TREATMENT Can we know any more of the treatments that were applied to the mai? If a condition seemed to be fatal Chunyu Yi might avoid medical intervention. Where a patient’s prognosis was good his favoured therapy was pharmacological, although he also used stone needles and cautery. But these were not the only methods to treat the mai. Long ago, Epler (1980) explored a link between the origins of the jingluo system and blood vessels as well as bloodletting, as an associated therapy. He cited many examples from Suwen to suggest the importance of bloodletting in the formation of foundational acupuncture practice.29 A reading of Maishu (6) will reveal an instruction to qi mai “open the mai” and thus one immediate interpretation might be that this is confirmation of the practice of bloodletting in the earliest medical treatise associated with the mai.30 On close examination there is no further evidence to corroborate such a reading. In fact, this particular passage uniquely refers to opening the mai in order to correct a pathological movement of qi and concludes with a very practical description of how to lance abscesses. While the juxtaposition of lancing abscesses and moving qi suggests a rather random arrangement of practical interventions around a theme of the mai, there is no hint of bloodletting here. In fact, to understand the concept of mai in this text we look to ideas of qi and the cultivation of the inner body, already well developed in the Mawangdui and Zhangjiashan sexual and ———
29 Epler Jr. 1980: 337–67. 30 “Maishu shiwen”: 74.
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breath-cultivation literature which I will explore later in this paper.31 Chunyu Yi favours treating a particular symptom or syndrome with lancing stones from a number of different locations. On two occasions he pierces the body in three places in a single treatment. In case eleven he treats a condition of the foot by piercing the sole in three places and in case sixteen he treats rising heat and head pain with cold water and by piercing the Yangming channel in three places.32 Neither condition includes abscesses, or requires bloodletting. Nor are Chunyu Yi’s treatments applied to the type of named acupuncture locations that we know from the time of Huangdi neijing onwards. 33 They refer to a concept of the channels quite separate from that system, such as that we find on the figurine. Thus we have five possibilities for medical intervention aimed at the mai: herbs and mineral drugs, cautery, lancing stones for superficial surgery, bloodletting and normalising the movement of qi. From Yinshu we can also find evidence of daoyin and massage therapy as different methods of treating mai. But of all these methods evident in Maishu it is cautery that is the most clearly stated treatment, and we have to consider the possibility that the lines on the figurine were framed in order to establish related locations for moxa-cautery.
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31 See also Lo 2000: 15–65. 32 Shiji, juan 105, 1959: 2804, 2806. 33 Huangdi neijing is the work most famous for its exposition of classical acu-
moxa theories although to what extent its combined treatises reflect medical orthodoxy of the Han dynasty is questioned by Akahori Akira who compares the Huangdi neijing material with medical ideas in the work of the contemporary author Wang Chong. See Akahori (1982: 171–89). Huangdi neijing is a corpus now extant in three recensions, the Taisu (Great Basis), the Suwen (Basic Questions) and the Lingshu (Numinous Pivot). Each of these is a compilation of small texts dealing with separate topics which may reflect the thinking in a distinct medical lineage. It is thought that the earliest texts were set down during the first or at the earliest the second century BC. Collectively they represent the kind of debate through which classical medical concepts matured. In this respect they act as a convenient marker against which to assess the form and content of the excavated texts which form the source material for this paper. For an extended discussion of the development of medical theories in China based on a clarification of the formation of the Huangdi neijing see Yamada (1979: 67–89); for a reassessment of the origins of acumoxa see Unschuld (1985: 93– 99). Since the discovery of the excavated manuscripts, most medical historians now agree that an essential fusion of the technical and theoretical elements at the foundation of acumoxa therapy could not have happened much before the first two centuries B.C. See Sivin (1993: 196–215). The canons of acumoxa must also include Huangfu Mi’s Zhenjiu Jiayijing (A and B Canon of Acumoxa, Wu, Jin, 256–282 AD) and the Nanjing (Canon of Difficulties, 1st or 2nd century AD); translated in Unschuld (1986).
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FEATURES OF THE POPULAR PRACTICE OF CAUTERY It is difficult to ascertain the extent of cautery with mugwort (moxacautery) in Han times. Yamada gives good evidence that the development of moxa-cautery with mugwort was related to an earlier use of mugwort to ward off inauspicious elements and drive away demons. The people of Chu in particular wore mugwort dolls at their waist. He also describes the use of a related plant xiao ᘕ, as a form of incense to attract the gods, concluding that “mugwort must originally have been more than just a medicinal herb. Ai and xiao belong to the same mugwort genus, but one was used as incense to beckon the gods, whereas the other was used to drive away demons that caused illness.” These represent two contrasting approaches to ensuring that the body only played host to benign entities. Yamada raises the possibility that the channel system was discovered by those using moxacautery for “magical therapies” because “the routes or areas of illness” caused by gods of illness invading the body is highly compatible theoretically with the concept of the vessels (channels).34 The use of cautery is attested in literary analogies of the Warring States period: Zhuangzi puts the idea of “cauterising where there is no sickness” into Confucius’ mouth as an analogy for useless effort; Mengzi likens inadequate preparation in government to the futility of using insufficiently mature ai “ ۦmoxa punk” or “mugwort” to treat chronic illness; 35 in the Shiji biography Chunyu Yi also criticises other people for wrongly applying moxa-cautery to the channels. Jiu ߁ was also a technique to stimulate qi in self-cultivation. Tianxia zhidao tan describes how the gentleman who has over-indulged in sexual activity would “cauterise his body to bring forth his qi” in a programme which included taking special medicines and diet.36 After listing symptoms associated with each mai, Zubi shiyimai ———
34 Harper 1998: 244 and Yamada 1985a: 58–63. See also Yamada 1998: 66–78. Yamada compares the stages in one Wushier bingfang prescription for hernia which involve minor surgery, the applications of paste and alcohol and fumigation, to the stages in a ritual ceremony described in Liji. The fumigation, he believes, was intended to drive away the god of sickness and prevent it from entering the wound. Here we have a repetition of that theme where openings in the body, here a wound but elsewhere the orifices, are both vulnerable to malevolent activity as well as pivotal in methods to support and protect the body. 35 Zhuangzi (juan 9, pian 29; SBBY, vol. 176 fasc. 4, 21b). Mengzi (juan 7. 9; SBBY vol. 8, fasc. 3, 8). 36 Mawangdui Hanmu boshu 1985: 164.
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jiujing recommends cautery.37 We can quite safely assume that cautery was applied to the symptoms themselves as well as to selected parts of the extended areas associated with the location of the symptom according to the framework of the mai. Since a majority of symptoms associated with the mai were pain and discomfort along its course we can easily understand the value of heat therapy. The lines on the figurine might then be a way of training the eye to pick out those planes of the body associated for the purpose of applying moxa. One Eastern Han bamboo slip from the archives of Jiaqu Defence Company Headquarters ⫻྄ظଢ records a case where the Commanding officer of a beacon unit along the line of defences in the north-west of China treated a soldier with moxa-cautery in two places on his back. This was a form of self-help medicine applied in the absence of more expert medical advice. Drugs had to be prescribed by a physician from the Commandant’s office on his rounds of the military outposts. Cauterising a number of moxa locations is reminiscent of Chunyu Yi’s treatments, although the officer did not work specifically on the channels. Private soldier attached to Dangqu Beacon Unit, Qu Fanzi ࡹᑕ (person’s name?), in the first month Ƒ day fell ill for four days, the office did not ƑƑƑƑ, three days later, Ƒ, Officer in Command of Wansui Beacon Unit, applied cautery to his back ƑƑ ҏin two places, after ƑƑ within several days the physician at the Commandant’s Office came, and he drank one dose of drug and disposed ƑƑ.38
One indication of the popularity of cautery is the existence of sources which tell of prohibitions, cautioning against needling and applying moxa-cautery to the parts of the body through which the spirits and souls of the human body hun Ꮢ, shen and qi passed in calendrical cycles.39 In a similar vein, medical texts excavated from a ———
37 Mawangdui Hanmu boshu 1985: 3–6. Ma Jixing (1992: 9–10) notes that because Zubi jiujing and the other texts on the same manuscript are written in a script that is in between seal and clerical script, they are more accurately dated to the Qin period. 38 Xie Guihua, Li Junming, Zhu Guozhao 1987: 49.31, 49.13 and Fig. 22 and 23. See also Xie Guihua 2005: 97. 39 Lingshu 8 describes the relationship between the internal organs, emotion and other aspects of the human consciousness and entities that we might approximate to spirit and souls. See Lingshu 8, “Benshen” ء壀, 2. 152–153. The hun Ꮢ, and the po ᕗ, for example, are aspects of human being that scholarship has traditionally seen as separating at death and as the object of early funerary practice. In a recent article Brashier has shown that hun/po dualism is not at the foundation of Han burial practice and is more faithfully described as a scholastic convention. He suggests that the pair are more closely linked to medical states of anxiety and illness (Brashier 1996: 125–158). In Lingshu 8 the hun is said to reside in the blood, the po in the lungs. The
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tomb at Wuwei ࣳ (ca. 1st century AD) provide us with the earliest datable acupuncture treatment detailing the site of needle insertion and manipulation technique.40 Following this passage there is also a list of prohibitions which restrict cautery on specified parts of the body according to the age of the patient. The prohibitions set out in the Hama jing (see Fig. 3), a series of images of the human body marked with acupuncture points according to the waxing and waning of the moon, suggests that moxa-cautery should not be used on the right hand side during the day for fear of disturbing the Yang channels and driving the patient mad.41 The phases of the moon are emphasised by the emergence and disappearance of the toad and the hare, drawn upon its surface. In general qi was thought to travel on the Yang planes of the body in the days before and after the moon became full and on its Yin planes when the moon was darkest. One had to avoid applying moxa-cautery to the place that lodged the qi. When the moon was at its fullest it was also inadvisable to he yinyang, a euphemism for having sexual relations, least the woman suffer an attack of wind. It is not uncommon to find self-cultivation and moxacautery treatments contained in the same manuscripts. Hama jing chart and Wuwei text share moxa-cautery prohibitions related to the position of the shen within the body although the precise times and locations do not match (see Fig. 4). In the Hama jing the shen travels from the centre of the body below the navel, to the neck and shoulders, the head and then to the legs and down to the feet in eleven cycles of nine years. In contrast the Huangdi prohibitions related to the shen and hun from Wuwei prohibit moxa-cautery on the heart in the first year, on the abdomen in the second year, on the back in the third year, on the head in the fourth year, on the feet in the fifth year, on the hands in the sixth, the neck in the seventh, shoulders in the eighth, etc. Mediaeval texts such as Wang Tao’s Waitai biyao ؆ ፕ ఽ as well as three manuscripts from the Dunhuang cache (P2675 Xinji beiji jijing ᄅႃໂ৺߁ᆖ “Canon of Newly Collected Moxibustion (Remedies) For Use in Emergencies” [two scrolls] and S5737 Jiujing mingtang ߁ᆖࣔഘ “Moxibustion Canon Illuminated Hall”) contain similar calendrical treatises on the movement of shen ———
zhi “ݳwill” resides in the kidneys. The shen, originally a term for “spirit” entities external to the body—and, in the Lingshu, a somatisation of the qualities of brightness and spontaneous perception that the spirits represented (which I translate “spirit”) is said to reside in the mai “the channels”. Lingshu 8 “Benshen”, 2.152–153. 40 Zhang and Zhu, eds. 1996: 21–23. 41 Huangdi hama jing 1984: 2.
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and qi.42 The introduction to P2675 records the date of printing as the second year of the Xiantong reign period (861). The editor suggests that he is abridging the moxa-cautery techniques of a number of jia schools or teaching lineages in order to provide a practical medicine for those who live in outlying regions and can’t get hold of sophisticated drugs. These manuscripts are from the same vicinity as the administrative records from Jiaqu Defence Company Headquarters where we saw the commanding officer, in the absence of prescribed drugs, applying moxa-cautery to the back of one private soldier. Being in the same genre as the Wuwei texts, the Hama jing, and the moxa-cautery prohibitions of Waitai biyao, the texts seem to inform us, in different ways, about the concepts and procedures of a distinctive popular moxa-cautery tradition. No doubt these originate as part of the larger tradition of prohibition and selection of auspicious times. The existence of a tradition of prohibition associated with cautery corroborates the view that the techniques associated with cautery were many and varied. It seems that there was a perception that popular practice should be regulated according to more informed ideas about the relationship of the physiology of the body to the movement of the heavens. For concrete evidence of popular practice, rather than its restrictions, we have the Dunhuang moxa-cautery charts held at the British Library.43 A series of sketches of the posterior and anterior aspects of the human body illustrate the relationship between strategic anatomical locations and the treatment of specific symptoms and illnesses with moxa-cautery in a medical tradition of the mediaeval period (S6168 and S6262, see Col.Pl. X). They are the earliest extant moxacautery charts, pre-dating the Northern Song bronzes that lay out the acupuncture points, by some three or four centuries. Each diagram in S6168 and S6262 seems to mark between three and six locations on the body, by drawing a line from the location to the side of the figure where there is a short textual description. The text records the name of the location, detailed instructions explaining how to find it, illnesses it treats and the number of cauterisation to perform. On three of the diagrams this information is summarised in a paragraph at the side of the figure. Each paragraph begins with the phrase jiu X “cauterise X” where X is sometimes a specific ailment ———
42 Wang Tao ׆ះ: 1993: 779. 43 The charts and accompanying texts are reproduced in Ma Jixing, Wang
Shumin et al. (1998: 477–512). See also Lo (2005: 227–251).
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such as “cauterising floating wind in a person’s face”, “cauterising the five exhaustions and the seven harms/injuries” or “cauterising various human crazinesses” and at other times is the name of a specific location on the body and is followed by related symptoms. Each figurine represents a discrete package detailing how to recognise and treat a distinct disease, or collection of symptoms together with a guide to finding the location and how to perform the treatment. There are a number of unique features of the charts that deserve our attention: the moxa-cautery points are not systematically associated with channels, internal organs or with an elaborated system of correspondences; despite five anterior views very few locations are given on the parts of the body that had for a long time been associated with its Yin planes (anterior, inner, lower) and a significant number of locations are given which are not cited in earlier or later acumoxa literature. The particular combinations of text and image in the charts suggest a practical orientation, perhaps reflecting a tradition of moxa-cautery that was available to a lay readership rather than exclusive to professional physicians. A view of the charts as representative of a selftreatment tradition is also corroborated by the fact that the symptoms listed are similar to those treated in other self-cultivation traditions such as daoyin “leading and guiding” the tradition of therapeutic gymnastics and, to some extent, in sexual cultivation.
ACTION: SPACE Geomancy or the science of siting has a complex history in China with competing theories and is mainly concerned with the selection of a topological site with good influences for positioning ancestral tombs, houses or other enterprises.44 Western Han texts excavated at the Yinqueshan burial site in Shandong, confirm that Yin and Yang were fundamental to topographical considerations when initiating military intervention.45 Similarly the Mawangdui text known as the Taichan shu ઼ข (Book of the Generation of the Fetus) uses Yin ———
44 A general introduction to siting theories can be found in Bennet (1978: 1–26). 45 The Yinyang texts from the Yinqueshan burial site are invaluable for studying
some of the earliest extant work of Yinyang theorists who were concerned with philosophic and military texts. The military texts show an elaborate concern with Yin and Yang terrain and how to align military strategy auspiciously. See Yates 1994: 96–97.
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and Yang as an indication of where to bury the afterbirth to ensure good influences on a child throughout its lifetime.46 Bennet (1978), writing of the difference between intuitive or analytical siting techniques, notes that “the difference between siting techniques was probably in some ways analogous to the difference between medical practices”. The selection of one method for locating the source of an illness over another may well have been a matter of the social group to which the practitioner belonged and the social status of his clients.47 In fact the difference in early Chinese medical practices is to quite a large extent defined by how each one described the site of the illness and the time and location for auspicious intervention. In Lingshu 58 Qi Bo emphasises the importance of knowing exactly where the illness comes from: Qi Bo stated: “This also has its reason. When perverse (influences) flow (within) yet do not break out, this is because in the ‘inner intention’ (zhi )ݳthere is that which detests and that which envies. Blood and qi are chaotic within and the two qi attack each other. ‘The place where it comes from’ (qi suo cong lai zhe ࠡࢬൕࠐृ) is subtle, if you look you do not see it and if you listen you do not hear it, so it seems as if it were ghosts and spirits.” The Yellow Emperor said: “as for simply using spells, how could this be?” Qi Bo said: “as for the wu ݥof old, it is because they knew how to overcome the hundred illnesses: formerly they knew bing zhi suo cong sheng (ఐհࢬൕ‘ سthe place which generated the illnesses’) and could simply use spells.
When you know where the illness arises, the cure follows easily. On the face of it the Shuangbaoshan figurine looks like a map, but what kind of territory does it represent? Much detail on the figurine and in the excavated mai “channel” texts is significantly different. What the two sources share is a common structuring of bodily space along vertical lines that travel through torso and limbs. Yin and Yang, as they appear in the titles of each channel, are clearly evident in the division of superficial anatomical space. Yin is understood in its most basic sense of the softer, dark, inner, and lower aspects of the body (anterior, under the arms and legs) as opposed to the harder, light, and upper parts (posterior, superior and visible), which are Yang. There is evidence of more elaborate correspondences to Yin and Yang in Maishu (3), where the meaning is extended to take in heaven and earth and match it to inter———
46 Mawangdui Hanmu boshu 1985:133–141. See also Li Jianmin 1994: 65.4, 725–830. 47 Bennet 1978: 4.
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nal pathology, but the references in Maishu (2) remain basically topographical. Yin and Yang representing divisions of time or phases are altogether missing from Maishu, apart from through the temporal implications of light and dark spaces. As they divided the body into hills and valleys of Yin and Yang and marked out the routes of the channels, the authors of Maishu created a landscape into which they could locate illness from the experience of discomfort or the discovery of pathology and lesion along the channel. Much Han medical material is similarly preoccupied with locating the site and depth of an illness. The biography of Chunyu Yi, for example, shows a constant concern with whether the illness has penetrated “inside” (nei փ) or to the “centre” (zhong խ) or whether it is generated in channel or organ. He frequently asks about bing suo zai ఐࢬ“ ڇthe whereabouts of the illness” and expects to know whether it is an illness of the “inner” or “outer” of the body, to what extent Yin has invaded Yang space, or vice versa, and where the illness is “seated” or “lodged” (ড় ke) in an organ, such as the heart or bladder. Equally, we have seen an elaborate tradition of moxa-cautery prohibition matching physical locations on the body with the passage of time, according to age or the phases of the moon. Motifs of time applied to the body are first seen in the Shuihudi hemerological texts and the Mawangdui Taichan shu (see Fig. 5), and it is in these earlier images that we first find the calendrical sequences that are developed in the Eastern Han Wuwei text, the Hama jing and finally in the Dunhuang cycles of “human spirit” (Գ壀 renshen) circulation. 48 The Taichan shu has two images side by side surrounded by partially extant Branch signs arranged in a way that indicates spring and summer, and autumn and winter, respectively. The child’s fortune is told according to where the Branch sign related to the date and season of their birth is located, with readings given in an associated text. Despite applying the notion of temporality and phase to the body, the Mawangdui and Shuihudi hemerological texts do not describe any form of “circulation”, such as we have seen in the later texts. But together with the more topographical divisions of Yin and Yang laid down in Maishu and Mawangdui channel texts (which inherently suggest the light and dark of day and night, winter and summer), by the end of the Western Han period the foundations are set for various ———
48 Mawangdui Hanmu boshu (1985: 133). Harper 1998: 372–384, Shuihudi Qinmu zhujian: 101.
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constructions of spatio-temporal movement within the body. When these concepts of circulation finally begin to mature they do so in quite distinctive ways, with different forms of measurement. In the past the apparently conflicting treatises on the circulation of qi have confounded those looking for a single line of development in the early period. Wuwei, Lingshu 15, Hama jing and the Dunhuang manuscripts posit the circulation of a bounded entity, such as shen and qi, that moves along a pre-defined course and at a regular speed. In contrast, more allegorical accounts envision the channels as a mirror of the waterways of China, exemplified in the “Jingshui” treatise of Lingshu 12. Finally, the very different concept of qi, emerging in the self-cultivation literature also owes much to the root metaphor of water in Chinese culture. These sources emphasise the more amorphous, unbounded qualities of qi: water with a source flows continuously; water flows along a course; water flows downward; water is soft and weak, it is yielding and uncontending; it takes any shape and is difficult to see. Here transformations of the body’s inner essences are guided by the breath, by physical and sexual education.49 The last section of this paper turns to a discussion of the latter subjects—the animation of the body in self-cultivation.
SENSUALITY The absence of texts specifically relating to the Shuangbaoshan figurine make it the most opaque of all the medical imagery considered in this paper. In fact we can only be certain of the fact that it was a map of the body considered important enough to be placed in the outer coffin compartment of the tomb—and, as a map, it gives its owner power to manipulate the territory of the body. Reading only from the image itself, without the benefit of any inner vision facilitated by the knowledge of text, the lines on the body tell us some of their own story. Significantly, the lines cluster and meet around the sense organs: three reach parts of the nose, ten come to an end at the eyes, four reach the mouth and six box the ears, while fourteen run to the hands (see Fig. 6). The lines must therefore relate their author’s ideas about vision, hearing, sight, taste and touch, and ———
49 Sarah Allan finds that many of the qualities attributed to water in Warring States philosophy apply to the early conception of qi in the body as described in different medical treatises, see Allan (1997: 35–54).
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are therefore likely to represent part of the human structure that bounds and mediates between the internal and external worlds. Is this then a sensory map of the body, rather than a model concerned with illness? I have noted the absence on the figurine of any Yin channels of the legs, as described in the excavated texts. We also do not find a representation of the renmai ո౧ [the channel which crosses the Yin, soft, anterior torso and is classically considered the most Yin of all channels], nor do the lines of the figurine seem to enter or represent the inner organs of the body, as they do in later theory. As we can see in the next quotation, Yin was a corollary of fatal pathology in the inner organs: In all cases the three Yin are the qi of earth and the channels of death. They decay the viscera and rot the bowels which controls the killing.50
The figurine, therefore, has little to do with Yin structures, or modelling the kind of serious illness associated with pathologies of Yin. In the absence of Yin “channels”, the figurine lacks the pathway to deterioration and decay and may be a model of perfect physiology, a plan for the movement of qi in breath cultivation, so well described in the Mawangdui and Zhangjiashan breath cultivation. In the selfcultivation literature we find a familiar code for successful practice, exemplified here in the condition of “spirit illumination” (shenming 壀 ࣔ) from the sexual cultivation literature from Mawangdui: if there is no orgasm in the first movement, the ears and eyes will become keen and bright, with the second the voice becomes clear, with the third the skin gleams, with the fourth the back and flanks are strengthened, with the fifth the buttocks and thighs become sturdy, with the sixth the waterways flow freely, with the seventh one becomes sturdy with strength, with the eighth the patterns of the skin shine, with the ninth one gets through to an illumination of thee spirit, with the tenth the body endures: these are called the ten movements.51
If we look again the figurine seems self-assured, comfortable in his sense of himself and his importance: unlike the servant figurines of Han tombs who tend to lower their eyes, he is as if looking out at a world that he owns (see Fig. 7). He has bright eyes and a steady gaze, his ears are keenly carved, his skin gleams with black lacquer and his ———
50 “Maishu shiwen”: 73–74. There is also an edition of this text among the Mawangdui medical texts which has been assigned the title of Yinyang sihou. See Mawangdui Hanmu boshu 1985: 21. 51 Mawangdui Hanmu boshu 1985: 156.
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shoulders, back and flanks are square and strong (Col.Pl. XI) the patterns on his skin run freely from top to toe and he has indeed endured 2,000 years. To me this is a representation of the shenming. Beside the corpse such an image of perfection might aid physical immortality by ensuring the body’s invulnerability to pathological processes beyond the grave. So if this is the image of a healthy person, resplendent with freeflowing qi and acute sensory perception, can we know more of him? Images of robust and vigorous bodies are also on Daoyin tu where the exercises are made relatively explicit in a number of different ways. From the first text we learn that the basic prescription is that of a health regimen, seasonally adjusted. By the third text which is a treatise on the causes of illness and on measures for maintaining good health, we have been told that changes in the climate, social class, excessive emotion, diet, maintenance of body temperature, sleep, Yin, Yang and qi are all implicated in what amounts to a broad multifactorial attitude to the causation of illness. But no matter how the cause of illness is construed, Yinshu usually prescribes breath cultivation and guided therapeutic exercises to invigorate the whole or parts of the body. The exercises are the practical application of a medical philosophy that understands the maintenance of good health as dependent upon embodying movements of the external world. The images and culture of Daoyin tu and Yinshu must be understood in the context of a wider discourse of ideas about change and transformation in Early China. That there is an underlying principle of transformation at the foundation of the generation of all things is a common assumption in Warring States and Han philosophic literature. Observation of continuous movement and change in the natural environment is often cited as evidence. The sage, whether ruler, noble or physician, can achieve mastery through aligning his own behaviour with the patterns that reveal themselves. Zhuangzi 20 recommends shaking off earthly relationships and responsibility to move freely with the rhythms of the universe: without praises, without curses, now a dragon, now a snake, you transform together with the times,. And never consent to be one thing alone.52
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52 Translated in Graham (1989: 121).
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In the practice of medicine the sage practitioners apply principles learned from observation of change in the body: as for qi, it benefits the lower body and harms the upper; follows heat and distances coolness. So, the sages cool the head and warm the feet.53
Sagehood, comes with learning and practice. Like class it is manifest in particular forms of behaviour, and cultivation. Yinshu points out that a person’s class is also distinguished by the way that they get ill, and their knowledge and/or ability to cultivate good health: a common person is subject to elements beyond their control: the vicissitudes of their labour and the weather, but the “nobility” (guiren ၆Գ) do not harmonise their joys and passions, so either their Yin or Yang qi becomes too abundant. The way to harmony was to normalise the thermostatic environment through breath control: If they (nobility) are joyful then the Yang qi is in excess. If they are angry then the Yin qi is in excess. On account of this, if those that follow the Way are joyful then they quickly exhale (warm breath), and if they become angry they increasingly puff out (moist breath), in order to harmonise it.54
This deliberate concentration and directing of attention to the sensual body is a pervasive feature of daoyin. In Yinshu it is sometimes referred to as placing “intention” (yi რ) on a part of the body or an activity. Two occurrences of the term can be found in consecutive techniques related to incipient illness or illness as it first emerges. These examples show that the yi may be distracted or applied. Graham, discussing the Mohist Canons, attempts a definition of yi as, “forming an image of the object of attention”. Yinshu confirms the idea that yi involves the potential for concentrating attention, but the yi may also be distracted: Pulling incipient exhaustion illness. The intention is agitatedly set on pacing around, the body hurts more and more. At this moment you must treat it with the pull of the Eight Warps; quickly breathe out (dry breath) and quickly exhale (warm breath), pull Yin. Soak the space between the eyebrows in cold water for the time it takes to eat bowl of rice. Get rid of the water. With two hands hold two (two?) rush mats. Stroke between the eyebrows upwards and rock it up and down. Call out “hu hu” through the mouth. Do it altogether ten times and stop.55
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53 “Maishu shiwen”: 74. 54 “Yinshu shiwen”: 86. 55 “Yinshu shiwen”: 83.
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Resolving a distraction of the yi involves breath-cultivation to reduce heat and dryness, cooling and massaging the forehead. Yi may refer to concentrating attention on specific activities and parts of the body. It is located where it is placed. With Graham’s discussion in mind we can see how concentrating qi includes the ability to form an image (in the following case probably an image that embraces a visualisation of physical comfort), at that part of the body that is threatened by the incipient illness. The full potential of placing yi on areas of the body can be appreciated from the following technique for bowel illness: Incipient illness in the bowel. Invariably there will be swelling at the front. When there is swelling, apply the intention on the lesser abdomen and concentrate on puffing out (moist breath). Stop after one hundred times.56
This technique presents us with a complex interaction in the internal environment of the body; firstly it identifies the site of discomfort or illness, then the same sites become the location for concentrated attention, presumably achieved with increased awareness of that area of the body; then with measured manipulation of the breath function, perhaps even with the imagination of comfort through conscious projection of qi, after a prescribed time a sequence of therapeutic events unfolds of its own accord. Ailing from liao ⺰ƑƑ [liquor]. The prescription for pulling it: grasp a staff in the right hand, face a wall and do not breathe; with the left foot tread on the wall, resting when tired; likewise with the left hand grasp the staff, with right foot step on the wall, likewise rest when tired. When the qi of the head flows downwards, the foot will not be immobile (and numb), the head will not swell, and the nose will not be stuffed up.57
Many of Yinshu exercises mirror this process, including the one above, specified for an illness probably associated with drinking alcohol, where after a certain period of exercising the qi will begin to flow naturally and without further stimulus. The practitioner activates his intentional body into the multiplicity of bodies already linked and overlapping within this one process (the manifestation of his sick body, its pathology and its biological processes, the experience of the sick body and the imagination of a well ordered body, its idealised social identity, its social projection—the body that can be affected by controlled breathing—a body infused with qi). As far as intention ——— 56 “Yinshu shiwen”: 83. 57 “Yinshu shiwen”: 83; Gao Dalun, 1995: 122–123.
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activates the potential to influence the internal environment of the body it allows the practitioner to participate in his own resistance to the inevitable process of decline. This following excerpt is the outcome of a technique that includes both breath and sexual cultivation: Be careful, do not drink wine and eat the five flavours; put the qi in order with intent and the eye will be bright the ear keen, the skin will gleam, the one hundred mai will be full and the Yin will rise again. From this you will be able to stand for a long time, go a long way, and live for (ever).58
Together Daoyin tu and Yinshu provide a practical guide to daoyin through which practitioners can restore their health, treat illness and simultaneously affirm their natural membership of an elite group. Measured physical movement and the orientation of the senses, the training of intention, all come together in the pursuit of cultivation and refinement. The middle texts of Yinshu provide precise details of both daily practice and the treatment of specific illnesses. The second text, which is the main bulk of Yinshu, sets out forty-one set exercises. In the first part it describes and names exercises while in the second it aims at specific therapy. Thirty seven are perfectly preserved, whilst four are damaged. Many of the exercises are given titles, some which simply describe the exercise, usually naming the culminating posture in a sequence. Others liken the exercises to animal movements or attitudes. Another type of title refers to applying treatment to a specific illness, or part of the body. There are treatments both for pain in joints and muscles, such as knee pain or back pain, and for internal illnesses such as loose bowels, inguinal swellings or inner exhaustion. Where the treatment is directed to a specific part of the body it is probably meant to improve the function of that part, rather than to address a specific illness. Where modern Taijiquan manuals provide diagrams, photographs or even videos, Yinshu may have had charts like Daoyin tu to provide one more dimension to help the student. Without visual aids it is often impossible to understand how to interpret a textual account with the body. The power of the images as a mnemonic device is that they simultaneously convey whole body movement, its posturing, gestures, ———
58 Mawangdui Hanmu boshu 1985: 147–148. I have accepted the rearrangement of the Shiwen slips proposed by Harper and Qiu Xigui. Taking the Mawangdui Hanmu boshu as the starting point the slips would then be ordered 51, 41, 40. Qiu Xigui 1992: 535. Donald Harper 1998: Translation: MSV1.A.14.
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attitudes and mood. Yet more powerful is the combination of image and caption, such as in Yinshu, where the brief line contextualises the image and gives it greater depth. Consider, for example the appeal to the imagination of animals in the context of Daoyin tu, Yinshu and more generally throughout the culture of daoyin. Where a particular posture is given the name of an animal there are immediate, commonly understood implications for the interpretation of that image with the body. But we cannot assume that we have grasped the full implications of the designation without questioning whether our understanding of a bear, monkey, crane or dragon is stunted by removal and distance. Yinshu mentions the Bear Ramble for being good for the muscles of the back (Col.Pl. XII). The image on Daoyin tu suggests a square ambling walk that might well ease the back, but perhaps the bear signifies more than lumbar strength. Roel Sterckx has written at length about the transformational powers of animals in Warring States and Han literature.59 He cites early references to exorcistic and ritual dances with animal skins which mirrored symbolically the potential for transformation in the animal world. In the passage of time, and with proper discipline adjusted according to the passing seasons, and the movements of nature an ordinary man might reinvent himself a noble or a sage. Observation of motion and change in the animal world constituted an important element in the development of the earliest calendars and therefore in shaping civilised human behaviour. Animals themselves were attributed the different qualities of the Yin Yang spatial and temporal cycles, allowing them universal features in the process of metamorphosis. Animals were not even limited to the boundaries of one form or construction of species: seasonal changes marked regular times for mice to transform into quails, or hawks to pigeons. The shedding of form was not just the prerogative of observably metamorphosing animals, such as the reptiles, but of many different beasts, some capable of spirit-like metamorphosis. Here are Harper’s (1998) translations of the titles of the Daoyin tu animal forms: The Crane, Dragon Ascending, Monkey Bawling to Pull Internal Hotness, Gibbon Bawling, Gibbon Shouting, Bear Ramble, Merlin.60 It is significant that only one of these, Monkey Bawling to Pull Internal Hotness (see Col.Pl. XIII), is immediately related to a ———
59 Sterckx 2002: 165–204. 60 Harper 1998: 310–316.
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physical disorder—the disorder in question being the plight of the noble who, we have seen, by virtue of his class, is committed to remedying unresolved emotional and thermostatic excess. If bawling like a monkey is the path to nobility, the transformational powers of the numinous animals, such as the dragon, birds and tiger, could channel a more magical efficacy into the body. We know that when Yinshu and Daoyin tu describe a dragon ascending they do so in the context that the dragon was known to be the embodiment of change. As Sterckx points out the expression longbian ᚊ᧢ (“to transform like a dragon”) also provided an epithet for sagehood, authority and encompassing virtue.61 Guanzi describes the dragon as a shen “spirit” itself, able to change its size rapidly and at will and to move between heaven and earth. The likening of the dragon changing its domain to the sage moving his habitat exposes the ‘local person for being parochial’. The movement for Dragon Ascending, here explained in Yinshu: Dragon Ascending. Bend the front knee, extending at the back. Interlock the two hands, hold the knee and look up.62
demonstrates the proud full chest of the dragon, but does not obviously tally with the Daoyin tu image of the same name (see Col.Pl. XIV) where the figure is standing with both arms raised above his head. As with the different witnesses to common texts excavated from Warring States and Han texts, it may be in vain to search for an imaginary original, so we should not assume one unified tradition of daoyin. Here both witnesses to the Dragon Ascending are expansive and rising movements, and it is in the imagination of dragons that we should look for similarity. While there are numerous bird forms in Yinshu, the titles do not match exactly the Daoyin tu captions. For birds, as well as dragons, their wings are the vehicle by which transformations through space and time occur. Moving between heaven and earth birds symbolise the transition through that liminal space where light turns to dark and distance disappears, and so it is logical that we should find that they feature significantly in the daily practice aimed at physical rejuvena-
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61 Sterckx 2002: 179. 62 The animal forms are all described in “Yinshu shiwen”: 82–83.
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tion. Here we find the rapid movements of a wild duck shaking the water out of its feathers: Wild Duck Bathing. Interlock the hands behind the back and shake the head.
—a movement which no doubt eases tension in the neck and head and changes the mood—and the familiar image of an owl with its head buried into its neck looking from side to side: The Owl (Shivers?). Interlock hands behind the back, shrink the neck and shake the head.
Here the gibbon supply flexes its body: Gibbon Hold. With the right hand hold the left foot. Raise the left hand, turning the back. Bend forward to left and right.
The tiger is more difficult to “see” but the movement is at the least a bold forward movement: Tiger Pull. Step one foot forward, raise one arm high and bend.
The graceful bowing of the deer is more readily understood: Prostrate Deer. Raise the two hands, turning the back and bend forward as far as possible.
As is the jumping frog: Leaping Frog. With hands parallel, wave them up and down to right and to left.
Such variations that exist between the nature of an exercise described in Yinshu and the movement in the Daoyin tu figure that both bear the same or similar titles serve to illustrate the diverse traditions of daoyin in the Western Han period. In the last text of Yinshu we have six animals cited in a regimen designed to tone and strengthen the body that amounts to a great celebration of the body and its relationship with the natural animal environment. Holding the breath is good for the coital sinew; (Praying Mantis?) is good for the constant channel; Snake Shake is good for the great brain; Wild Duck bathing is good for (illnesses?) of the head; Encircling Channels is good for the patterns of the skin and is good for the heels and head; Follow to the Side is good for the ear; Looking in a Yang direction is good for the eyes; look up by opening the mouth is good for the nose; roaring, but not emitting a sound is good for the mouth; stroking the heart and raising the chin is good for the throat and gullet; Owl
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The appeal to animal imagery is a device that daoyin shares with literature of the sexual arts where animal movements communicate sexual postures and rhythm. The following are called the shijie Լᆏ (“ten regulations”) in He yin yang or the shishi ԼႨ (“ten postures”) in Tianxia zhi dao tan: “One states: Tiger roaming. Two states: Cicada clinging. Three states: Inchworm. Four states: Waterdeer butting. Five states: Locust splayed. Six states: Gibbon squat. Seven states: Toad. Eight states: Hare bolting hither and thither. Nine states: Dragonfly. Ten states: Fish gobbling.”64 He yin yang does not detail individual movements that make up the animal postures. The activities are therefore codified and simultaneously restricted, demanding tuition by an expert. Later literature eventually provides an explanation for some of the postures. In contrast daoyin in Yinshu and Daoyin tu makes its codes and activities explicit: it is therefore more likely to be available to a wide group of people without the necessity of a professional intermediary to interpret and prescribe a course of action. Here is the Yinshu entry for the Inchworm as a daoyin exercise: Extend the lower leg curling the toe thirty times. This is called the Inch Worm.65
The inchworm or looper caterpillar, as other caterpillars, moves by stretching and contracting the length of its body in a curling motion. No instructions are given for the inchworm in He yin yang and Tianxia zhi dao tan, two of the sexual cultivation texts from Mawangdui, but it is easy to imagine how stretching and curling of the body can be adapted to sexual posture and movement. All these movements belong to a tradition of maintaining good ——— 63 “Yinshu shiwen”: 85–86. 64 Mawangdui Hanmu boshu 1985: 165. 65 “Yinshu shiwen”: 82.
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health and fitness but they can also be applied prescriptively, often in combinations that are repeated many times. Unfortunately the first example below has a series of lacuna over the symptom. [...] do Wild Duck Bathing thirty times and Tiger Looks Back thirty times. Lie down on the back again as before. Rest after twenty times. Get up again and sit tall (on the haunches). Do Wild Duck Bathing forty times and Tiger Looks Back forty times. Lie down again as before. Thirty times and rest. Then get up and do the Wild Duck Bathing fifty times, Tiger Looks Back fifty times and stop. Pulling back ache. Bear Ramble ten times. Forward (Grasps) ten times. With the feet apart lean forwards and backwards, touching the hands to the floor. Stop after ten times. Pulling lop-sided illness. If it’s on the [left] cheekbone, with the right hand hold the hair at the right temple and extend the left hand and pull it with the right hand; if it’s the right cheekbone pull it the same as the left. Do it altogether three times and stop. Do Follow to the Side ten times, Looking Yang ten times, Wild Duck Bathing ten times. Sit straight, loosen the hair and knock the heels three hundred times, Back Step three hundred times and rest.66
In the structure of Yinshu we first see a dialectic between exercises to preserve and enhance health and the treatment of disorder that finds a different balance in later centuries. Where self-cultivation is solitary practice and aims at perfecting the physiology of the body the records naturally generate a lyrical and animated body imagined through metaphor, not just a passive object upon which we construct realities. By appealing to the animal images the daoyin forms engage all the senses of the self cultivator, not just the visual, but through imagination, both movement and mood. In contrast as the body increasingly becomes the subject of professional observation it is, inevitably, silenced and contained within its visibly perceived boundaries, or other such boundaries that are amenable to the physician’s control.
CONCLUSION This paper began with a detailed consideration of the Shuangbaoshan figurine in its relationship to the concept of mai and associated medical practice. The fundamental principles expressed in the lines drawn on its body link the mai to those texts that are explicitly concerned with the early development of cautery, and to a lesser extent to petty ——— 66 “Yinshu shiwen”: 84.
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surgery, massage, pharmacotherapy and therapeutic exercises. It is also clear that the lines bear some relationship to empirical observations of the body, to a somatography of muscles and veins and to patterns of pain. But there are many perspectives from which we can begin to interpret its shape and form. By the end of the Han period astro-calendrical ordering of the body began to impact upon ideas of physiology, shaping the mai into Li Jianmin’s “a field of temporal spaces”—i.e. the physical space where heaven and earth pivot and the location for learned medical intervention. Reading from the figurine alone, without supporting text, we find significant information about early Chinese perceptions of the body, and the importance placed on developing and maintaining an acuity of the senses, even beyond the tomb. Like the bronze figure excavated from the Sanxingdui Կਣഔ tomb, whose enormous ears must surely have enabled its owner a deeper, more profound reception of external events, the figurine’s clearly defined and linked sense organs, its posture and texture suggest something more powerful and daemonic than a mere physician’s dummy. A training and ordering of the sensual body evident in both shape and pattern, link the figurine to the practice of self-cultivation as we know it from the texts and images of other Western Han tombs in the old kingdom of Chu. The most lively and attractive of these images are the figures of the Daoyin tu. At a glance the Daoyin tu charts a series of figures engaged in a daily exercise routine, stretching and relaxing their bodies. Yet part of the magic of this chart is due to the fact that we know it is more than that. With the more recently discovered Yinshu we can gain new insights into how the Daoyin tu images translated into action. Text and image have helped us to piece together the practice of daoyin. Building on the memories and emotions of the collective imagination the practitioner of daoyin could do more than just exercise his body, he could effortlessly transform himself, crossing the boundaries of class, of species, of Yin and Yang moving with the consummate ease of the dragon or the square, lumbering strength of the bear. Each figure emphasises an individual vitality: each character is unique in dress, expression, build and deportment. These are the guiren (“nobility”) in the pursuit of harmonising the Yin and Yang of their bodies, a balance evident in their moods, movement and emotion as well as the thermostatic environment of their bodies. Here, between image and text we find the body constructed most clearly as a location for social agency. In their every aspect, the figures assert
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their class and the freedom they gain from being able to master the physiological elements that ensure long life. They seem free from the tyranny of ghosts and demons, and are yet far from the silent, objectified bodies that are a trademark of later medical treatments of the body.
REFERENCES AKAHORI, Akira ߧଝਟ. 1982. “Go-kan shoki no igaku no ichi danmen” ৵ዧॣཚ᠔ ᖂ圸ԫឰ૿: Toyo no Kagaku to Gijutsu, Kyoto: Dohosha. ALLAN, Sarah. 1997. The Way of Water and Sprouts of Virtue. Albany: SUNY. BENNET, Steven J. 1978. “Patterns of the Sky and Earth: A Chinese Science of Applied Cosmology.” Chinese Science 3: 1–26. BRASHIER, Ken. 1996. “Han Thanatology and the Division of ‘Souls’.” Early China 21: 125–158. BRIDGMAN, Robert F. 1981. “Les fonctions physiologiques chez l’homme dans la Chine antique.” History and Philosophy of the Life Sciences 3.1: 3–30. EPLER Jr., Dean. 1980. “Blood-letting in Early Chinese Medicine and its Relation to the Origin of Acupuncture.” Bulletin of the History of Medicine 54: 337–367. GAO Dalun Օᓵ. 1992. Zhangjiashan Hanjian Maishu jiaoshi ്୮՞ዧ១౧ீ ᤩ. Chengdu: Chengdu chubanshe. ——. 1995. Zhangjiashan Hanjian [Yinshu] yanjiu ്୮՞ዧ១֧ઔߒ. Chengdu: Bashu shushe chuban faxing. GRAHAM, Angus. 1989. Chuang-tzu: the inner chapters. London: Mandala. HARPER, Donald J. 1998. Early Chinese Medical Literature. London: Kegan Paul International. HE Zhiguo ۶ݳഏ. 1994. “Woguo zuizao de renti jingmai qidiao” ݺഏ່ڰऱԳ᧯ ᆖ౧ዪᙡ. Zhongguo wenwubao 15 (April 17): 4. ——. 1995. “Xi Han renti jingmai qidiao kao” ۫ዧԳ᧯ᆖ౧ዪᙡە. Daziran tansuo 3: 116–120. HE Zhiguo and Vivienne LO. 1996. “The Channels: A Preliminary Examination of a Lacquered Figurine from the Western Han Period.” Early China 21: 81–124. Huangdi hama jing ႓০ဦᝂᆖ. 1984. Beijing: Zhongyi guji chubanshe. Hunansheng bowuguan and Zhongguo kexueyuan kaogu yanjiusuo. ྋতઊ໑ढ塢ፖ խഏઝᖂೃײەઔߒࢬ. 1974. “Changsha Mawangdui er, sanhao Hanmu fajue jianbao” ९׆್ޥഔԲΔԿᇆዧች࿇ൺ១. Wenwu 7: 39–48. Jiangling Zhangjiashan Hanjian zhengli xiaozu. ۂສ്୮՞ዧ១ᖞ՛ิ. 1989. “Jiangling Zhangjiashan Hanjian (Maishu) shiwen” ۂສ്୮՞ዧ១౧ᤩ֮. Wenwu 7: 72–74. KURIYAMA, Shigehisa. 1986. “Varieties of Haptic Experience. A Comparative Study of Greek and Chinese Pulse Diagnosis.” Ph.D. diss., Harvard University: Massachusetts. LI Jianmin ޕ৬ا. 1994. Mawangdui Hanmu boshu yucang mai bao tu jian zheng ್ ׆ഔዧችࢇછ៲ୖઽቹጧဳ. Bulletin of the Institute of History and Philology 65.4: 725–830. ——. 2001. Sisheng zhi yu سڽհ. Taibei: Academica Sinica, 2001. LI Xueqin ޕᖂႧ. 1991. “Yinshu yu Daoyin tu” ֧ፖᖄ֧ቹ. Wenwu tiandi 2: 7– 9.
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LO, Vivienne. 1998. “The Influence of yangsheng Culture on Early Chinese Medical Theory.” Ph.D. diss., London University. ——. 1990. “Tracking the Pain.” Sudhoffs Archiv: 191–210. ——. 2000. “Crossing the Inner Pass: A nei/wai Distinction in Early Chinese Medicine.” EASTM 17: pp.15–65. ——. 2005. “Quick and Easy Chinese Medicine: The Dunhuang Moxibustion Charts”. In: Mediaeval Chinese Medicine, eds. Vivienne Lo and Christopher Cullen. London and New York: RoutledgeCurzon, pp. 211–251. MA Jixing ್ᤉᘋ. 1992. Mawangdui guyishu kaoshi ್׆ഔײ᠔ᤩە. Hunan: Hunan kexue jishu. MA Jixing ್ᤉᘋ, WANG Shumin اි׆et al. 1998. Dunhuang yiyao wenxian jijiao ཉᅇ᠔ᢐ֮ᙀீ. Nanchang: Jiangsu guji. Mawangdui Hanmu boshu zhengli xiaozu ್׆ഔዧችࢇᖞ՛ิ, ed. 1979. Mawangdui Hanmu boshu Daoyin tu ್׆ഔዧችࢇᖄ֧ቹ. Beijing: Wenwu chubanshe, including an introductory article by Tang Lan ା ᥞ , “Shilun Mawangdui sanhao Hanmu chutu Daoyin tu” ᇢᓵ್׆ഔԿᇆዧችנՒᖄ֧ ቹ, pp. 1–10. Mawangdui Han mu boshu ್׆ഔዧችࢇ, vol. 4. 1985. [Ed. Mawangdui Han mu boshu zhengli xiaozu ್׆ഔዧችࢇᖞ՛ิ]. Beijing: Wenwu. QIU Xigui ᇗᙔڈ. 1990. “Mawangdui yishu shidu suoyi” ್׆ഔ᠔ᤩᦰጅᤜ. In: Gu wenzi lunji ڗ֮ײᓵႃ, ed. Qiu Xigui. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju. Shiji ಖ[by Sima Qian ್ᔢ]. 1959. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju. Shuihudi Qinmu zhujian ጕॡچችێ១. 1990. [Ed. Shuihudi Qinmu zhujian zhengli xiaozu ጕॡچችێ១ᖞ՛ิ]. Beijing: Wenwu. Sichuansheng wenwu kaogu yanjiusuo ՟ઊ֮ढײەઔߒࢬ. 1996. “Mianyang Yongxing Shuangbaoshan erhao Xi Hanmu guomu fajue jianbao.” Wenwu 10: 13–29. SIVIN, Nathan. 1993. “Huang ti nei ching.” In: Early Chinese Texts: A Bibliographical Guide, ed. Michael Loewe. Berkeley: Early China Special Monograph Series 2, pp. 196–215. STERCKX, Roel. 2002. The Animal and the Daemon in Early China. New York: SUNY. UNSCHULD, Paul U. 1985. Medicine in China: A History of Ideas. Berkeley: University of California Press. ——. 1986. Nan-Ching: The Classic of Difficult Issues. Berkeley: University of California Press. WANG Tao ׆ះ, Waitai biyao ؆ፕఽ (752?). The edition cited Gao Wenzhu ֮ᦷ ed. Waitai biayao fang. Beijing. Huaxia chubanshe, 1993. WILLIAMS, Michael A. 1989. “Divine Image – Prison of Flesh: Perceptions of the Body in Ancient Gnosticim.” In: Fragments for a History of the Human Body, Part 1, ed. Michel Feher. Ramona Naddaff and Nadia Tazi [Zone Books 3/1]. New York: The MIT Press, pp. 129–147. XIE Guihua ெक़, Li Junming ࣔ݁ޕand Zhu Guozhao ڹഏ੨. 1987. Juyan Hanjian shiwen hexiao ࡺዧ១ᤩ֮ீٽ. Beijing: Wenwu chubanshe. ——. 2005. “Bamboo and Wooden Strips Scattered through the Ancient City and Beacon Sites of North-West China.” In: Mediaeval Chinese Medicine, eds. Vivienne Lo and Christopher Cullen. London and New York: RoutledgeCurzon, pp. 78–106. YAMADA Keiji ՞ضᐜࠝ. 1979. “The Formation of the Huang-ti Nei-ching.” Acta Asiatica 36: 67–89. —— ed. 1985. Shin hakken Chugoku kagakushi shiryo no kenkyu ᄅ࿇խഏઝᖂ ᇷற圸ઔߒ. Kyoto: Kyoto daigaku jinbun kagaku kenkyujo.
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——. 1998. The Origins of Acupuncture, Moxibustion and Decoction. Kyoto: International Research Centre for Japanese Studies. YATES, Robin. 1994. “The Yin-Yang texts from Yinqueshan.” Early China 19: 75– 144. ZHANG Yanchang ്࣑and Zhu Jianping, ڹ৬ؓeds. 1996. Wuwei Handai yijian yanjiu. ࣳዧז᠔១ઔߒ. Beijing: Yuanzineng chubanshe. ZHANGJIASHAN HANJIAN ZHENGLI ZU ്୮՞ዧ១ᖞิ. 1990. “Zhangjiashan Hanjian Yinshu shiwen” ്୮՞ዧ១֧ᤩ֮. Wenwu 10: 82–86.
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Fig. 1: Lacquer figurine from Shuangbaoshan ᠨץ՞ (latest date 118 BC). [Author’s collection, photograph with kind permission of He Zhiguo]
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Fig. 2: The system of channels on the lacquer figurine from Shuangbaoshan ᠨץ՞ (latest date 118 BC). Drawing.
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Fig. 3: The prohibitions chart of the Hama jing ᓚᝂᆖ (Toad Canon, ca. 10th century AD?). [Huangdi hama jing ႓০ဦᝂᆖ. 1984. Beijing: Zhongyi guji chubanshe.]
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Fig. 4: Moxa-cautery prohibitions related to the position of the shen 壀 spirit within the body. [Huangdi hama jing ႓০ဦᝂᆖ. 1984. Beijing: Zhongyi guji chubanshe.]
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Fig. 5: Renzi Գ diagram from a hemerological almanac on bamboo slips, Shuihudi ጕॡ( چlate 3rd century BC). Drawing.
Fig. 6: The head of the lacquer figurine from Shuangbaoshan ᠨץ՞ (latest date 118 BC). Drawing.
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Fig. 7: The head of the lacquer figurine from Shuangbaoshan ᠨץ՞ (latest date 118 BC). [Author’s collection, photograph with kind permission of He Zhiguo]
GEOMETRICAL DIAGRAMS IN TRADITIONAL CHINESE MATHEMATICS1 Alexei Volkov
INTRODUCTION Historians of Chinese mathematics often implicitly assume that the subject matter of the Chinese discipline identified as “geometry” was identical to its Western counterpart and therefore the Chinese mathematical texts dealt with the same geometrical objects as those found, for example, in the Elements of Euclid. However, several scholars have recently drawn attention to a number of peculiarities of the perception of geometrical objects in traditional China. Lih Ko-wei ޕഏ devoted a paper to the concept of angle in ancient China which, he argued, was rather different from that of Euclid. In his paper he quoted the opinions of modern Chinese scholars ranging from the statement of Qian Baocong ᙒᣪ⓫ that “[the ancient Chinese] did not know how to use angles … but may have had a general notion of them”, to the categorical claim of Liu Juncan Ꮵܩᛞ that “there was no general notion of angle in China, except that of the right angle”.2 The classical Greek definitions relative to the concept of angle are found in Book 1 of Euclid’s Elements (Definitions 8 and 9).3 These definitions explicitly refer to other geometrical concepts, such as that of line (in particular, a straight line) and of plane defined earlier in the treatise (Definitions 2, 4, and 7 of Book 1). The concept of angle thus was formalised simultaneously with a set of related geometrical ——— 1 Early versions of this paper were read at the International Conference “From Image to Action: The Dynamics of Visual Representation in Chinese Intellectual and Religious Culture” (Paris, September 2001) and at the International bi-Annual Conference of the Taiwanese Society of the History and Philosophy of Science (Taibei, March 2002). 2 Lih 1991: 6. 3 “A plane angle is the inclination to one another of two lines in a plane which meet one another and do not lie in a straight line, … and when the lines containing the angle are straight, the angle is called rectilineal” (Heath 1956: 176). Heath also mentions alternative definitions of the angle that existed in Greek tradition (176– 181).
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concepts, and therefore in order to investigate the discrepancies between the Chinese and Euclidean approaches to geometrical figures it would appear plausible to put under scrutiny the entire set of geometrical concepts. Such an investigation would provide a rational basis for reconstructing the ways in which “geometrical figures” were designed and used in traditional Chinese mathematics.4 This paper offers a preliminary discussion of geometrical diagrams found in Chinese mathematical treatises that may provide useful insights concerning the perception of geometrical figures in traditional Chinese mathematics.
DIAGRAMS IN CHINESE MATHEMATICS: THE STATE OF THE FIELD To my knowledge, there exist no publications in Western languages devoted specifically to mathematical diagrams in China except two recent papers by K.Chemla5 as well as her introduction and annotations to the translation of the Jiuzhang suanshu ີጩ (Computational procedures of nine categories).6 In her 1994 paper Chemla focuses on one particular aspect of Chinese mathematical diagrams, namely, on the use of colours in the commentaries of Liu Hui,7 while her paper of 2002 is devoted to the history of mathematical diagrams in the Song, Yuan, and Ming dynasties; however, in the latter article Chemla indiscriminately calls “diagrams” the objects belonging to two distinct (from the modern viewpoint) categories, namely, (1) the drawings featuring geometrical configurations, and (2) the numerical “tables”, that is, tabulated records of the results of computations performed with counting instruments. Her term “diagram” thus refers to all non-textual elements found in Chinese mathematical texts. ———
4 I.e., the mathematical tradition that existed in China prior to the introduction of Euclidean geometry by Jesuits in the early 17th century. 5 Chemla 1994, 2002. 6 Chemla and Guo 2004: 673–684. Western authors suggested various translations of the title of the treatise, for instance, Computational procedures in nine chapters, Nine chapters on mathematical art, etc. In Volkov 1986 I provided arguments against the interpretations of the word zhang ີ used in the title of the treatise in its modern sense (“chapter”) and suggested that the term jiuzhang ີ (dubbed here as “nine categories”) was related to a universal classification scheme (and, in this particular context, to a classification of mathematical methods). 7 Although Chemla’s paper is focused on the use of colours in the mathematical work of Liu Hui (fl. ca. 263), it contains important insights pertaining to the history of Chinese mathematical diagrams in general. Some relevant observations were also published in Chemla (1997, see esp. pp. 120–121, n. 57).
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In his 1987 book (slightly amended and published in English in 1997), J.-C. Martzloff mentioned some “material objects” represented by the “figures” which, he believes, were used in Chinese mathematics: […] another equally common approach involves the manipulation of material objects, like the pieces of jigsaw or a building kit, which take the place of planar or three-dimensional figures. […] If actual games (such as the game of tangrams) were involved, the pieces would be given in the beginning. But the same is not necessarily true in mathematics; often, the “metamanipulator” begins with a given object en bloc and forms judicious cuts, sections and fragmentations […].8
These phrases are apparently in slight logical contradiction to each other; moreover, no evidence (archaeological finds, for instance) of the existence of any actual planar or three-dimensional material objects was offered by Martzloff to support his hypothesis of the manipulations with material objects (which he nevertheless calls “common approach”) based on his interpretation of only one excerpt from the commentary of Liu Hui.9 The hypothesis of the representation of geometrical objects with the help of material objects was indirectly supported by K. Chemla. She noticed that the operations with the “diagrams” (tu ቹ) described in Liu Hui’s commentaries on the Jiuzhang suanshu and in Zhao Shuang’s ᎓෯ commentaries on the Zhoubi suanjing ࡌ㌣ጩᆖ (Computational treatise on the gnomon of the Zhou [dynasty]) give the impression that the objects were described as if they were material: Par ailleurs, si l’on considère les opérations que décrivent les commentateurs en général sur les tu, on est gagné par l’impression qu’il s’agit également d’objets matériels: formes découpées, dans du papier nous dit Liu Hui, coloriées, assemblées ou superposées, disséquées et réarrangées.
To support her hypothesis Chemla refers to Liu Hui’s commentary on problem 16 of chapter 9 of the Jiuzhang suanshu: Dans le commentaire au problème sur le cercle inscrit à un triangle rectangle (chapitre 9), on lit : « On peut tracer/peindre (hua) ceci sur un
———
8 Martzloff 1997: 276. 9 The excerpt Martzloff refers to (Problem 5 of Chapter 9 of the Jiuzhang su-
anshu) actually does not contain any supporting evidence for his claim: the page he refers to (SJSS 1963: 243) contains only three lines of the commentary of Liu Hui on the problem. These three lines do not mention any material objects; conversely, they describe a diagram and the mathematical formulas justified by the diagram.
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petit papier (zhi), découper (fencai) le (long des lignes) de rencontre droites et obliques (des zones de couleur pour les séparer les unes des autres)… ».10
Moreover, she suggests that the diagrams traditionally accompanying the Zhoubi suanjing and credited to the authorship of Zhao Shuang also confirm this hypothesis, since one can see in them representations of forms cut out of paper: Les figures attribuées par l’édition Song à Zhao Shuang concordent également avec cette hypothèse, puisqu’on peut y voir la représentation de formes découpées dans du papier quadrillé et superposées.
Finally, she conjectures that the visual auxiliaries the commentators referred to may have been, in all cases, flat material objects and solid blocks: La thèse, que je ne développerai pas ici, c’est donc que les auxiliaires visuels auxquels renvoient les commentateurs sont dans tous les cas des objets matériels aux dimensions standardisées —formes découpées dans un papier quadrillé pour le plan, blocs pour l’espace— et qu’ils font l’objet, dans le contexte des démonstrations que formulent les exégètes, des mêmes pratiques […].
This conjecture, Chemla believes, can explain the lack of the diagrams in the earliest extant (yet incomplete) printed edition of the Jiuzhang suanshu (1213) and certain discrepancies between the commentaries and the diagrams reproduced in the earliest printed edition of the Zhoubi suanjing, as well as the lack of diagrams in the earliest extant editions of other pre-Song mathematical treatises: C’est ainsi que je rends compte du fait que le commentaire des Neuf chapitres se soit transmis aussi bien sans les tu que sans les blocs ou les baguettes : tous ces objets appartenaient à l’environnement matériel de l’activité mathématique sans pour autant avoir été intégrés, sous aucune forme que ce soit, aux textes.11
This conjecture means that the flat paper models and the (probably wooden, as the radical of the character suggest) three-dimensional models referred to by Liu Hui as “chessmen” (qi ཪ) used to represent flat and solid geometrical figures, respectively, were transmitted together with the mathematical texts, but were not necessarily drawn in them. ——— 10 Chemla 2002: 5. It is important to stress, however, that Liu Hui in his commentary on Problem 16 mentioned by Chemla refers to a “diagram” (tu) before suggesting the “painting on a small piece of paper”, see SJSS 1963: 252. 11 Chemla 2002: 5.
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One can suggest, however, that Liu Hui’s mentions of coloured pieces of paper rather supports the hypothesis that the diagrams used in mathematical discourse were drawn on paper and not, for example, on a sand-board, as it was often the case in ancient Greece. If the diagrams indeed existed and were meant to accompany mathematical treatises, there are two possible ways in which they may have been transmitted: either they were inserted into the body of the text, or gathered together and published separately. The latter most probably was the case for the treatises prior to the end of the first millennium AD, while from the Song-Yuan period onwards the diagrams were inserted in the texts. Their disappearance from early treatises therefore may have been due to certain extraneous causes, such as the physical destruction or loss of the editions of the collections of diagrams or their official proscriptions that may have made impossible their wide reproduction and circulation.
DIAGRAMS IN THE CHINESE MATHEMATICAL TEXTS OF THE FIRST MILLENNIUM AD
Distribution of geometrical diagrams in extant treatises on traditional Chinese mathematics is dramatically uneven: the number of diagrams accompanying the mathematical texts written during the Song, Yuan, and Ming dynasties is overwhelming while there is only one pre-Song treatise containing geometrical diagrams.12 This treatise, Zhoubi suanjing is devoted mainly to astronomical matters, yet contains several diagrams related to a discussion on mathematical issues in its opening section.13 The earliest available edition of the treatise is dated to the 13th century and one cannot be sure how faithfully it reproduced the diagrams, if any, of the earlier editions upon which it was based. However, the titles of several pre-Song mathematical texts listed in the dynastic histories Suishu ၹ (History of the Sui [dynasty]), Jiu Tangshu ៱ା (Old History of the Tang [dynasty]), Xin Tangshu ———
12 For the most ancient Chinese mathematical text, the recently unearthed Suanshu shu ጩᑇ (Writings on computational procedures with counting rods; no later than the early 2nd century BC), see SSS and the facsimile reproduction in ZHMZ: 83– 98; it does not contain diagrams. The extant mathematical treatises from Dunhuang (MSS Pelliot 2667, 3349, 2490, and Stein 930, 19, 5779, 4569, 663) do not contain geometrical diagrams either. 13 See SJSS 1963: 13–22; for translation of the mathematical fragments and reconstructions of the diagrams, see Gillon (1977), Cullen (1995, 1996); Chemla and Guo (2004: 695–701).
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ᄅା (New History of the Tang [dynasty]), and Songshi ݚ (History of the Song [dynasty]), as well as in the catalogue of the Imperial Japanese library Nihonkoku genzai sho mokuroku ֲءഏߠڇ ؾᙕ compiled in 875 do refer to mathematical and astronomical treatises the titles of which contain the word “diagram” (tu); these texts therefore may have originally contained geometrical diagrams.14 The list of the books reads as follows: 1. The Zhoubi tu ࡌ㌣ቹ (Diagrams of the Zhoubi [suanjing]), in 1 juan.15 The book is mentioned only in the astronomical/astrological section (tianwen ֚֮) of the Suishu. The compiler(s) is (are) not specified. 2. The Jiuzhang chongcha tu ີૹቹ (Diagrams of the Nine categories and of the Double Difference), in one juan, by Liu Hui. Mentioned in the Suishu,16 Jiu Tangshu,17 Xin Tangshu,18 but not listed in the Song shi and later histories. The Japanese catalogue instead mentions the treatise Jiuzhang tu ີቹ (Diagrams of the Nine Categories), in one juan;19 it is possible that the Japanese catalogue mentions the Chinese treatise with abridged title or that the treatise was a collection of the diagrams related exclusively to the Jiuzhang suanshu. 3. The Suishu mentions the book entitled Jiuzhang tuitu jingfa ີ ංቹᆖऄ (The methods of the treatise of development of diagrams of the Nine Categories (?)), in 1 juan, by one Zhang Jun ് . This treatise is not mentioned in other sources. Its title contains the term “development of diagrams” (which also can be understood as “deduction/inference of/on diagrams”); such term, to my knowledge, never occurred in mathematical texts. 4. The Liuzhang tu քີቹ (The diagrams of the Liuzhang [suanshu]), in 1 juan, the compiler(s) unspecified.20 This book is listed only in the Japanese catalogue and most probably was a collection ——— 14 One can argue that a treatise may have contained diagrams even though its title did not contain the term tu. However, the compilers of the bibliographical section of the Suishu in the case of one astronomical treatise provided a remark stating “[the treatise] contains diagrams” (nei you tu փڶቹ), while the title of the book did not contain the word tu (SS: 1018). This suggests that, at least as far as the books listed in the Suishu are concerned, the mathematical books without the word tu in their titles did not contain diagrams. 15 SS: 1018. 16 SS: 1025. 17 JTS: 2038. 18 XTS: 1546. 19 NGSM: 32b. 20 NGSM: 32b.
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of diagrams related to the treatise Liuzhang, is a mathematical treatise listed in several bibliographies in Korea and Japan but never mentioned in Chinese bibliographies. 5. The Sankai tu Կၲቹ (The diagrams of the Triple root extraction or The diagrams of three [types] of root extraction), in 1 juan, the compiler(s) unspecified. The treatise was listed only in the Japanese catalogue.21 Most likely it contained the diagrams related to the book entitled Sankai Կၲ mentioned in several Japanese sources. 6. The Haidao tu ௧ቹ (The diagrams of the [treatise] on Sea Island), in 1 juan, the compiler(s) unspecified. The treatise is mentioned only in the Japanese catalogue.22 Most probably the treatise contained the diagrams related to the Haidao suanjing by Liu Hui (fl. 263). 7. The Tiantu lishu ֚ቹᖟ (The calendrical procedures of the diagrams of the sky), in 1 juan, the compiler(s) unspecified. The treatise is mentioned only in the Suishu.23 Apparently, this treatise was a calendrical work. The same dynastic history reports one more calendar book containing diagrams, Sanwu li shuotu Կնᖟ ᎅቹ (Explanations and Diagrams of the ‘Three-Five’ Calendar), as missing.24 8. The Qishen suiri yongju tu 壀ᙟֲݝشቹ (Diagrams of the Boards to be Used [to predict the manifestations] of Energies and Spirits According to the Day), in 1 juan, the compiler(s) unspecified. The book is mentioned in the Songshi.25 This treatise was probably related to astrology rather than mathematics. Remarkably enough, all these treatises were only one juan long, that is, they were relatively short. None of them exists nowadays; however, one can make a number of conjectures concerning their contents. It can be suggested that the treatise Zhoubi tu probably was not an edition of the Zhoubi suanjing containing mathematical diagrams,26 but rather a collection of images of astronomical diagrams ——— 21 22 23 24 25 26
NGSM: 33a. NGSM: 33a. SS: 1023. SS: 1024. SSh: 4274. The reason for this conjecture is that the bibliographic entry does not contain any mention of Zhao Ying ᎓᚛ (aka Zhao Shuang ᎓෯ and Zhao Junqing ᎓ܩ ହ, dates unknown, probably late Han or 3rd c. AD), and of Zhen Luan ጉᩂ (fl. 560), the presumed authors of the mathematical diagrams in the earliest extant edition (Song).
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related to the cosmological theory Gaitian ።֚ explicated in the Zhoubi suanjing. 27 It also can be conjectured that the Jiuzhang chongcha tu was a collection of diagrams related to a version of the Jiuzhang suanshu published together with the diagrams taken from the original version of the Haidao suanjing (Computational Canon on Sea Island) by Liu Hui (fl. ca. 263).28 If this conjecture is correct, the diagrams referred to in the two treatises were not incorporated in the texts but circulated as a separate book credited to the authorship of Liu Hui. The hypothesis that the diagrams may have been published separately offers a possibility to explain why at some moment the diagrams of these and other treatises disappeared while the treatises themselves remained extant. Meanwhile, the titles of the treatises Liuzhang tu, Sankai tu, and Haidao tu suggest that compilations exclusively featuring the diagrams and accompanying mathematical treatises were rather common. One can suggest that the same practice existed even after the 7th century, when the Haidao suanjing was edited by Li Chunfeng and published as a separate book, yet it remains unknown whether the Haidao tu was a Chinese, a Korean, or a Japanese compilation. The title of treatise Jiuzhang tuitu jingfa, is somewhat difficult to interpret, even though several hypotheses concerning its contents can be suggested; it is not impossible that the title was distorted by later copyists.29
PROSCRIPTIONS AND CENSORSHIP There may have been serious reasons for not keeping books containing diagrams in private collections. The Tang Code (Tanglü ା৳) ———
27 The same source contains such items as Huntian tu ྖ֚ቹ (Diagram(s) of the Spherical Heaven) and Huntian tuji ྖ֚ቹಖ (Notes on the Diagram(s) of the Spherical Heaven) that may have contained cosmological diagrams related to the cosmological theory Huntian. 28 As the same bibliographical chapter of Suishu suggests, there existed a treatise entitled Jiuzhang chongcha ີૹ by Liu Hui, in 10 juan. According to the conventional interpretation, this was the original version of the Jiuzhang suanshu with Liu Hui’s commentaries together with the additional chapter (Chongcha) written by Liu Hui. Li Chunfeng and his collaborators edited these texts and published them in 656 as two distinct treatises: the Jiuzhang suanshu and the Haidao suanjing. 29 It is possible that the copyist mistook the character yuan Ⴝ (circle) for tu ቹ (diagram) and jing உ (diameter) for jing ᆖ (treatise). In this case the hypothetical original title of the treatise, Jiuzhang tui yuanjing fa ີංႽஉऄ (The development/inference of the method of a diameter of/and a circle, according to the Nine Categories), would make more sense mathematically.
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officially promulgated in 653 stated: 壆خွᕴढΖ֚֮ቹΖᨅΖԮឱᖟΖ֜ԫሼֆڤΖߏ୮ լڶΖሔृஈԲڣΖ Private households cannot possess any images of the Dark/Obscure (= the Heaven) and [related] instruments and objects; [the books on] the Celestial Patterns (= celestial bodies/constellations); the Diagram ቹ [= Hetu ࣾቹ] and the Scripture [= Luoshu Ꮐ/];30 the books of prophecies; the books on military art; the calendars of Seven Luminary Bodies; the [Divination Board] of the Great Unit and the [Divination] Board of the Duke of Thunder, [etc]. Those who do not obey will become subjects of forced labor for 2 years.31
In 739, an imperial edict proscribed all books related to divination (Yin-Yang and shushu ᑇ, i.e., numerology) except for divination on marriages and deaths. The proscription of astronomical and divination books became more specific during the Later Zhou dynasty (951–960). The Imperial edict of 953 mentioned four principal categories of the forbidden books: article 1 reiterated the Tang Code yet stated that the books and the instruments should be burnt; article 2 insisted that the scholars from the Astronomical Bureau (Sitian jian ֚) and the Forest of Brushes Academy (Hanlin ᘃࣥ) should not show to the staff of other departments the books and instruments they used; article 3 specified the allowed books on divination, and article 4 stated that the calendars were not allowed to be calculated by the population. This edict was included in the Code of the Later Zhou (Hou Zhou xingtong ৵ࡌ٩อ, or Da Zhou xingtong Օࡌ٩อ) in 958. The Code of the Song (Song xingtong ݚ٩อ), published in 963, followed the Tang Code and the Code of the Later Zhou, and the wording of the Tang Code about the proscribed books and instruments was kept intact. In an imperial edict of 972 this prohibition was reinforced and new items were added to the list; the edict focused exclusively on astronomy, calendar, and divination. In 977 a new edict proscribed the circulation of all books on astronomy/astrology (tianwen), physiognomy (xiangshu ઌ), and astrological calculations using the methods Liuren ք֙ and Dunjia ሜظ. All proscribed books were supposed to be sent to the authorities; those who did not comply would be decapitated. However, it is quite likely that ——— 30 It is not clear, however, whether the Hetu and Luoshu referred to their later numerological counterparts, the “magic cross” and “magic square”, respectively. 31 Tanglü ା৳, juan 9 “Zhizhi” ࠫ (Administrative regulations), Article 20 (110); see TLSY, vol. 2, p. 82.
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a relatively large number of books still circulated in the Empire since another edict (1004) stated that those who did not report on the books in their households would be put to death, while those who report to the authorities about the book-holders would be generously rewarded. However, the proscription was not specific enough, and the authorities and population might have had difficulties in identifying books as proscribed. A special commission of official scholars was working on more efficient edict, and in 1039 its project was submitted to the emperor and an index of the forbidden books was compiled.32 Given that keeping astronomical books, charts and diagrams in one’s private library was considered a serious criminal offence, and given that the authorities may have had difficulties in identifying proscribed books and punished the holders of any books containing suspicious diagrams, it would be reasonable to conjecture that a considerable number of mathematical books containing mathematical diagrams (and, in particular, the collections of diagrams published separately) may have been destroyed in the 7th–11th centuries together with astronomical books, either by their owners or by the governmental officers. If proven valid, this hypothesis could explain the quasitotal lack of diagrams in the extant mathematical books prior to the Song dynasty.
LIU HUI AND HIS DIAGRAMS The commentaries of Liu Hui on chapters 1, 4, and 9 of the Jiuzhang suanshu contain a number of explicit references to diagrams (tu), yet the only extant chapters (chapters 1–5) of the earliest extant edition of the Jiuzhang suanshu (1213) do not contain any of them. When were the diagrams removed from the text? The preface to Yang Hui’s ᄘᔕ Xiangjie Jiuzhang suanfa ᇡᇞີጩऄ (Detailed explanations of the Computational Methods of Nine Categories) by the Southern Song dynasty functionary and book collector Bao Huanzhi ᚁհ, reproduced in the collection Yijiatang congshu, suggests that chapters 6–9 of the Northern Song edition available to Bao contained no diagrams either.33 The story runs as follows: in 1200 Bao Huanzhi obtained an “old book from the [Northern Song] Capital Bian [= ——— 32 For more details see Volkov (2003). 33 XJS: 759 (5a–b of the Yijiatang edition). This text is published under the title
“A postface to the Jiuzhang suanshu by Bao Huanzhi” in Li Jimin’s critical edition of the classic (JZSSJ: 558–560). See also Chemla 2002: 4, n. 11.
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Kaifeng]” kept in the private collection of one Yang Zhongfu ᄘ࢘ ᎖, another Song state functionary working in the Astrological Bureau.34 The book was the 1084 block-print of the Jiuzhang suanshu. Bao Huanzhi quotes the phrase “࣫אΔᇞ᧯شቹ” from its preface by Liu Hui (I will discuss the meaning of this phrase below) and conjectures that the diagrams were still extant by the Tang dynasty (ࠡቹ۟ାྫ ;)ڇhowever, they were no longer found in the copy of 1084 he obtained. Does Bao’s testimony confirm that the diagrams of Liu Hui (if we assume that they ever existed)35 had been removed from all editions prior to the late 11th century? Such a conclusion would be premature for at least two reasons: firstly, Bao Huanzhi apparently assumed that the diagrams must have been incorporated in the text, while the sources cited above suggest that the diagrams may also have been published separately; secondly, as the story above suggests, certain old mathematical books were kept in private collections of scholars and thus may have escaped censorship; therefore one cannot claim that all editions of the Jiuzhang suanshu containing Liu Hui’s diagrams disappeared as early as the 11th or 13th century. The explicit references to diagrams (tu) in the commentary of Liu Hui on the Jiuzhang suanshu are listed in Table 1 below: Problem no.36 and references to descriptions of diagrams in the text37
Contents of the diagram, according to Coloured parts of the diagrams mentioned in the references found in Liu Hui’s com- Liu Hui’s commentary in the order in which mentaries they appear in the text
JZ 1.32 Q 103–104, GL 91 [Q 105, GL 93]38
A hexagon and a dodecagon inscribed in a circle of radius 1 chi
(No colours are specified)
———
34 Active in 1174–1207; for his biography see Chen (1992). 35 Bao apparently understood the word tu in the sense of “geometrical diagrams
drawn in the book” and not as material objects; this understanding, most probably, was shared by his contemporaries. 36 “JZ X.Y” means “Problem number Y, Chapter X, of the Jiuzhang suanshu” in the edition SJSS 1963; the order numbers in the edition SJSS 2001 may differ. 37 “Q x[–y]” or “GL x[–y]” mean “Page(s) x[–y] in the edition of Qian Baocong (SJSS 1963)” or “Guo Shuchun and Liu Dun (SJSS 2001)”, respectively. 38 This diagram is referred to as “the diagram of the field in the form of an arc” dealt with in JZ 1.36.
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JZ 1.36 Q 105, GL 93;39 Q 109, GL 95
A circle inscribed into a square; a dodecagon and a square inscribed into the circle.40
Red ڹ: ¼ of the difference between the circumscribed square and the inscribed dodecagon; Sky-blue ॹ: ¼ of the difference between the dodecagon and the inscribed square; Yellow ႓: ½ of the square inscribed into the dodecagon.
JZ 4.16 Q 150, GL 121– 122
A large square dissected by three horizontal and three vertical lines into three squares and four rectangles
Yellow ႓: two of three inner squares; Red ڹ: two rectangles adjacent to yellow squares; Sky-blue ॹ: two rectangles adjacent to red rectangles and to the second yellow square.
JZ 9.1–JZ 9.3 Unidentified diagram(s), probably, Q 241, GL 18541 featuring a right-angle triangle and used for a demonstration of the Pythagorean theorem; see below
Red ڹ: the square on the base (short side) of the right-angle triangle; Sky-blue ॹ: the square on the height of the right-angle triangle.
JZ 9.5 Q 243.1–2, GL 186
A diagram featuring squares of the base and height of right-angle triangle (the same as in JZ 9.1–3); at least two unidentified diagrams (probably, used in JZ 9.6); see below
Sky-blue ॹ: the L-shaped figure (“set-square”) inscribed into a square; White ػ: the square added to an L-shaped figure to form a larger square
JZ 9.11 Q 246–247, GL 188
A diagram featuring the square with Red ڹ: the rectangle of the area ab the side (a+b) composed of a central Yellow ႓: the small square of the area (b–a)2 square with the side (b–a) and four in the centre of the diagram rectangles with the sides a and b (for a right angle triangle with the base a, height b, and hypotenuse c)
JZ 9.12 Q 248, GL 193
A combination of two “square plus set-square” diagrams mentioned in JZ 9.5
Sky-blue ॹ: L-shaped figure Yellow ႓: the central square in the configuration
JZ 9.14 Q 250, GL 189
A diagram featuring the square of the sum of the base and height of rightangle triangle (a+c)2 with an added Lshaped “set-square” of the area b2
Red ڹ: the square on the hypotenuse or on the base of the right-angle triangle Yellow ႓: the square on the base or on the hypotenuse of the triangle Sky-blue ॹ: the L-shaped figure
JZ 9.15 Q 251–252, GL 189–190
A diagram of two identical right-angle Red ڹ: a right angle triangle tri-angles with inscribed squares; the Sky-blue ॹ: a right-angle triangle triangles are joined together and trans- Yellow ႓: the inscribed square formed into a rectangle (two diagrams?)
JZ 9.16 Q 252, GL 190
A diagram of two identical right-angle triangles with inscribed circles; the triangles are joined together to form a rectangle (two diagrams?)
Red ڹ: a right-angle triangle Sky-blue ॹ: a right angle triangle Yellow ႓: an isosceles right angle triangle, one half of the square on the radius of the circle
Table 1
———
39 The commentator refers here to the diagram from the problem JZ 1.36. No colours are mentioned. 40 The diagrams accompanying the problems JZ 1.32 and JZ 1.36 most probably were not the same, since in JZ 1.32 Liu Hui explicitly refers to the latter diagram as associated with the problem JZ 1.36. 41 Probably, also referred to in JZ 9.5 (Q 242, GL 186).
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There are only four colours used in the diagrams: white, sky-blue, vermillion-red, and yellow. In one case (JZ 4.16) Liu Hui also uses the cyclical characters (jia ظ, yi Ԭ, ...) taken in the meaning “first”, “second”, to differentiate the coloured surfaces he is referring to. A similar simultaneous use of the colours (mentioned in the commentary) and cyclical signs (inscribed into the figures shown in the diagram) is found in Zhao Shuang’s commentaries on the Zhoubi suanjing. Table 1 shows that the colours were not assigned to the parts of the diagrams by the commentator according to the order in which they appeared in the commentary (say, the first mentioned figure should always be red, the second, sky-blue, and so on). This fact suggests that the commentator referred to already coloured diagrams drawn before his commentary was composed.42 In other words, the way Liu Hui used colours when referring to the geometrical objects suggests that he either depicted the diagrams and coloured them himself (probably according to some unidentified rules), or wrote his commentary referring to the coloured diagrams already drawn by his precursors. The fact that the extant diagrams of the Zhoubi suanjing also contain elements associated with colours and marked with cyclical characters suggests that Liu Hui’s original diagrams were to a certain extent similar to the diagrams found in the Zhoubi suanjing.43 Chemla (1994) suggested a tentative interpretation of two colours (black and red) used by Liu Hui in a three-dimensional configuration in his commentary on problem JZ 5.15: the colours were related to the roles the coloured parts played in the demonstration of the correctness of the algorithm. Whether a similar interpretation could be applicable to all above-listed two-dimensional cases and to the four colours used by Liu Hui remained unexplored. For an alternative hypothesis concerning the role of colours in Liu Hui’s diagrams one can take into consideration the fact that all four colours featured in Table 1 had traditional cosmological connotations and were associated with the centre and three of the four cardinal points: Sky-blue corresponded to the East, Red to the South, White to the West, and Yellow to the Centre. The only colour left unmentioned in the diagrams, ———
42 Another hypothesis concerning the assigning of colours would be that Liu Hui kept one and the same colours for figures of the same type, say, yellow for squares, red for triangles, and so on. This hypothesis, however, must be rejected on the basis of the data presented in Table 1. 43 Chemla conjectured that the original diagrams of the Zhoubi suanjing, if they ever existed, may have been modified considerably under the Song (Chemla 2002: 5).
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black, corresponding to the North, was used in three-dimensional configurations described by Liu Hui in JZ 5.15. The four colours used in two-dimensional diagrams thus may have been referring to the relative positions of the coloured part of the diagrams as seen by the reader of the text; I will explore this hypothesis in a later publication.
PYTHAGOREAN THEOREM: THE USE OF DIAGRAMS Below I provide a partial translation of the first three problems of juan 9 of the Jiuzhang suanshu of which the commentaries contain explicit references to diagrams. The translated excerpt contains the only known early Chinese demonstration of the statement equivalent to the Pythagorean theorem. The discussion that follows offers some hints as to the way in which the geometrical objects may have been perceived and the diagrams may have been used by Liu Hui. Problems 1–3 of Chapter 9 of the Jiuzhang suanshu read as follows:44 վڶԿ֡Ζै֡Ζം༓۶Ζ₳ֳΖն֡Ζ Suppose that there is a hook, 3 chi, a thigh, 4 chi.45 Question: how large is the string? Answer: 5 chi. վڶն֡ΖԿ֡Ζംै༓۶Ζ₳ֳΖ֡Ζ Suppose that there is a string, 5 chi, a hook, 3 chi. Question: how large is the thigh? Answer: 4 chi. վैڶ֡Ζն֡Ζം༓۶Ζ₳ֳΖԿ֡Ζ Suppose that there is a thigh, 4 chi, a string, 5 chi. Question: how large is the hook? Answer: 3 chi. ै The hook-thigh…
———
44 When dealing with right-angled triangles, Chinese mathematicians used the terms gou ( )֍( lit. “hook”), gu ै (lit. “thigh bone”) and xian (lit. “string”) in referring to the smaller side, medium side, and the hypotenuse, respectively. In what follows I adopt the literal translations of the terms. A similar approach was recently employed by Raphals (2002). Chemla and Guo (2004) used the French terms “base”, “hauteur” and “hypoténuse”. 45 The text specifies only the lengths of the “thigh” and the “hook”; compare with the recent translation of Shen et al. (1999: 458–459) where the term “right-angled triangle” is systematically used even though is not found in the original text. This translation thus alters considerably the meaning of the text and misleadingly suggests that the configuration of the hook, the thigh and the string was perceived in the same way as the sides of the “right-angle triangle” in modern mathematics.
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૿ֳΖ९૿ֳैΖઌፖߡֳΖࠡैΖैࠡΖല אਜ࣍壆Ζਚ٣τࠡυθࠠιڼࠡߠאՈΖ Short side is called hook, long side is called thigh, [that which] connects [the sides] of the angle to each other is called string.46 The hook is shorter than its thigh; the thigh is shorter than its string. [This procedure] will be applied to all [various] ratios [of the sides];47 that is why [the treatise] provides this procedure beforehand in order to elucidate its origin.48 ֳΖΕै۞ٺଊΖۖڢၲֱೈհΖܛΖ … procedure reads: multiply the hook and the thigh by themselves, add [the results], extract square root, this [will be] the string. ۞ଊֱڹΖै۞ଊॹֱΖτվυθחιנԵઌᇖΖٺൕࠡ ᣊΖڂ༉ࠡ塒լฝ೯ՈΖֱګٽհᕨΖၲֱೈհΖܛՈΖ [When] “the hook is multiplied by itself,” it is the red square;49 [when] “the thigh is multiplied by itself,” it is the sky-blue square. Let the protruding and the intruding [parts] complete each other, and each [part] follows [the parts of?] its [own] category; 50 as for the remaining
———
46 Shen et al. (1999: 459) translated “the side opposite to the right angle is called the hypotenuse,” thus misleadingly suggesting that Liu Hui operates with the concept of “right angle”. The literal translation of Liu Hui’s phrase shows that the object he discussed, apparently, is not the Euclidian combination of three points connected by three segments of straight lines. Chemla and Guo (2004: 705) suggest “ce qui lie les coins l’un à l’autre est appelé « hypoténuse »”, that is, what is “connected” are the corners of a rectangle; see also Chemla and Guo (2004: 978, n. 5). 47 Liu Hui is most likely speaking about the procedure itself that can be applied to right-angle triangles with the sides having various ratios and not only the ratio 3:4:5. Shen et al. (1999: 459) suggest “They (the sides? – A.V.) apply in various problems in terms of rates of proportion.” The meaning of the expression “in terms of rates of proportions” remains unclear to me. Chemla and Guo (2004: 705) also believe that Liu Hui writes about the sides of the triangle and not of the procedure: “On s’apprête à les utiliser pour les appliquer à toutes les procédures (lü)…”; to justify this understanding they are obliged to interpret the standard mathematical term lü , “ratio”, as “procedure.” 48 Shen et al. (1999: 459) suggest instead: “Hence [I] mention them here so as to show the reader their origin,” as if Liu Hui refers to his philological elucidation of the terms he has provided. This translation omits the central word “procedure” and introduces a “reader”. Liu Hui’s message, however, is clear: he is explaining the mathematical rationale of the method that will be used later in the chapter. 49 This rendering is closer to Liu Hui’s original way to establish the correspondence between the operation (“multiply the hook by itself”) and the visual object (“red square”) than the translation by Shen et al. (1999: 459) “Let the square on the gou [= the hook] be red in colour”. The latter implies that Liu Hui from the outset refers to a given geometrical object (the square on the gou) and specifies its colour. 50 This phrase was translated by Shen et al. (1999: 459) as the following rather obscure prescription “Let the deficit and excess parts be mutually substituted into corresponding positions”, thus making one Chinese word bu (lit. “to mend”) mean “to be substituted” and introducing the word “positions” not found in the original text. Chemla and Guo (2004: 705) suggest: “l’on fait en sorte que ce qui sort et ce qui
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[parts], [they] are to be kept without movement.51 [Once the parts] are put together, the surface of the square on/of the string is accomplished; [if one] extracts the square root, this will be the string.52
I will interrupt the translation here in order to discuss the demonstration suggested by Liu Hui which is no more than a concise verbal formula referring to a missing diagram. The discussion below aims at elucidating the meaning of the former; however, the overall goal of the present discussion is to discern the most common aspects involved in representation of geometrical figures with diagrams.
COMPLETING THE RECTANGULAR AREAS: A SHORT HISTORY Liu Hui’s verbal formula “Let the protruding and the intruding [parts] complete each other” appears equivalent to the formula “mending the void with the excess” (yi ying bu xu אઆᇖဠ) found in his commentary on Chapters 1 and 5 of the treatise.53 The latter refers to the transformations of rectilinear figures (a triangle, a trapezium, and a prism) into rectangles or parallelepipeds performed in order to calculate the area or the volume of the given figure, respectively, yet the details of the transformation were not provided by the commentator. I will briefly introduce the procedure used by Liu Hui as well as by later authors.54 In order to find the area of a “field [having the form of] a ritual tablet gui” (guitian )ضڈ, that is, of an isosceles triangle, the procedure of Problem 26 of Chapter 1 stipulates to divide the “width” of the “field” and to multiply it by the “straight length”, that is, to multiply the half-base by the height. This operation is explained by Liu Hui as “mending the void with the excess”; however, no reference to a diagram is made. There are at least two possible geometrical inter——— entre se compensent l’un l’autre, que chacun se conforme à sa catégorie”. 51 Shen et al. (1999: 459) suggest “the other parts remained unchanged”, while the text mentions the movement of the parts (bu yi dong) and not their change. Chemla and Guo (2004: 705) translate “alors, sur la base du fait que l’on garde ceux (les parties, les morceaux) qui restent sans les bouger,…” thus suggesting that this phrase is logically connected to the final phrase of the excerpt. 52 For other translations, see Wagner (1985); Martzloff (1997: 296). 53 Chapter 1, problems 26 and 28 (SJSS 1963: 102, lns. 1, 8); Chapter 5, problem 1 (SJSS 1963: 160, ln. 2). 54 The reader will find more details on the procedure in Volkov (1985); Chemla and Guo (2004: 138, 768–769).
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pretations of the operation alluded to by Liu Hui shown in Figs. 1a and 1b.
Fig. 1a
Fig. 1b
In Fig. 1a, the triangle ABD is used to fill the “empty” space EBC, while in Fig. 1b AM = BM, BN = CN, and the triangles AMK and CNL are rotated about the points M and N to fill the “empty” spaces FMB and ENB, respectively. In both cases the triangle is transformed into a rectangle (BECD and FELK) and this transformation justifies the verbal formula “Area of the triangle = half-base times height”. Several remarks pertain here. First of all, the word “void” and the operation of “filling the void” make sense only if a certain frame of reference has been set, namely, if the resulting rectangle (BECD or FELK) was perceived by the reader in advance. That is, the reader is expected to be able to perceive the objects supposed to be obtained even before the operations were actually performed. Therefore, even if the reader was manipulating the pictures or material objects representing triangles and rectangles, the operations were performed with imaginary objects such as the empty area BCE in Fig. 1a which was to be “filled” with the part ABD. Euclidean-style mathematical text would have described the construction of the triangle BCE and proved that the triangles ABD and BCE have equal areas. The Chinese author assumes that the reader knows in advance that the “filling the void” would produce a rectangular shape, and describes a transformation of a given figure rather than proving some facts about a static figure. Under these circumstances diagrams might have become optional. This can explain the absence of explicit references to diagrams in the commentary of Liu Hui on Problem 26: his remark about “mending the void with the excess” may well have referred to the whole category of the transformations “restoring” a rectangle, and in
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this case it was not limited to the specific transformations presented with a diagram. However, the treatises of later authors discussed below did provide diagrams in similar situations. The second remark that can be made concerning the suggested transformations shown in Figs. 1a and 1b is that despite their seeming similarity these transformations differ dramatically. The transformation presented in Fig. 1a cannot provide a justification of the procedure of calculation of the area of a triangle in the general case, that is, it cannot be applied in the case where the triangle ABC is no longer isosceles. Conversely, the operation shown in Fig. 1b can be applied to any triangle with non-obtuse angles at the base. Moreover, the transformation shown in Fig. 1a requires the triangle ABD to be “lifted” from the plane to which the triangle belongs and to be turned about any side for 180 degrees in order to fit into the “empty” area BCE. The transformation of Fig.1b does not require such “lifting”: the triangles AMK and CNL can be turned about the points M and N and move into the positions BFM and BEN, respectively, without leaving the plane of the diagram. Which transformation was meant by Liu Hui? In Volkov (1985) I argued for the transformations shown in Fig. 1b on the basis of the analysis of Liu Hui’s commentary on other problems, particularly, on problem 15 of Chapter 5 of the Jiuzhang suanshu. In this latter commentary—translated and discussed in detail in Wagner (1979) and later in Chemla and Guo (2004)—Liu Hui, in order to calculate the volume of a pyramid of a special kind, suggests a transformation of the pyramid and specifically tests the feasibility of the transformation in the general case. The overall impression given by this part of Liu Hui’s commentary is that his main intention was to provide demonstrations valid in the general case while presenting them through particular examples. The decisive piece of evidence comes from another excerpt of Liu Hui’s commentary on the algorithm of Problem 26, Chapter 1: ֳΖתᐖאଊإൕΖ Procedure: halve the width [i.e., the base of the triangle], use it to multiply the upright length [i.e., the height]. תᐖृΖאઆᇖဠऴضՈΖٍإתױൕאଊᐖΖਊתᐖଊൕΖ ࠷אխؓհᑇΖਚᐖൕઌଊᗨޡΖ[…]Ζ “Halve the width” [means] to mend the void with the excess [in order] to produce a “straight field” [i.e., a rectangle]. It is also possible to halve the upright length and to multiply the width with it. Consider
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halving the width and multiplying it by the length. [This is done] in order to get the value of the “median level”. That is why [if] the [half-] width and the [upright] length multiply each other, [they] produce the [number of square] bu of the area. […].55
The commentary refers to two different procedures. Firstly, it contains a second formula for the area of a guitian (Area = half-height times base) which we shall discuss below. Secondly, it depicts an additional explanation of the formula provided in the treatise (Area = half-base times height). Liu Hui explicitly mentions the line MN in Fig. 1b in referring to it as the “median level”. This makes it highly probable that the configuration shown in Fig. 1b was indeed meant by the commentator. Interestingly enough, the terminology used in the text presumes a particular positioning of the discussed object vis-à-vis the reader. For instance, the very words “width” guang ᐖ (also “latitude”, the horizontal dimension of a flat figure, or that perpendicular to the direction of sight of the observer) and “length” zong ൕ/᜕ (also “longitude”, the vertical dimension of a flat figure, or that parallel to the line of sight) used in the problem suggest that the triangle is originally positioned in such a way that its base AC can be referred to as “horizontal” and its height BD as “vertical”. The commentary of Liu Hui is consistent with this positioning: the line MN is referred to by the term “median level” (zhongping խؓ) that contains the word “level” (ping ؓ) explicitly suggesting its horizontal position. The same phenomenon can be observed in other problems of the treatise and in other mathematical works: the names of the elements of each geometrical configuration are given under the assumption of a fixed and standard positioning of the object vis-à-vis the reader even when no explicit references to diagrams are found in the commentary. This suggests that either the reader was supposed to visualise the geometrical figures in certain “canonical” positions, or, more probably, that the text included the diagrams in such an obvious and straightforward way that there was no need for any particular references. The figures may have been incorporated within the lines, as in the 14th century Xiangming suanfa ᇡࣔጩऄ (Detailed explanations of counting methods) by An Zhizhai ַڜស (dates unknown), see Fig. 1c, or placed right above the corresponding paragraphs, as in the edition of the Suanxue qimeng ጩᖂඔ፞ (1299) by Zhu Shijie ڹໃ (Fig. 1d). ——— 55 SJSS 1963, p. 102, lns. 1–2.
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Fig. 1c: The Xiangming suanfa (ZLSJ, vol. 1, p. 1615). The reader can see the images of geometrical figures inserted in the lines of the text. No references to the figures are found in the text.
Fig. 1d: The Suanxue qimeng (1299) by Zhu Shijie (ZLSJ, vol. 1, p. 1338). The diagrams are inserted in the text and placed above the corresponding problems. No references to the diagrams are found in the text.
It would be appropriate to question whether the configurations shown in Figs. 1a and 1b can be found in other Chinese mathematical treatises. The answer is affirmative, yet the actual diagrams look
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slightly different. The earliest of them are, to my knowledge, found in Yang Hui’s Tianmu bilei chengchu jiefa ضఋֺᣊଊೈ൸ऄ (Fast methods of multiplication and division related to [various] categories of fields and [their] measures) of 1275 reprinted in Korea in 1433. The diagram of the guitian is reproduced in Fig. 2a, while diagram in Fig. 2b shows the transformation of the guitian into a rectangle identical to that reconstructed in Fig. 1a.
Fig. 2a: “Diagram of the field in the Fig. 2b: “Diagram of the half-width multiplying the upright length”57 form of a ritual tablet gui (guitian)”56
Two remarks can be made concerning the objects shown in Figs. 2a and 2b. First of all, the diagrams show both the original configuration (Fig. 2a) and the resulting configuration (Fig. 2b) of the transformation. Secondly, one immediately notices the presence of the “grid” composed of unit squares and covering the entire figure. Similar grids can be found in the most ancient extant diagrams from the Southern Song edition of the Zhoubi suanjing.58 However, not all diagrams, even in the book of Yang Hui, are drawn using this particular technique. The grid apparently allows “encoding” of the numerical parameters of the depicted objects; in our case the reader is apparently dealing with an isosceles triangle of base 12 and height 12.59 ——— 56 57 58 59
TBCJ, j.1: 8b (87 in Kodama’s edition). Ibid. See SKSL. However, the second diagram contains two captions inserted into its body; the one near the short side of the rectangle reads “half-width is 6 bu”, and the one near the long side, “upright length is 12 bu”.
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The transformation shown in the second diagram aims at building a rectangle from two parts of the triangle. The area of the rectangle is the number of the unit squares it contains, and the grid shows how all the incomplete unit squares in the triangle can be made complete with the suggested transformation. Even though this is not necessarily the transformation originally meant by Liu Hui, it certainly does fit into the rhetoric formula “to mend the void with the excess”. In this case the “void” is understood as the upper right-hand half of the rectangle 6 x 12 which can be “mended” with the left half of the original triangle. The question which remains open is whether Yang Hui had access to the same tradition of diagrammatic representation as did Liu Hui, or whether he reproduced an alternative (or more recent) tradition, probably aiming at reconstructing Liu Hui’s original diagrams; it is also possible that he was the author of the reconstruction himself. Which of these two scenarios took place remains unknown, yet even if it was the latter one, the reconstruction achieved by the early second millennium may have reflected a long-term tradition of the use of diagrams in this particular case. It may be relevant to consider the entire context in which the aforementioned diagrams appear. Yang Hui offers three methods of calculation of the area of a triangle and provides four diagrams, one for the original triangle and one for each of the transformations needed to justify the algorithms: ضڈԿऄΖ ᐖृתމאױޡΖתشᐖאଊإൕΖ ൕृתމאױޡΖתشൕאޡଊᐖΖ ᐖΕൕޡઃլृתމױΖشᐖΕൕઌଊΖתމΖ Three methods for the fields having the form of a ritual tablet gui: If the [amount] of bu of the width [i.e., the base of the triangle] can be halved, use the half-width to multiply the upright length; If the [amount] of bu of the length [i.e., the height of the triangle] can be halved, use the [amount of] the bu of the half-length to multiply the width; If neither the width nor the length can be halved, multiply the width and the length, and then halve [the product].
A problem follows: վضڈڶΖᐖԼԲޡΖൕԼԲޡΖംض༓۶Λ ₳ֳΖԮԼԲޡΖ
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Let us suppose that there is a field in the form of the ritual tablet gui. The width is 12 bu, the upright length is 12 bu. The question: how large is the field? Answer: 72 bu.60
The three algorithms precede the problem, while four diagrams 2a-d are placed after it. They thus occupy the position Liu Hui’s commentary occupied in his edition of the Jiuzhang suanshu, that of the justification of the algorithm. The first diagram is the picture of the original shape of the guitian (Fig. 2a), while the transformations shown in Figs. 2b, 2c, and 2d correspond to the first, the second and the third algorithm, respectively.
Fig. 2c
Fig. 2d
We may note that the second method (“use the [number of] the bu of the half-length to multiply the width”) was mentioned in Liu Hui’s commentary quoted above (“It is also possible to halve the upright length and to multiply it by the width”). The diagrammatic justification of the method presented in Fig. 2c has the same property as the reconstruction shown in Fig. 1b, namely, it remains valid even when the triangle is no longer isosceles. One can suggest that a similar justification may have been used by Liu Hui. The diagram shown in Fig. 2d differs from those shown in ———
60 TBCJ, j.1: 8a (87 in Kodama’s edition). The bu in the answer must be interpreted, in modern terms, as square bu. This way of expressing the areas was standard in Chinese mathematical texts.
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Fig. 2a-c: one may see it as coloured, even though the colours used here are black and white (if one considers white the parts which are not coloured). The colours mark two functionally different parts of the diagram: the black parts are to be removed from the “frame rectangle,” while the remaining white area is the one to be calculated. The justification of the algorithm Area = (base times height)/2 is based on the fact that the area of the white triangle in Fig. 2d is equal to the area of the black parts. This construction will provide a valid demonstration of the algorithm even when the white triangle is not isosceles. The treatise of Yang Hui also contains a configuration similar to that shown in Fig. 1b and featuring a right-angle triangle (Figs. 3a–d).
Fig. 3a: “Diagram of the hook and the Fig. 3b: “Diagram of the half-hook multithigh”. plying the thigh”.
Fig. 3c: “Diagram of the half-thigh multi- Fig. 3d: “Diagram of the hook and the plying the hook”. thigh multiplying each other and being halved”.
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Once again, Fig. 3a shows the initial stage of transformation, and Figs. 3b–c the final stages, while Fig. 3d shows a particular case of the product of the hook and the thigh. I draw the triangles shown in Figs. 3b and 3c, in Figs. 4a and 4b, respectively, in order to render more visible the transformation suggested by the diagram.61 In Fig. 4a the part CLN is turned counterclockwise about the vertex N to the position BEN and thus the rectangle BELD is formed. The Chinese diagram does not show the part CLN, most probably, because the original triangle has been shown in Fig. 3a. This construction justifies the algorithm presented with the verbal formula “Area = half-hook times height”. One can observe that the transformation suggested in Fig. 3b is similar to that shown in Fig. 1b. As for Fig. 3c, the transformation shown here is presented in Fig. 4b: the triangle BMN is turned about the vertex N clockwise in order to be placed in the position CKN and thus to complete the rectangle CDMK. The area of the rectangle is CD times CK, that is, the halfthigh (half-BD = MD) multiplied by CD (the “hook”).
Fig. 4a.
Fig. 4b.
As the reader has probably already noticed, Yang Hui (and most likely Liu Hui long before him as well) established an exact correspondence between the diagrams and the verbal formulas describing the algorithms. If the algorithm was, for instance, “Halve A and multiply the result by B”, thus corresponding to the modern formula (A/2)⋅B, the Chinese author followed the order of the operations prescribed by the algorithm and constructed the rectangle with the sides A/2 and B. If he had to provide a graphical representation of an ——— 61 For technical reasons Fig. 3c is rotated 90 degrees in Fig. 4b.
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equivalent formula, say, “Multiply A by half-B”, he would have built another object, the rectangle with the sides A and B/2. The formula (A⋅B)/2 led him to yet another geometrical configuration, that of the rectangle with the sides A and B dissected into two parts having equal areas. He did this although he was certainly aware that for any two numbers A and B, (A/2)⋅B is always equal to A⋅(B/2) as well as to (A⋅B)/2. I shall return to this point at the end of the paper when trying to draw some general conclusions concerning the role of geometrical diagrams in traditional Chinese mathematics.
THE RECONSTRUCTION OF THE DIAGRAM FOR PYTHAGOREAN THEOREM The references to the “red square” and “sky-blue square” suggest that the reader was supposed to have access to a coloured diagram (or diagrams) depicting geometrical transformations aimed at composing the “square on/of the string” from the parts of the squares on/of the hook and the thigh, using the technique of fragmentation of involved figures and composition of rectangular surfaces briefly mentioned by Liu Hui in the phrase “let the protruding outside and intruding inside complete/mend each other” (chu ru xiang bu נԵઌᇖ). It is quite possible that the diagram provided enough information on the transformation(s) involved, thus making extensive commentaries superfluous; this explains why in this particular case Liu Hui provides a very short commentary, even though he explicitly acknowledges the importance of the statement. Several reconstructions may be suggested for this diagram, for example, the one shown in Fig. 5.
Fig. 5: The area ACJNPE is blue, the area DGJNP is red.
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In Fig. 5 the triangle ABC rotates counterclockwise for 90° about the point A to become the triangle AEH, while the equal triangle BDG rotates clockwise for 90° about the point D to become DFE. This transformation demonstrates that the sum of the areas of the squares DGJF (hook squared) and AHJC (thigh squared) is equal to the area of the square ABDE (string squared). In the resulting figure ABDE the three “blue” parts (AHE, ABMH, NPE) remain interconnected, as do the two “red” parts (MFD and DFNP). This diagram is shown in Fig. 9.10 in the book by Shen et al. (1999: 461) and referred to as the reconstruction by B. Datta of the proof for the “Pythagorean theorem” in the ancient Indian mathematical treatise Sulbasutra.62 Shen and his co-authors are convinced that the diagram shown in Fig. 5 was not only devised in ancient India but was also used by Zhao Shuang (Zhao Junqing) in the third century AD for the same purpose and was lost later.63 The same diagram is suggested and argued for in Chemla and Guo (2004: 673–684). Other reconstructions of the diagram (or diagrams) referred to by Liu Hui in this problem are, theoretically, also possible; the description of the method is so short and obscure that it is impossible to know what exactly the original diagram(s) was or were. However, what is more important for the current exploration is to acknowledge that Liu Hui did refer to diagrams without actually describing them,64 and that in operating with the diagram(s) he used the technique of transformation of geometrical figures similar to that mentioned in his commentary on Chapter 1 of the treatise.
LIU HUI AND CONTEMPORANEOUS AUTHORS ON DIAGRAMS Liu Hui’s preface of the Jiuzhang suanshu contains the following phrase: ࣫אΔᇞ᧯شቹ
———
62 Shen et al refer to page 76 of Sen and Bag (1983), while the reference is rather due to an early work of Datta (1932). Bag reports that the statement was simply enunciated by the authors of the Sulbasutras Baudhayana, Apastamba and Katyayana, but “no proof of this theorem is given by Baudhayana and other Sulba writers, since it is beyond their tradition” (Bag 1979: 123–124). Bag mentions a number of geometrical reconstructions suggested by Western authors (Bag 1979: 125, nn. 1–5) along with that of Datta (1932: 152) without giving preference to any of them. 63 Shen et al. 1999: 462. 64 In this as in other cases it remains unclear whether Liu Hui was the author of the diagrams he referred to.
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[...I] “broke down/analyzed the structures” with words/statements, and dissected/explained figures/bodies using diagrams [...].65
The first part of this statement contains an allusion to Liu Hui’s own commentary which, in turn, refers to the Zhuangzi ๗,66 while the second part does not appear to contain any specific reference to philosophical literature. A naïve interpretation of the term “bodies” would suggest that Liu Hui meant plane or solid geometrical figures, while “diagrams” referred to the pictures of the “bodies” appended to the original text.67 The analysis below will elaborate on this interpretation.68 To understand Liu Hui’s statement concerning the “dissection of figures” one has to take into consideration all cases where Liu Hui makes use of the term ti ᧯ in his commentary. The most revealing of them is to be found in the commentary on Problem 32, Chapter 1, where Liu Hui discusses the configuration including a circle and an ———
65 SJSS 1963: 91. Compare with the translations of Chemla and Guo: “…si on recourt à des énoncés pour analyser les constitutions internes (li), si on se sert de figures (tu) pour disséquer des corps…” (2004 : 127); they also provide an alternative translation: “si, quand il se présente des constitutions internes (li) à disséquer, on recourt à des énoncés. Quand il se présente des corps (ti) à analyser, on se sert des figures (tu)…” (Chemla and Guo 2004: 754, n. 22). 66 Zhuangzi, chap. 3 “Yangsheng zhu” 塄( سZZJS, vol. 1, p. 119); for the translation, see, for example, (Watson 1968: 50–51). In his commentary on problem 18, chapter 8 of the Jiuzhang suanshu Liu Hui mentions the story about the cook Ding ԭ(SJSS 1963: 237) and deliberately changes the word jie ᆏ (“joints”, as Watson suggests) found in all extant versions of the Zhuangzi to li in order to draw a parallel between the skilful cook’s knife (that follows the structure of joints in the bodies of the oxen when cutting them and thus remains sharp) and the “numbers/computations” (shu ᑇ). The story of the cook Ding precedes a new method introduced by Liu Hui to solve simultaneous equations in several unknowns; this method, unlike the algorithm described in the treatise, takes into consideration the numerical coefficients of the solved simultaneous equations, that is, metaphorically, it also “follows the joints”. It is thus not impossible that originally the preface (which may have been modified later by copyists) was speaking of shu, numbers/numerical parameters, rather than ci , “words”: a careful choice of numerical parameters could indeed be instrumental when analyzing or explaining an algorithm. See also the discussion and references in Chemla and Guo (2004: 754, n. 22). 67 When commenting on the term tu in this phrase, Chemla and Guo suggest “Le terme de tu semble tenir lieu de l’emsemble des auxiliaires visuels dont Liu Hui peut se servir, comme les blocks…” (Chemla et Guo 2004: 754, n. 22). 68 Liu Hui does not claim explicitly that he authored the diagrams used to “dissect” the “bodies”, yet the entire context makes such a claim rather probable, and conventional scholarship unanimously credits him with the authorship of the diagrams he referred to. However, even if the version(s) of the treatise available to Liu Hui did not contain diagrams, one cannot be sure whether the diagrams were present in other contemporaneous versions of the text and lost later, or whether the compiler(s) of the treatise originally omitted diagrams (intentionally or for purely technical reasons).
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inscribed polygon in the context of his infinitesimal procedure of the calculation of the area of a circle. The polygon and the circle are said to “unite [their] bodies” (he ti )᧯ٽ.69 Modern translators of Liu Hui’s commentary rendered the word ti in this context in different ways: some of them simply did not translate it, some chose neutral “shape”,70 some decided to render it referring to the context (for example, “entire area [of the circle]”)71 or simply to adopt the vocabulary meaning of the involved terms (e.g., “substance of the disk”).72 Chemla proposed “constitutive being” in referring to the use of the pair ti ᧯ / yong شin the texts of Wang Bi, a neo-Taoist philosopher of the 3rd century AD. She writes: “Ti, sometimes translated as structure, could refer to the constitutive being, inasmuch as one gives its generation by a procedure. Yong would be its manifestation via the procedure.”73 This approach suggests that the he ti in question is not a mere acknowledgment of a “coincidence of the polygon and the circle” but a reference to a more subtle relationship between the two objects explicated via categories of contemporaneous philosophy. Accordingly, the above-mentioned authors suggested different renderings of the phrase he ti in Liu Hui’s commentary.74 However, the meaning of the ti in philosophical texts may vary; for instance, in the Zhuangzi the word ti refers to an entity composed of several parts perceived as different and at the same time constituting a unity.75 The discussion of the terms ti and yong in Liu Hui’s commentaries would lead us far beyond the scope of the present paper; the only conclusion one can draw is that the term ti in Liu’s preface does not simply mean “bodies” or “flat/solid figures”, but rather refers to a philosophical category employed in mathematical context, namely, to the investigated objects perceived as having some particular structure. This observation will allow us to suggest an interpretation of the term ——— 69 For a description of the procedure and of Liu Hui’s theoretical approach, see Volkov (1994). 70 Lam and Ang 1986. 71 Chen 1987: 21. Chen does not take into account the fact that other terms (mi ᕨ, ji ᗨ, in some cases shi ኔ) were systematically used to convey the concepts of area and surface in Liu Hui’s commentary and in other mathematical texts. 72 Martzloff 1997: 278. 73 Chemla 1996: 107, n. 39. 74 He 1983: 92; Lam and Ang 1986: 336; Li and Du 1987: 68; Martzloff 1997: 278; Chen 1987: 21; Chemla 1996: 79; Chemla and Guo 2004: 179, 772, n. 110. 75 In the Zhuangzi this relationship between the concepts of he (unity) and ti (body) is manifested, for example, in such statements as “They [= the Heaven and the Earth] join to become a body” (ZzY 48/19/6), he ze cheng ti ٽঞ᧯ګ, translation by B.Watson (1968: 198); see also the translation by Liou Kia-hway “Par leur union, ils forment le corps” (Liou 1969: 150).
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tu used in Liu Hui’s Preface, once we take into consideration the classification of tu made by the contemporaneous writer Yan Yanzhi ᠱ հ (384–456):76 ቹሉհრڶԿΖԫֳΖቹΖ࠳ွਢՈΖԲֳΖቹᢝΖڗᖂਢՈ ΖԿֳΖቹݮΖᢄਢՈΖ There are three [types] of intention/meaning carried by the diagrams: first is to depict principles, such are the symbols of hexagrams; second is to depict concepts, such is the teaching about [the structure of] characters; third is to depict [perceptible] forms, such is the [conventional] painting.77
This classification appears to embody a theoretical concept expressed as early as the Xici zhuan ᢀႚ: the symbolic representation of phenomena via hexagrams is closer to their original nature than verbal interpretations.78 Interestingly enough, in his Preface Liu Hui quotes the Xici zhuan and mentions the story of Bao Xi who invented the Eight Trigrams and used them to discern the properties of natural phenomena. The work of Liu Hui was, in his words, to analyze the aspects of Yin and Yang featured in the mathematical text in order to reveal the original intentions of its compilers. His abovequoted statement about “breaking/analysing the joints/principles (xi li) with words (ci)”79 and “dissecting/understanding (jie) the figures/bodies (ti) using diagrams (tu)” thus may have referred to two levels of interpretations mentioned in the traditional scheme: using verbal formulas and using images.80 The case of the phrase he ti discussed above suggests that ti in Liu’s discourse appears close to the li (“principles”, “structures”) mentioned by Yan Yanzhi, and that Liu Hui’s “explaining the ti with diagrams”, therefore, does not refer to a mere drawing geometrical figures, but rather to a visual representation of the “inner structure” of the investigated objects. In this case ———
76 As quoted in the Lidai minghua ji ᖵټזಖ (Notes on famous painters of [all] generations, 847) by Zhang Yanyuan ്৯ (b.ca. 810 – d.ca. 880). For more on Yan Yanzhi, see Acker 1979: XLVII. 77 LMJ: 2; see also Acker (1979: 64–5). Translation of Acker reads: “[The director of Imperial Banqueting Court Yen (Yen-chih) said that] the word t’u contains three concepts. The first is the representation of principles: the forms of the hexagrams (of the Book of Changes) are such. The second is the representation of concepts: the study of written characters has to do with this. The third is the representation of forms, and this is painting”. 78 Xici zhuan, A8: 38 ff. 79 Or “numerical parameters” if the text was corrupted; see above. 80 Or using numbers and images, if the text is corrupted and has to be emended as suggested above.
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one may question how close the diagrams used by Liu Hui were to their modern reconstructions.
CONCLUSIONS According to Euclidean geometry, genetically related to the Platonic philosophy of mathematics, graphical representation of geometrical objects were no more than imperfect images of ideal mathematical objects;81 for example, a configuration of three dots marked on a paper and connected to each other with a straightedge represented only an imperfect image of an ideal triangle, while the “true” vertices and edges of the triangle could not be depicted, since, according to Euclidean definitions, “dots” and “lines” were ideal objects without parts and widths, respectively. The modern way of dealing with mathematical diagrams is ultimately related to the theoretical foundations of the discipline laid down by the Greeks. The modern reader of mathematical texts is supposed to be aware from the outset of the differences between the mathematical objects, their models, and graphical representations of the models, as well as to be able to distinguish between facts concerning particular models (which can be checked empirically, say, with a ruler) and universally true statements that require a formal proof in the framework of an axiomatic system. However, the axiomatic method of structuring mathematical knowledge historically was only one option among many, and therefore pictures in non-axiomatic traditions might have been considered very differently as far as their role in mathematical discourse was concerned. This means that a modern historian of mathematics should investigate the theoretical premises of a given mathematical tradition in order to describe adequately the role played in this tradition by diagrams. This task may appear difficult in some cases, given that the ancient methods of interpretation of the diagrams remained unstated in the texts in both axiomatic and non-axiomatic mathematical traditions. Under these circumstances the only way to proceed would be to put under scrutiny even the slightest hints pertaining to the subject scattered through ancient mathematical texts, together with those found in sources belonging to more general context. Moreover, as with any graphical representation, mathematical dia———
81 Recent work of Netz (1999) would provide a necessary corrigendum for this oversimplified picture.
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grams found in pre-modern mathematical texts could not be exact “photographic” images of the mathematical objects (or their models), either in axiomatic or “non-axiomatic” context. A mathematical diagram always remained a drawing, that is, the result of a certain procedure of visual “encoding” understandable to the representatives of a particular tradition, and certainly to the readers of the mathematical texts; it thus needed to be “decoded” in the standard way prescribed by the professional community. The way of “encoding” was shaped by a number of implicit conventions adopted in a given cultural context, including the most general principles of drawing. Accordingly, the mathematical drawings from different traditions may have differed dramatically. Moreover, even within one mathematical tradition various “schools” may have existed, and within one “school” there might be differences due to the styles and principles adopted by individual mathematicians. The reconstruction of the way in which Chinese mathematical diagrams were designed and used therefore has to be carried out simultaneously with the analysis of the contemporaneous discourses concerning the ontological status of the mathematical objects. My cursory investigation into the tradition of diagrammatic representations in early traditional Chinese mathematics suggests that the earliest known diagrams of the early first millennium AD, those referred to by Liu Hui, were mainly focused on “depicting the structure”; more specifically they were focused on the representation of the general patterns of the transformations of the objects rather than the structure of the objects themselves. The resulting diagrams could be called “conceptual diagrams” and their main function was to provide descriptions of the geometrical transformations to be performed in order to justify mathematical algorithms. However, for various (and still unknown) reasons these diagrams had disappeared almost entirely by the end of the first millennium AD. The earliest extant printed diagrams found in the Song edition of the Zhoubi suanjing probably reflects at least one particular aspect of this tradition, namely, a close interrelationship between geometrical and algorithmic (or algebraic) considerations expressed in the form of “grid diagrams.” The Song edition of the Zhoubi suanjing, however, did not transmit precisely the original diagrams, as their analysis by modern scholars demonstrates; apparently, the ways in which the pictures in mathematical books were interpreted also changed considerably, and this change accounts for their distortion in subsequent editions. The later tradition
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of mathematical diagrams in China splits into several strands: it appears that Yang Hui attempted to perpetuate the original approaches to diagrams, in particular, discerning the initial and the final stage of transformations and thus once again representing the transformation of figures rather then figures themselves, while other authors did not follow this tradition and used diagrams in their writings in different ways.82 This and other cases may suggest that by the Yuan dynasty the “conceptual diagrams” of the forefathers of Chinese mathematical tradition of the early first millennium AD gradually gave way to a tradition of “naïve” representation of geometrical objects of which the examples can be found in the Ming dynasty books on “popular mathematics”. REFERENCES Sources in Asian Languages JTS – Jiu Tangshu ៱ା. Shanghai: Zhonghua shuju, 1975. JZSSJ – Li Jimin ޕᤉၰ , ed. Jiuzhang suanshu jiaozheng ີጩீᢞ. Xi’an: Shaanxi kexue jishu chubanshe, 1993. NGSM – Fujiwara Sukeyo ᢏ۸. Nihonkoku genzai sho mokuroku ֲءഏߠڇ ؾᙕ. Baibucongshu jicheng ۍຝហႃګ, the Guyi congshu ײၝហ series, vol. 18. [Taibei]: Yi wen yin shu guan, 1966. SJSS 1963 – Qian Baocong ᙒᣪ⓫, ed. Suanjing shishu ጩᆖԼ. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1963. SJSS 2001 – Guo Shuchun ພਞ, Liu Dun Ꮵၬ, eds. Suanjing shishu ጩᆖԼ. Taibei: Jiuzhang chubanshe, 2001. SKSL – Song ke suanjing liu zhong ࠥݚጩᆖքጟ. Beijing: Wenwu, 1980. SS – Suishu ၹ. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1973. SSh – Songshi ݚ. Shanghai: Zhonghua shuju, 1977. SSS – Peng Hao ༙௯. Zhangjiashan Hanjian “Suanshu shu” zhushi ്୮՞ዧ១ጩ ᑇࣹᤩ. Beijing: Kexue, 2001. TBCJ – Yang Hui ᄘᔕ. Tianmu bilei chengchu jiefa ضఋֺᣊଊೈ൸ऄ. In: Jnjgoseiki-no Chǀsen kan dǀkatsujiban snjgakusho Լնધ圸ཛធעᎭڗठ䀀䝤 , ed. Kodama Akihito ࠝࣔدԳ. Tokyo: private publication of Kodama Akihito, 1966. TLSY – Tanglü shuyi ା৳งᤜ. Taibei: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1956. XJS – Yang Hui ᄘᔕ. Xiangjie Jiuzhang suanfa ᇡᇞີጩऄ. In: ZLSJ, vol. 1, pp. 756–833. XTS – Xin Tangshu ᄅା. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1975. LMJ – Zhang Yanyuan ്৯. Lidai minghua ji ᖵټזಖ. Beijing: Renmin meishu, 1983. ZHMZ – Zhangjiashan Hanmu zhujian (247 hao mu) ്୮՞ዧችێ១(ԲԮᇆ ች), ed. Zhangjiashan 247 hao mu zhujian zhengli xiaozu ്୮՞ԲԮᇆዧች ێ១ᖞ՛ิ. Beijing: Wenwu chubanshe, 2001. ZLSJ – Tian Yinong ضԫል, ed. Zhongguo lidai suanxue jicheng խഏᖵזጩᖂႃ
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82 See Volkov 1997.
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ګ. Jinan: Shandong renmin chubanshe, 1994. ZZJS – Guo Qingfan ພᐜᢋ, Wang Xiaoyu ູݕ׆, eds. Zhuangzi jishi ๗ႃᤩ. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1961. ZzY – Zhuangzi yinde ๗֧. Yenching-Harward Index Series, 20. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1956.
Secondary works of modern authors ACKER, William R.B. 1979. Some T’ang and Pre-T’ang Texts on Chinese Painting. Westport: Hyperion Press. BAG, Amulya Kumar. 1979. Mathematics in Ancient and Medieval India. Varanasi and Delhi: Chaukhambha Orientalia (Chaukhambha Oriental Research Studies 16). CHEMLA, Karine. 1994. “De la signification mathématique de marqueurs de couleurs dans le commentaire de Liu Hui.” Cahiers de linguistique – Asie Orientale 23: 61–76. ——. 1996. “Relations between Procedure and Demonstration. Measuring the Circle in the Nine Chapters on Mathematical Procedures and their Commentary by Liu Hui (3rd century).” In: History of Mathematics and Education: Ideas and Experiences, ed. H.N. Jahnke, Michael Otte, Norbert Knoche, William Aspray. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, pp. 69–112. ——. 1997. “Qu’est-ce qu’un problème dans la tradition mathématique de la Chine ancienne? Quelques indices glanés dans les commentaires rédigés entre le IIIe et VIIe siècles au classique Han Les neufs chapitres sur les procédures mathématiques.” Extrême-Orient Extrême-Occident 19: 91–126. ——. 2002. “Variété des modes d’utilisation des tu dans les textes mathématiques des Song et des Yuan.” Paper delivered at the European and North American Exchanges in East Asian Studies Conference From Image to Action: The Dynamics of Visual Representation in Chinese Intellectual and Religious Culture, Paris, September 2001. Retrieved December 17, 2002, from http://hal.ccsd.cnrs.fr/. CHEMLA, Karine, and GUO Shuchun. 2004. Les neuf chapitres. Le classique mathématiques de la Chine ancienne et ses commentaires. Paris: Dunod. CHEN Cheng-Yih. 1987. “A Comparative Study of Early Chinese and Greek Work on the Concept of Limit.” In: Science and Technology in Chinese Civilization, ed. Cheng-Yih Chen. Singapore: World Scientific Publishing Co., pp. 3–52. CHEN Jiujin ຫՆ८. 1992. “Yang Zhongfu ᄘ࢘᎖” [a bibliographical entry]. In: Zhongguo gudai kexuejia chuanji խഏזײઝᖂ୮ႚಖ, ed. Du Shiran فޙ ྥ. Beijing: Kexue, vol. 1, pp. 604–605. CULLEN, Christopher. 1995. “How Can We Do the Comparative History of Mathematics? Proof in Liu Hui and the Zhou Bi.” Philosophy and the History of Science: a Taiwanese Journal, 4.1: 59–94. ——. 1996. Astronomy and Mathematics in Ancient China: the Zhou bi suan jing. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. DATTA, Bibhutibhushan. 1932. The Science of Sulba: A Study in Early Hindu Geometry. Calcutta: Calcutta University Press. GILLON, Brendan S. 1977. “Introduction, Translation, and Discussion of Chao ChünCh’ing’s ‘Notes to the Diagrams of Short Legs and Long Legs and of Squares and Circles’.” Historia mathematica 4: 253–293. HE Shaogeng. 1983. “Method for Determining Segment Areas and Evaluation of pi.” In: Ancient China’s Technology and Science, compiled by the Institute of the
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History of Natural Sciences, Chinese Academy of Sciences. Ancient China’s Technology and Science. Beijing: Foreign Language Press, pp. 90–98. HEATH, Thomas L. 1956. The Thirteen Books of Euclid’s Elements. Vol. 1. New York: Dover. LAM Lay-Yong and Ang Tian-Se. 1986. “Circle Measurements in Ancient China.” Historia Mathematica 13.4: 325–340. LI Yan and DU Shiran. 1987. Chinese Mathematics. A Concise History. (Tr. by John N.Crossley and Anthony W.-C. Lun). Oxford: Clarendon Press. LIH Ko-wei ޕഏ. 1991. “Zhongguo gudai dui juedu de renshi խഏזײኙߡ৫ ऱᎁᢝ.” In: Shuxue shi yanjiu wenji ᑇᖂઔߒ֮ႃ, ed. Li Di ޕ૭. Vol. 2. Huhhot/Taibei: Neimenggu daxue chubanshe and Jiuzhang chubanche, pp. 6–14. LIOU Kia-hway. 1969. Tchouang-tseu, Oeuvre complete. Paris: Gallimard and Unesco. MARTZLOFF, Jean-Claude. 1997. A History of Chinese Mathematics. Berlin etc.: Springer. NETZ, Reviel. 1999. The Shaping of Deduction in Greek Mathematics: A Study in Cognitive History. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. RAFALS, Lisa. 2002. “A ‘Chinese Eratosthenes’ Reconsidered: Chinese and Greek Calculations and Categories.” East Asian Science, Technology, and Medicine 19: 10–60. SEN, Samarendra Nath, and Amulya Kumar BAG. 1983. Sulbasutras of Baudhayana, Apastamba, Katyakana and Manava with Text, English Translation and Commentary. New Delhi: Indian National Science Academy. SHEN KANGSHEN, John N. Crossley and Anthony W.-C. LUN. 1999. The Nine Chapters on the Mathematical Art. Companion and Commentary. Oxford etc.: Oxford University Press, and Beijing: Science Press. VOLKOV, Aleksei [=Alexei]. 1985. “O vychislenii ploshchadeï v drevnem Kitae” (On the calculation of areas in ancient China). Istoriko-matematicheskie issledovaniya (Studies in History of Mathematics, Moscow) 29: 28–43. ——. 1986. “O nazvanii odnogo drevnekitaïskogo matematicheskogo traktata” (On the title of one ancient Chinese mathematical treatise). In: Istoriya i kul’tura Vostochnoï i Yugo-Vostochnoï Azii (History and culture of East- and South-East Asia), ed. Sergeï V.Volkov. Moscow: Nauka. Part 1: 193–199. ——. 1994. “Calculation of pi in Ancient China: from Liu Hui to Zu Chongzhi.” Historia Scientiarum 4.2: 139–157. ——. 1997. “The Mathematical Work of Zhao Youqin: Remote Surveying and the Computation of π.” Taiwanese Journal for Philosophy and History of Science 8: 129–189. ——. 2003. “‘Public Understanding of Science’ in Historical Perspective: The Case of Mathematical Sciences in Traditional China.” Proceedings of the 2002 Conference on the History of Science and of Sino-Australian Symposium The Public Understanding of Science, Technology and Medicine (Taibei-Hsinchu, Taiwan, April 2002), Taibei: Academia Sinica, and Hsinchu: Tsinghua University, pp. 191–213. WAGNER, Donald Blackmore. 1979. “An Early Chinese Derivation of the Volume of a Pyramid: Liu Hui, Third Century A.D.” Historia Mathematica 6: 164–188. ——. 1985. “A Proof of the Pythagorean Theorem by Liu Hui (third century AD).” Historia Mathematica 12: 71–73. WATSON, Burton, tr. 1968. The Complete Works of Chuang tzu. New York: Columbia University Press.
WOODCUT ILLUSTRATION: A GENERAL OUTLINE∗ Michela Bussotti The details of Fig. 1 below are taken from wood-cuts of the Ming dynasty (1368–1644):
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∗ The author wishes to express her thanks to Georges Métailié for reading this contribution and for his valuable suggestions, to Clare Perkins and Francesca Bray for revising the English.
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These prints illustrate literary works: two different editions of the play Xixiang ji ۫༖ಖ (Figs. 1a/1c) and an anthology of exemplary short stories, the Yangzheng tujie 塄إቹᇞ (Figs. 1d, 1e).1 The last examples (Figs. 1d, 1e) are interesting not only because they show the refinement of the geometrical motifs and the regular designs adopted by Huizhou blockcarvers during the Wanli reign (1573–1620) but also because, as the title of the book says, the illustrations are tu ቹ. As has already been noted, many pictures in books printed in the region of Jiangnan ۂত at the end of the Ming dynasty have no functional value.2 The level of artistic achievement, influence of painting and narrative representation are very advanced. These illustrations are often presented as xiang ቝ or hua , and these two terms appear in some book titles, in titles of pictorial al———
1 These details could be reproduced more clearly if they were taken from the original document, but this was not possible. Indeed, they are imperfect reproductions of reproductions. They are: Fig. 1a, detail of natural setting from Xinkan qimiao quanxiang zhushi Xixiang ji (1954); Figs. 1b, 1c, embroidered flags and Yingying’s ᦉᦉ garments in Yuanben chuxiang bei Xixiang ji (s.d., 1927 ?); Figs. 1d, 1e, screen decorations and vegetables from Yangzheng tujie (2000). 2 This idea was expressed by some participants at the congress From Image to Action, Paris, 3–5 September 2001. During this congress, various kinds of tu were analysed, showing the multiplicity of meaning of the term tu and of the forms of tu, at different periods or in different fields of inquiry. This confirmed the close association between tu and zi ڗ, their religious or intellectual signification as in the case, for example, of talismans and diagrams, or the utilitarian value of this kind of image in printed books.
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bums (huapu ᢜ ) or titles of fully illustrated tales and plays (quanxiang ٤ቝ/ઌ). In the case of anthologies of instructive anecdotes or exemplary bibliographies, the images are very similar in style, quality, arrangement, etc. to some coeval illustrations of tales, plays, etc. Meanwhile, they are defined as tu rather than xiang or hua in this anthology (Figs. 1d, 1e) and also in numerous illustrated editions of Lienü zhuan ٨Ֆႚ:3 wood-cuts illustrating a story, showing artistic merit, 4 with aesthetic pretensions and ornamental value are still considered tu, thanks to the pedagogical and moralistic meaning of the text, which charges the figurative representation with a particular functional value. Concerning the two illustrated Xixiang ji editions, late 15th century detail (Fig. 1a) gives evidence of the attention addressed to the natural world in Chinese illustrations, even in works where the subject of the representation does not necessarily require a landscape. The other details (Figs. 1b, 1c) are clear proof of the level of technical achievement of blockcarvers and print-makers in the large towns of the Jiangnan area circa 1600 AD. Moreover, Fig. 1a comes from a celebrated edition with pictures following each other above the text (shangtu xiawen ՂቹՀ֮): in this format one single image can be spread along many pages. Otherwise, when a double page illustration is visible in full at once—as for the Xixiang ji represented by details of Figs. 1b, 1c—the image has been printed on two half pages, made consecutive after binding. In both cases, the “creators” of such de luxe editions probably planned the association of drawings and texts, the division of an image and the arrangement of its parts on the wood-blocks. Before the widespread distribution of their images of the famous play5 ———
3 The biographical anthology Histories of Women is cited as including poems and images (Lienü zhuan song tu ٨Ֆႚቈቹ) in Hanshu Yiwenzhi, juan 30 (1962, vol. 6: 1727). Tu are discussed in prefaces included in illustrated editions, especially those which include illustrations attributed to the painter Gu Kaizhi ჱհ (344–406 ca.). However, the title of an enlarged version of the anthology printed by a commercial book-shop in Nanjing in 1587 includes the characters quanxiang to announce that the edition is “completely illustrated”. 4 The illustrations of Yangzheng tujie are attributed to the painter Ding Yunpeng ԭႆᣛ (1547–1628). 5 Xixiang ji was already well-known to most of the buyers of these printed items. Indeed, on the one hand, the multiple series of illustrations contributed to a wider distribution of the play and, on the other, the informative role of single prints was reduced. They were not used to help understanding of a new subject, but to confirm an already well-known literary theme and visual representation, adding well-known and “reassuring” elements to certain innovations, which could be attractive for the target buyers.
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as printed copies, people were obliged to think about these wood-cuts6 and to work out the best way to translate visual representations from one medium to another, with an efficacious graphic “language”. Even if there is no proof, it seems pertinent to imagine that illustrators were obliged to carry out practical trials, for example to obtain the right association of colours in prints at the end of the Ming dynasty (Col.Pl. XV). They not only printed in colours using one single block, the same block already used for black and white prints—as in the case of Chengshi moyuan ࿓ּᕠ (Col.Pl. XV.1), an album of ink design models printed in South Anhui in the wanli period—but they also developed an extremely laborious technique for coloured prints using several wood-blocks.7 They printed illustrations or texts using blocks with line drawing (respectively Col.Pl. XV.2 and Col.Pl. XV.3). For images, they also used stippling (Col.Pl. XV.4) and flat coloured surfaces. Thanks to this last method, Hu Zhengyan ߢإbecame one of the most famous publishers of ancient China. In his Shizhuzhai shuhua pu Լ ێស ᢜ (1619–1633, Col.Pl. XV.5), he used graduations of colour, without contours, which produced efficacious painting effects. In another of his albums showing decorations for writing paper or poem paper (the Shizhuzhai jianpu Լێសጧᢜ, 1644–1645), there are also admirable uncoloured and embossed designs (gonghua क़). The books from which these details (Col.Pl. XV) are taken are all famous and beautiful: 8 one of them (Col.Pl. XV.5) is directly concerned with painting, the others have all been influenced by this art and show literati ambitions. They are often presented as ———
6 On western engraving as a form of artistic expression implying projects and considerations, see Rodari (1996: 11). 7 Descriptions of the multicolour printing process (taoban ठ and douban 塐ࣨ, assembled blocks) are numerous: see for example Feng Pengsheng (1999: 50, 133, “modern printing method”), or Tsien (1985: 277–280). “Multicolour wood-block printing was produced by a set of separate blocks, each of which was registered in position and printed in succession…The number of blocks in a set varies from few to several dozen or more, depending upon the variety of colours and tones printed” (ibid: 277). 8 The details are: Col.Pl. XV.1, Chengshi moyuan and Col.Pl. XV.2, Luoxuan biangu jianpu ᧠ನ᧢ײጧᢜ (1626), see Feng Pengsheng (1999: fig. 158 and 253); Col.Pl. XV.4, Hushan shenggai ྋ՞ᄗ printed between 1620–1640 (the only existing copy is in Paris), and Col.Pl. XV.3, a detail of a multicolour page from an annotated Chuci ᄑ edition (kept in the Bibliothèque Nationale of France), both are reproduced in Cohen and Monnet (1992: 149, 152–153); Col.Pl. XV.5, Shizhu zhai shuhua pu, see Luo Shubao and Zhongguo yinshua bowuguan (1998: 83); Col.Pl. XV.6, album of Xixiang ji, kept in Köln, reproduced by Dittrich ed. (1977).
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masterpieces which, of course, cannot be numerous. Indeed they are rare examples, the “exceptions”—perhaps we should say the “accidents”—in an output of wood-cuts which were often less carefully produced and nearly always in black and white. In China (as in the West) the simple traditional technique of woodcutting requires blocks of hard wood, often the wood of fruit trees, for example pear. 9 According to the Chinese tradition, the (often rectangular) wood-blocks are soaked in water over a period of days, or, to save time, boiled, left to dry, spread with vegetable oil and polished. Once it is ready, the block is spread with rice paste, and a fine sheet of paper bearing the text or/and design is laid on it, written side down. When the paste has dried, the upper paper layer is rubbed off and the mirror image or the text looks as if it were inscribed directly on the wood. The block is then ready to be cut with different kind of tools: cutting knifes, gouges and double-edged chisels.10 This description is not very different from some descriptions of European woodcut methods, 11 even if some differences do exist between the two traditions. In Europe the thickness of the wood was often determined by the simultaneous use of blocks and movable type, and the drawings, sometimes by well-known artists, could also be directly traced onto the wood-blocks (for the so-called ‘facsimile’ cuts). Moreover, even if the two terms are often indiscriminately employed, wood-cutting should not be confused with Western, more recent wood-engraving. At the beginning of the printing era, Chinese and Europeans both used blocks of wood cut with the grain, and then worked on these straight wood grain surfaces using knives and gouges. But in Europe, “in the course of the first half of the sixteenth century [...] informational pressure on the wood-cut illustration [...] became notable. [...] By the 1550s the wood-cut had reached the limit of minuteness of work beyond which it could not go so long as there was no change in the techniques of paper-making and inking the blocks.”12 Metal plates were soon preferred for engraving and etching, even if they wore out faster than wood-blocks and their printing process was quite expen———
9 In ancient Italian descriptions, woods such as pear, cherry, citrus and boxwood are listed; see Gariazzo (s.d.: 228). The Chinese particularly liked to use pear (li ර), but also jujube (zao འ), catalpa (zi ඬ), ginkgo (yinxing Ꭼ)ޖ, boxwood (huangyang ႓ᄘ), etc. See Tsien, 1985: 196. 10 Ibid: 196–197. The operation is repeated on the other side of the block, so each block can be used to print 2 leafs (generally 4 pages). On printing techniques see also the same author’s “Technical Aspects of Chinese Printing”, in Edgren (1984: 16–25). 11 Gariazzo, s.d.: 229–230. 12 Ivins 1992: 47.
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sive. This does not mean that wood-cuts disappeared altogether (they were still used for chapbooks and prints), but that these “crude” prints were excluded from ambitious editorial programs for more than two centuries. Finally Europeans come back to wood-blocks and, since then, the blocks have been cut across the grain13 and engraved with tools for metal-engraving. Wood-engraving could produce finer and closer lines than before, and these blocks could yield a very great number of prints. Indeed during the nineteenth century this technique became the most widespread for illustrated and cheap Western publications, 14 it was no longer similar to the Chinese wood-cut method. Even if specialists have turned their attention more often to woodcutting and blockcarvers (some of them being well-known artisans in their time), the importance of accuracy for obtaining a good print should not to be forgotten. Some obvious differences exist between Chinese and European printing methods, because printing presses were not used in Eastern countries.15 For traditional black and white prints, the Chinese use round brushes to ink the wood-block, lay a sheet of paper on it and brush the upper side with a rubbing pad. Good quality paper is smooth, very soft and thin. In the traditional papermaking mould, the strips of the screen leave light traces on paper. These marks, that almost always appear horizontally marked on each sheet, are of little consequence to the quality of the prints.16 Meanwhile, the more the relief lines on the wood-block are complex, numerous and close to each other, the more difficult it is to achieve regular distribution of the ink on the block. The consequence can be overcharged dark lines or sections that are too light on the printed paper. Lastly, it is indispensable to apply uniform pressure to obtain good prints. The same kind of problems also existed for printing Western ———
13 This invention is attributed to the Englishman Thomas Bewick, in the 1770s. Boxwood was preferred for these engravings (Gariazzo, s.d.: 235) and blocks could be composed of hard small pieces assembled like a mosaic; see Salomon (1986: 23). 14 Ivins 1992: 106–108, 175. 15 In fact, it seems that most primitive European wood-cuts were rubbings from wood-blocks and probably the earliest engravings were also printed by some method of rubbing or burnishing (ibid: 24–26). 16 When the marks of a European traditional paper (thicker than Chinese) are larger than the lines cut on the wood-block, the tops of the marks on relief take more ink than the furrows: the consequence is parallel stripes all over the print surface corresponding to the paper texture. To avoid this problem, in the eighteenth century T. Bewick (see note n. 13) used soft “Chinese paper” to print his engraved blocks.
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wood-blocks which, until two centuries ago, were inked using large stuffed balls (and not using rollers). Editors and authors seem to have been conscious of the difficulty and importance of printing methods: in 1542, when the cut wood-blocks of De humani corporis fabrica were sent from Italy to Basel to be printed, Andreas Vesalius (1514– 1564) wrote a letter urging the editor to not damage the blocks, to use good paper and to obtain visible detail even in the darkest sections of the plates.17 Concerning this monumental work, Western specialists call attention to its “modern” way of spreading information about the human body, using text and images together, reproduced in great numbers by printing. More generally, fascination for dissection studies and the passion for the engraving of blocks have often been associated in Europe, and this relationship is shown clearly by other black and white illustrations, or by later colour prints.18 Botany is another descriptive science where the first printed distribution in Europe produced many wood-cut illustrations, which are very different in technical quality and information value. Otto von Brunfels (1464–1535) issued the Herbarum vivae eicones (Strassburg, 1530–1536) with widely appreciated wood-cuts by Hans Weiditz, that provide an extremely lifelike “portrait” of particular plants. A few years later Leonard Fuchs (1501–1566) brought “the botanical textbook—as we would recognise it—into existence,”19 thanks to his De Stirpium Historia (Basel, 1542). The illustrations include linear outlines, botanical detail and hand coloured surfaces. Unlike Brunfels’ work, this book offers schematic representations of generic forms, excluding shading and specific characteristics of individuals. It is not necessary to be a specialist to notice the differences between these two series of images and the careless wood-cuts of Pseudo-Apuleius (ca. 1480), or those of the English Grete Herbal (1526), that are the result of many years of successive copies of the handsome images printed at Mainz in 1485 for the Gart der Gesundheit.20 Obviously, this last problem—the distortion of visual representa———
17 Letter written by Vesalius to the printer Johannes Oporinus in summer 1542. The book was published in Basel during the following year. See Muraro and Rosand 1976: 123. 18 Rodari (1996: 12 and following pages). See also infra, Col.Pl. XVI.1 and note n. 47. 19 To obtain such an important result L. Fuchs used the drawings of Albert Mayer, copied on blocks by Heinrich Fullmaurer and cut by Hans Rudolph Speckle. See Ford 1992: 91. 20 Ibid: 88–93; Ivins 1992: 33–46. The Pseudo-Apuleius reproduces the illustrations of a 9th century manuscript.
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tion by copies that become more and more distant from the original pattern—is common also in ancient Chinese illustrated books. Catalogues of objects, for example precious objects for collectors, are publications where carefully produced illustrations can be more clear and more helpful than long and complicated descriptions. Books of this kind use reproductions (prints in the past and photos in modern times) as an informational element. In the case of antiquities, works such as Kaogu tu ײەቹ or Xuanhe bogu tu ࡉ໑ײቹ have often been published from the Song (960–1279) dynasty to the Qing dynasty (1644–1911). In this case, reprints have often been made by using newly cut blocks. This may be motivated by editorial programmes and choices, but it is also simply decided by the life span of blocks, which may be lost, worn out or damaged, for example by being kept in a place unsuitable for wood. The illustrations of the catalogues of antiquities, as has already been pointed out,21 are not wood-cuts which reproduce pictures drawn from observation of the original ancient bronzes, but they are new illustrations which copy older ones. In this case, distortion is inevitable. In other catalogues, it should also be noted that a single motif may be used many times: sometimes it appears on different pages of a single book to illustrate various items,22 sometimes it is used to represent the same objet in various books concerning a common subject, as in the case of some ink designs of Chengshi moyuan and his contemporary Fangshi mopu ֱּᕠᢜ, another catalogue published in Huizhou ᚧ ڠat the end of the Ming dynasty. Finally, the same drawing, perhaps slightly modified, can be distributed in various works of a different nature,23 because of the process of copy, reproduction and falsifying, typical of the printing process. A new edition of an already published work can be made as similar as possible to the original. But, on the other hand, a publisher can decide to print a book with corrections and appendices, new critical apparatus and, perhaps, a rich set of new illustrations. This choice can be motivated by the high ambitions and active engagement of the amateur-publishers or by the laws of the book market, urging private ———
21 See for example Poor (1965: 39) and Rawson (1992: 78–79). 22 The use of the same design, and even of the same wood-block, for different
illustrations is a fairly frequent procedure in ancient printed illustrated books. In Europe, for example, see the 1493 Nuremberg Chronicle, where a single wood-cut depicts different towns; see Eisenstein (1991: 81). This practice is continued in later books, in the East and in the West, especially for low cost publications. 23 Bussotti 1998: 128–129.
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commercial book-shops to renew their titles and to be ahead of their competitors. For example the Bencao gangmu ء౻ጼ ؾby Li Shizhen ޕழੴ (1518–1593) was first published in Jinling ८ສ in 1596 with very crude wood-cuts; forty-four years later it was published in Hangzhou with better illustrations: 24 this case seems typical of the private publishing at the end of the Ming dynasty, concerning not only useful works such as materia medica, but also literary illustrated books for leisure. The multiplication of fine illustrated editions, the use of new or renewed images to publish a book twice or more in a few years and the progressively greater influence of painting on the graphic arts are all well-known phenomena during the fifty years preceding the Manchu invasion. Other botanical prints of the same period are valued for their realism and representation of details (Fig. 2a). 25 Looking back on the rich and varied history of bencao ء౻ illustration,26 the finest prints (Fig. 2b) are in a treatise on wild food plants to eat during emergencies,27 whose 1525 edition is coeval with the European herbals quoted before. Other books show whole plants or branches with fruit, sometimes on the same page (Fig. 2c), as in the case of the oldest Chongxiu zhenghe jingshi zhenglei beiyong bencao ૹଥਙࡉᆖᢞᣊໂءش ౻ by Zhang Cunhui ്ژ༡, printed in Pingyang ؓၺ in 1249.28 This ancient surviving original publication did not use a regular and ———
24 Métailié, “Representation of plants: engravings and paintings”, From Image to Action, Paris, 3–5 September 2001, and this volume, pp. 487ff. 25 The Bencao yuanshi ء౻ࡨ (1612) by Li Zhongli ޕխم, is said to be the first botanical book representing particular parts of plants as well as the whole (see Needham et.al: 1986, 323, and fig. 67: pipa ࣣ, Eriobotrya japonica), even if not in a systematic way. For a presentation of this book, see Haudricourt and Métailié (1994: especially 396–400). 26 Of the two descriptive natural sciences—botany and anatomy—important in European wood-cut illustrated books, botany had occupied a very important place in Chinese illustrations since the Song dynasty (960–1279); see Needham et al. (1986: 278–355) and Métailié, this volume. 27 See the example of the pot marigold (Calendula sp., jinzhaner hua ८ᅨࠝဎ, Fig. 2b) with a half leaf bent down (a life-like “portrait” of a real plant or a design limited by the frame of the page?) in the 1525 edition of Zhu Xiao (1360–1425), Jiuhuang bencao (1959, vol. 1: 44a). 28 The 1249 book is counted among the new editions produced since the Jingshi zhenglei beiji bencao ᆖᢞᣊໂ৺ء౻ by Tang Shenwei ାშპ, first published around 1080–1090. The details of Fig. 2 are from the facsimile edition (1975) in juan 13: 11, Fig. 2c, binglang ឳᄏʳ(Areca catechu L.); juan 10: 4, Fig. 2d, [chuan]wutou [ ՟]ᙰ (Aconitum carmichaeli Debx.); juan 4: 12, Fig. 2e; juan 30: 19, Fig. 2f, Taizhou tianshou gen ֚ڠኂҏҞҗ; juan 23: 13, Fig. 2g, jishi फ़ኔ (ling ဏ, Trapa bispinosa Rox.); juan 9: 16, Fig. 2h, see note n. 30. See also Jiangsu xinyi xueyuan ed. (1977).
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repetitive—and so standardised and “economic”—pagination, and it presents a lot of images of different size, arranged in different ways with the text, changing from page to page, with a kind of freedom that sometimes suggests hand illustrated scrolls to the observer who draws back from the printed page frame (the lines of the frame break the continuity of pictures and words, and separate illustrations of different kinds). I shall not dwell here on the aesthetic and scientific merit of this illustrated work (Fig. 2d), or on the well-known scenes representing salt extraction, where details such as that of a recalcitrant donkey (Fig. 2e) escape from the informative function and give an illustrative and anecdotal dimension to the image. If one considers that efficacious scientific illustrations should represent generalised or theoretical generic forms, 29 some of these botanical illustrations are good and others are bad; such a judgement can apply not only between separate works, but even between one page and another in the same book. The “scientific” quality of the illustrations depends not only on the technical ability of the blockcarvers, but also on the ability of the craftsmen, most likely (a team of) specialists, who trace the strokes that are suitable for cutting. The mistakes to be avoided include not only distortion of the model introduced during copying (as already mentioned in catalogues of antiquities), but also the rationalisation that, even unconsciously, adjusts natural forms to become regular (Fig. 2f) and symmetrical shapes, as on the decorative water-chestnut shown in Fig. 2g, and the blockcarvers’ conventional practices or the use of drawing stylised patterns, sometimes connected with pictorial tradition (Fig. 2h).30 From the utilitarian and didactic point of view, we should not underestimate the efficacity of these black and white botanical illustrations compared to pictorial prints (as those of Shizhu zhai shuhua pu): good graphic representations (Figs. 2b, 2d) can give more selective information about plants than other images that may better suggest a sense of life. ———
29 Ivins (1992: 40–44): see the case of De Stirpium Historia (1542) quoted above. 30 This kind of triangular foliage or lobate conventional leaf is impossible to iden-
tify. They were already used in Song paintings as an archaistic motif Glum (1982: 29, 30). In the detail in Fig. 2h, we can see foliage used in the representation of the Guangzhou Ferula assafoetida L. (Guangzhou awei ᐖ ॳ ڠᠿ ). A very similar design is used to illustrate the leaves of the Populus davidiana Dode (baiyang ػᄘ): see the facsimile edition (1975, juan 14: 20b). These kinds of motifs are omnipresent in later printed illustrations where conventional landscapes became the environment for figurative scenes.
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Fig. 2b
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Fig. 2d
Fig. 2c
Fig. 2e
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Fig. 2h
Most of the Chinese illustrated books dating from around 1600 quoted here mention not only the name of the publisher, but also the names of the blockcarvers and, sometimes, those of the illustrators and painters. 31 If the fake signatures introduced by unscrupulous publishers are excluded, the painters are not very numerous. They did not cut blocks.32 They are mostly mentioned as authors of creative prints, such as landscapes or figurative images inspired from literature, even if some of them also participated in reproductions and informative works such as the catalogues of inks and antiquities by Ding Yunpeng quoted above. Some wood-cuts bear the signatures of draughtsmen who are remembered exclusively for their graphic production, who can be considered as illustrators. As matter of fact, ———
31 In fact, the names of well-known painters and illustrators can be found in earlier works, but at the end of the Ming dynasty they were particularly involved in printed production. Apart from Ding Yunpeng, there is also Chen Hongshou ຫੋፅ (1598–1652), Xiao Yuncong ᘕႆൕ (1596–1673), Wu Tingyu ݪܦ壅, Wang Geng ޫౙ, etc. See Bussotti 2001: 259–265. 32 In Imperial China, according to the information at hand, artists did not produce wood-cuts by themselves. In the West this practice is known, but in reality blocks were more often cut by professional artisans.
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this special category is rather difficult to define, because both minor painters and blockcarvers specialising in illustration could have drawn designs for reproduction. But sometimes a special role is evident, for example in portraits of the heroes of plays, figuring in books where the signatures of blockcarvers are included, where it is also mentioned that someone has copied the painting of a famous artist.33 This kind of statement conforms to the old tradition of copying earlier masters’ works. But, as regards the technical methods of printed reproduction, especially when the copyist’s name is also known as the name of a creator of designs for his own wood-cut illustrations,34 we can argue that this person has worked to transform painting into graphic art, choosing the elements to be kept, to be rejected or to be modified according to the new medium and its implements (wood and knives in the place of paper or silk and brushes).35 Illustrators or blockcarvers, whether famous or unknown, had to think how to “translate” hand-made images onto wood-blocks to obtain a large number of similar printed copies of the models. Often blockcarvers were preoccupied with producing linear markings, geometrical or ornamental patterns (Fig. 1b, 1c), or by trying to reproduce different brush strokes, especially to imitate paintings of rocks (Fig. 3a). Obviously, according to the Chinese tradition of painting,36 they did not need to find a solution to transfer shading with a complex systems of lines,37 a problem that occupied European engravers dur———
33 This is the case of another portrait of Yingying from a Wanli edition of the play (see above, note n. 1) including the name of a famous artist Tang Yin ାഫ (1470–1523) as the portrait-painter, and the name of a later painter, Wang Geng, less well-known and active as an illustrator or as a copyist, see Bussotti (2001: 229, 361, 374, fig. 140 and 110). 34 This is the case of Wang Geng (quoted in notes n. 31, 33), who illustrated Zuoyin xiansheng jingding jiejing yipu ݄ឆ٣س壄ࡳ൸உেᢜ and Renjing yangqiu Գᢴၺટ, published by Wang Tingna ޫݪ (1550–1620 ca). 35 Note that specialists of Western scientific illustrations laid stress on the role of Fullmaurer in the success of De Stirpium Historia (see above, note n. 19) explaining that the achievement of this illustrated edition is based on his intervention, seen as a kind of “translation” between the models of the painter and the final works of the blockcarver. Evidently, this kind of comparison must be made with an awareness of the differences between European and Chinese publications, their subjects utilities and target readers. 36 The baimiao ػ༴ painting tradition, using ink linear outline drawings, was especially convenient as a “translation” from its original medium to the cut blocks. 37 But we can observe a few examples of shading in Chinese prints based on Western models, for example to show the volume of pyramids and spheres in some illustrations of Qiqi tushuo ࡛ᕴቹᎅ by Wang Zheng ׆ᐛ in a late edition of 1830 kept in the library of Institute for the History of Natural Science, Chinese Academy of Sciences. The first edition of Qiqi tushuo was published in the Chongzhen period,
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ing the first half of the XVIth century. Neither did they use different reticulates to try to express different colours in monochrome prints. Sometimes they used plain surfaces of wood-block inked in black to give the idea of a coloured surface, in the same way that they would be used to imitate monochrome ink painting: we can see these two cases (Fig. 3b, 3c) in albums reproducing paintings printed in Hangzhou at the end of Ming dynasty. 38 The same technique is used in some botanical descriptions: wood-block surfaces with lines cut in depth, that produce white lines on a dark background at printing, are used not only to show sections of the text (Fig. 3e), but also to represent parts of the plants and the veins of their foliage (Fig. 3f).39 This kind of wood-cut was much appreciated by Albrecht von Haller in 1771 who, in his praise of a later edition of Daguan bencao Օᨠء౻, remarked: “Sunt enim, in quibus nervos albos nigro folio sculptor accurate expressit... .”40 If Chinese blockcarvers did not accord much importance to suggesting colours in a black and white production, when they did, the value and density of the colour were not necessary exchanged.41 In an earlier bencao of 1249, black surfaces are only used to represent the skin and fur of certain animals (Fig. 3d), but in later herbals (Fig. 3f) and painting albums (Fig. 3c),42 the black sur——— 1628–1644. The book, including a preface by Wang Zheng dated of year tianqi 7 (1627), was written by Wang Zheng in association with the Jesuit Johann Schreck (Terrentius, Deng Yuhan ᔥ ࠤد1576–1630). See also a recent article on “The Evolution of the Editions of A record of the Best Illustrations and Descriptions of Extraordinary Devices of the Far West and Illustrations and Descriptions of Extraordinary Devices of the Far West” published in The Chinese Journal for the History of Science and Technology by Zhang Baichun et al. (2006). 38 The Tang Jieyuan fang gujin huapu ାᇞցײվᢜ from Qinghui zhai 堚 ᢄស was included in Jiyazhai huapu, completed in Hangzhou during the tianqi period (1621–1627). For the details (Figs. 3a, 3b), (1981: 17a, 21a). 39 The detail of Fig. 3f is from a book published in 1622 in Xin’an ᄅڜ: Bao Shan (1936, juanzhong: 32b). See also Zhu Xiao (1959, vol. 4: 47b), detail of Fig. 3e. 40 See Needham et al. (1986: 296–297, fig. 60). In the opinion of these authors it is not possible to identify the book which von Haller mentions, but according to G. Métailié it is the Herbal of the Daguan era (Daguan bencao). This work, whose complete title is Daguan Jingshi zhenglei beiji bencao, was first published in 1108, based on Tang Shenwei’s bencao; see above, note n. 28. 41 In Europe, engraving on wood or metal to reproduce shadows and colours in black and white necessarily confused the value and density of colours. This system used close-cut lines to represent a dark colour, and that did not permit the representation of a dense bright colour or a dark diluted one. See Pastoureau, 1996: 92. 42 The Gushi huapu by Gu Bing (1983) was printed in Hangzhou around 1603. The detail of Fig. 3c is also reproduced by Feng Pengsheng (1999: fig. 154). See also Chongxiu zhenghe jingshi zhenglei beiyong bencao (1975, juan 16: 7b) for the detail of Fig. 3d.
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faces of leaves can indicate a dense vivid green, and not necessarily a dark colour.
Fig. 3a
Fig. 3b
Fig. 3c
Fig. 3d
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In spite of certain limitations due to the technical medium of woodcutting, a huge quantity and variety of books were illustrated in China. The editorial, and sometimes the artistic, achievements involved in these productions have often been celebrated, especially in the cases of the religious images created during the first centuries after the invention of printing, and the fully illustrated literary works dating from the late sixteenth to early seventeenth centuries. Where technical and scientific prints are concerned, however, the judgements are often more restrained, at least from the Western point of view. This is obviously the consequence of a (conscious or unconscious) comparison with the role that illustration played in the development of science and technology in the West. For this reason, European printed illustrations have been and still are very often much appreciated: the application of a technical procedure—print—allowed the spread of visual messages—images—repeated exactly, and it was not important if the images (such as numbers, symbols, names and words) were not all, or completely, correct. Printed reproduction offered a larger and larger number of people many examples to juxtapose, compare and confront with each other, and so, through the comparison of printed materials, the original inaccuracy was reduced.43 By recalling these positive propositions about Western printing and prints, it is not my intention to reformulate the question about the possible gap in scientific and technical studies between Europe and China in modern times—too big a question, at least for those who still admit that this kind comparison makes sense. Nor will I try to answer why Chinese printed tu in technical or scientific books more often “illustrate a text” or “evoke a painting or older picture”, than empirically “describe” phenomena, objects or beings.44 We may note in passing that in late imperial China “Art” had long been separated from “arts and crafts”, and that Chinese intellectuals were less inclined to seek manual and empirical experience than were Europeans at the time of the development of printing—when the separation between sciences and art had yet to be formalised. To persist in this vein of analysis, however, we would need to elaborate a much more ambitious reflection on Chinese cultural history than this brief technical sketch allows, if only because—like any kind of printed material—printed tu, whether on sin———
43 Eisenstein 1991: 242–246. 44 But some counterexamples exist, as in the case of herbals like the Bencao
yuanshi (1612) or the Zhiwu mingshi tukao ( ཬ ढ ټኔ ቹ ە, 1848), quoted by Métailié, this volume, p. 491 and pp. 489, 491ff.
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gle sheets or included in books, are evidence of a complex cultural system. As we have shown, it is obvious that technical reasons alone provide too simple an explanation of the different ways in which Chinese prints depicting natural phenomena evolved. If the wood-cut was a good enough medium to permit the flowering of Western printed illustrations (for example in the botanical books already quoted), why should it have been different for Chinese prints? The Oriental black and white wood-cut method is relatively simple, but these monochrome prints still allow representation of the finest details, sometimes with very minute drawings (Figs. 1b, 1c). As explained earlier with reference to the finest illustrated literary publications of the Ming dynasty, images could be cut on different portions of the blocks (whole surface, half, upper part), and they could also be variously arranged with the text in a single work, as in the Chongxiu zhenghe jingshi zhenglei beiyong bencao. Again, technical weaknesses or artisans’ ignorance are not the reasons for the numerous scientific and technical works where illustrations are followed by explanations printed on the same page, a choice determined by graphics and arrangement which, after binding, excludes face to face presentation of image and text: this lay-out reduces the functional value of the tu.45 Finally, as the details of coloured prints testify (see Col.Pl. XV), during the seventeenth century skilful printers—such as Min Qiji ၰ Ꮨ֗ who produced an album of prints where flat surfaces and linear drawings are associated and printed in colour (Col.Pl. XV.6)46—could certainly have produced coloured scientific plates comparable to the coeval European wood-blocks representing human organs (Col.Pl. XVI.1),47 but they did not do so. During the next century, thanks to ———
45 In this case we can also find counterexamples, such as a few pages in chapter 3 of Sancai tuhui Կթቹᄎ (1609); see Wang Qi and Wang Siyi (1988, vol. 1: 63–65). But in general, publishers seem to have been less committed to facilitating an instructive reading of the dual informative message than to allowing the aesthetic contemplation of a double page illustration. In fact, in a traditional book bound with wrapped-back binding (baobeizhuang ץહᇘ) or thread binding (xianzhuang ᒵᇘ), they would have had to follow the same procedure to make either both halves of a double page illustration, or a single page illustration followed by explanatory text, visible at the same time (see also above, presentation of Xixiang ji, Figs. 1b and 1c). 46 During the chongzhen period, Min Qiji produced a wonderful album on Xixiang ji (Col.Pl. XV.6). The only known surviving copy is kept in Köln; see above, note n. 8. 47 For these anatomical illustrations and older examples of European multi-block wood-cuts, see Préaud (1996: 33–37, especially fig. 31). This print (Col.Pl. XVI.1) represents the human liver. Three blocks were used: for light red, dark red and black.
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technical development, Western anatomical representations were heavily dependent on coloured etchings and metal engravings, just as two centuries before they had depended on black and white woodcuts. Chinese printing tradition did not lead to a comparable engagement with the sciences in general or with anatomy in particular, 48 and furthermore restricted application of colours in representation of the human body. The skilful private book-printers (and sellers) of Jiangnan at the end of the Ming dynasty avoided colouring even in those images where the intrinsic potential of colour for representing human flesh could be exploited, as for example in illustrated erotic literature.49 However, Chinese publishers understood perfectly the potential of using colours to classify and distinguish50 and they exploited it in typically literati ways, for example for annotated editions with commentary apparatus (Col.Pl. XV.3). Finally, we must remember that despite the antiquity of the Chinese tradition of books and printing, no description of woodblockcarving was written until quite recently,51 and printers did not transmit their techniques using illustrated publications. In fact images showing printing activities are quite rare52 and often include “staged” ——— It is included, with other three illustrations, in a book by G. Aselli, printed in Milan, Italy, in 1627. 48 Leonardo da Vinci (1452–1519), the most famous painter-scientist, dissected numerous corpses and transmitted his anatomical knowledge by images that were more efficacious for learning than written description or isolated experiments; see Recupero (1966: 537–539). The important role of anatomy in European representation transcended the bounds of scientific illustration. See the naked bodies in a martial arts text such as the Trattato di Scientia d’arme con un Dialogo di filosofia di Camillo Agrippa Milanese (1553), so completely different from the welldressed men represented in the tu of Gengyu shengji ౙ塒ໍ(!ݾ1621), which are in fact very similar to the figures in illustrations of literary works of the same period, see Bussotti (2001: 330, fig. 33 and 34). In fact Western representations are “obsessed with the human figure”, in the judgement of Cahill (1993: 2). 49 In his description of erotic prints, Robert H. van Gulik (1951: 167, 175–201) explains the fact that these prints do not present coloured surfaces but linear coloured drawings as a method to avoid vulgarity. In general, linear drawings are more abstract; the result is less realistic, but they assist in a better reading of the individual elements of the design. 50 On colorimetric analysis and pedagogic use of colour for visual description and classification in Europe, see Pastoureau (1996: 92). 51 See Lu Qian (1959, vol. 4: 628–636) and Drège (1997: 85–93). On the movable wooden type produced at the palace Wuying dian ࣳᄥ, we have the Qing dynasty description by Jin Jian ८១ (d. 1794), see Tsien (1985: 209). 52 See the 18th century images in the work of Jin Jian (cited in the previous note) or a wood-cut from an undated edition of Yinzhi wen tushuo ອ㕣֮ቹᎅ, all reproduced by Tsien (1985: fig. 1143, 1234) and Luo Shubao (1998: 56, 112). In the West, the first illustrated accounts of crafts and art are coeval with the spread of printing,
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figures. Indeed Chinese technological illustrations in general lack precision in the visual description of objects or proceedings and offer an outline that would be insufficient for formative training.53 Although their scientific and technical wood-cuts seldom meet Western standards, China is incontestably the most ancient printing culture in the world, and xylography proved a most effective procedure for printing countless books and single prints of every kind and subject, remaining in use for over a millennium, through till modern times. 54 As suggested in other articles in this volume, functional illustrations were almost invariably associated with corresponding texts, and presented in woodblock publications—differing in print quality, period, place and conditions of publication (commercial book-shops, bibliophiles, private publishers or official departments), and in their authors, target readers and use. This variety in intention, execution and distribution requires us to study functional illustrations case by case. Such images usually “describe the world” in monochrome prints with linear drawing, unconcerned with perspective, proportions and the mathematical laws which are at the base of Western realistic representations, 55 because “ resemblance to the object was not the goal”. 56 Obviously this fact cannot imply any kind of ——— and very old wood-cuts show a printing press (Dance of Death, Lyons, 1499, reproduced by Ivins 1992: 26). An illustrated description of the tools and techniques of etching and engraving was published by A. Bosse in 1645, and a type case and typesetting desk are illustrated in J. Moxon, Mechanick Exercices...Applied to the Art of Printing, of 1683. In the same way, papermaking is represented in a German woodcut of third quarter of the 17th century, while descriptions of paper and ink production are included in late Ming dynasty illustrated editions (Tiangong kaiwu ֚ՠၲढ and Mopu ᕠᢜ), which is a very late editorial choice if compared with the long history of Chinese paper and ink. 53 On this subject, see Golas (2001: 43–58). 54 Bussotti 2001: 374–391. 55 Early illustrated printed books, such as De Artificiali P[er]spectiva by Johannes Peregrinus (1435 ?–1523), first printed at Toul in 1505 and reprinted 8 times in France and Germany between 1505 and 1535 (see Conservatoire national des Arts et Métiers 2002: 246, n°57), testify to an interest in these subjects that was coeval with the spread of technical and scientific wood-cuts and had an influence on illustration. Western perspective is not the subject of this brief presentation, but we must not forget the extent to which perspective influenced artistic and scientific illustration: it was used not only in painting but also in all plane representations for science and techniques, such as astronomy, architecture, geography, etc. On the other hand, botany and anatomy benefited from the efforts of people who were looking at the world and studying different ways to represent it in a manner to match the human vision of it. 56 See Cahill (1993: 72 and other passages, especially in ch. 1 and 3): Cahill discusses various western influences on Chinese painting during the seventeenth cen-
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judgement, for illustrative wood-cuts any more than for painting. It did not prevent Chinese illustrations being numerous and various, of very high quality and often very efficacious [Fig. 2a/e, Fig. 3f], and not only from the artistic point of view. After all, no-one would dare to cast doubt on the visual efficiency of the image of the rhinoceros by Albrecht Dürer (1471–1528), in which Western interests and visual language are perfectly matched. The drawing is still appreciated not only as a masterpiece of graphic art but also as a descriptive zoological illustration. Even though the master never saw the animal his image was spread all over the world by a great number of prints (Col.Pl. XVI.2), sometimes not conforming very closely to the model.57 But the vivid and realistic representation did not prevent the visual message being scientifically wrong—Dürer drew the animal with one horn too many, and other Western prints could prove equally useless for practical application.58
REFERENCES BAO Shan 入ቅ. 1936 (1st ed. 1622). Yecai bolu 䞢㦰म䣘. In: Sibu congkan sanbian. Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 3 vols. BUSSOTTI, Michela. 2001. “L’édition traditionnelle chinoise et l’introduction des techniques occidentales (XVIIIe–XIXe siècles).” In: Les mutations du livre et de l’édition du XVIIIe siècle à l’an 2000, ed. Jacques Michon and Jean-Yves Mollier. Québec: Presses de l’université Laval/Paris: L’Harmattan, pp. 374–391. ——. 2001. Gravures de Hui. Paris: EFEO. ——. 1998. “Livres d’encres. À propos de deux albums illustrés et d’autres ouvrages sur les encres chinoises de la fin du XVIe siècle.” Nouvelle Revue du XVIe siècle 16.1: 117–142. CAHILL, James. 1993. The Compelling Image. Nature and Style in Seventeenth-Century Chinese Painting. Cambridge, Mass. and London: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. [repr. 1982]. COHEN, Monique and MONNET, Nathalie. 1992. Impressions de Chine. Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale.
——— tury, and the adaptation of these foreign elements to the different interests and values of Chinese pictorial representation of reality. 57 The 1515 drawing was reproduced using a wood-cut by William Jannsen after 1620 (Col.Pl. XVI.2); see Ford 1992: 56, 69–71. The fact that A. Dürer created artistic works and did not invent “scientific illustration” (see Haudricourt and Métailié 1994: 411–412, quoting the ideas of Toresella and Battini 1988: 64–78), did not prevent the images which he made from being copied in different reproductions and printed in publications of different nature right up to the present. 58 Ford (1992: 149, a figure from Armonia Astronomica & Geometrica, 1622), presents a wood-cut representing an armillary sphere, explaining that this kind of illustration can be used as functional guide for a reader, but it is not accurate enough to construct a copy from this model.
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CONSERVATOIRE NATIONAL DES ARTS ET MÉTIERS (Paris). 2002. Les [trois] révolutions du livre. [Catalogue de l’exposition du Musée des Arts et Métiers]. Paris: Imprimerie Nationale. DITTRICH, Edith, ed. 1977. Das Westzimmer. Hsi-hsiang chi Chinesische Farbholzschnitte von Min Ch’i-chi, 1640. Köln: Museum für Ostasiatische Kunst der Stadt. DRÈGE, Jean-Pierre. 1997. “Poirier et jujubier: la technique de la xylographie en Chine.” In: Le livre et l’historien. Etudes offertes en l’honneur du professeur Henri-Jean Martin, eds. F. Barbier, A. Parent-Charon, F. Dupuigrenet Desroussilles et al. Paris – Genève: E.P.H.E. and Droz, pp. 85–93. EISENSTEIN, Elizabeth L. 1991. La révolution de l’imprimé dans l’Europe des premiers temps modernes. Paris: Editions de la Découverte. FENG Pengsheng ႑ᣛس. 1999. Zhongguo muban shuiyin gaishuo խഏֵֽࣨٱᄗ ᎅ. Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe. FORD, Brian J. 1992. Images of Science, A History of Scientific Illustration. London: The British Library. GARIAZZO, Pier Antonio. La stampa incisa. S.d. Torino-Genova: S. Lattes & C. Editori. GLUM, Peter. 1982. “The Evolution in the Representation of the Foliage of Deciduous Trees in Chinese Painting from the Tang through the Yuan.” Arts Asiatiques 37: 28–37. GOLAS, Peter. 2001. “Technological Illustration in China: A Post-Needham Perspective.” In: Proceedings of XXth International Congress of History of Science. Turnhout: Brepols uitegevers, pp. 43–58. GU Bing 主⚇. 1983. Gushi huapu 主⇣⬿䄰 (ca. 1603), facs. repr., Beijing, Wenwu chubanshe. GULIK, Robert H. van. 1951. Erotic Colour Prints of the Ming Period, with an Essay on Chinese Sex Life from the Han to the Ch’ing Dynasty, BC 206 AD 1644. Tokyo: privately published. Hanshu Yiwenzhi, juan 30, ዧᢌ֮ݳ. 1962. Beijing, Zhonghua shuju, vol. 6. HAUDRICOURT, André-Georges, and Georges MÉTAILIÉ. 1994. “De l’illustration botanique en Chine.” Etudes Chinoises 13.1–2: 381–416. IVINS, William M. 1992. Prints and Visual Communication. Cambridge (Mass.) and London: The MIT Press. Jiyazhai huapu 䲚䲙唟⬿䄰. 1981 (ca. 1621–1627), facs. repr. Beijing: Wenwu chubanshe. JIANGSU XINYI XUEYUAN ∳㯛ᮄ䝿ᅌ䰶, ed. 1977. Zhongyao da cidian Ё㮹䖁. Shanghai: Shanghai renmin chubanshe, 2 vols. LU Qian ⲻࠡ. ҏShulin biehua ᵫ߹䁅. 1959. In: Zhongguo xiandai chuban shiliao Ё⧒ҷߎ⠜᭭, ed. Zhang Jinglu ᔉ䴰ᓀ. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, vol. 4: 628–636. LUO Shubao 㕙ᇊ and ZHONGGUO YINSHUA BOWUGUAN Ёॄࠋम⠽仼. 1998. Zhongguo gudai yinshua shi tuce Ё স ҷ ॄ ࠋ ೪ ݞ. Beijing: Wenwu chubanshe/Hong Kong: Xianggang chengshi daxue chubanshe. MURARO, Michelangelo, and David ROSAND. 1976. Tiziano e la silografia veneziana del cinquecento. Venezia: Neri Pozza Editore. POOR, Robert. 1965. “Notes on the Song Dynasty Archaeological Catalogues.” Archives of the Chinese Art Society of America 19: 33–44. PRÉAUD, Maxime. 1996. “Du coloriage à l’impression en couleurs.” In: Anatomie de la couleur. L’invention de l’estampe en couleurs, ed. Florian Rodari. Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale de France/Lausanne: Musée Olympique: 18–49.
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RAWSON, Jessica. 1992. “Jades and Bronzes for Ritual: The Afterlife of Jades and Bronzes.” In: The British Museum Book of Chinese Art. London: British Museum Press, pp. 78–79. RECUPERO, Jacopo, ed. 1966. Leonardo. Scritti. Roma: Editrice di Cultura. RODARi, Florian, ed. 1996. Anatomie de la couleur. L’invention de l’estampe en couleurs. Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale de France/Lausanne: Musée Olympique. SALOMON, Ferdinando. 1986. Il conoscitore di stampe. Torino: Umberto Allemandi & C. [repr. in 1999]. TANG Shenwei ᜢᖂ. 1975 (1st ed. ca. 1080–1090). Chongxiu zhenghe jingshi zhenglei beiyong bencao 䞡ׂᬓ㍧䄝串⫼٭ᴀ㤝. facs. repr. of 1249 ed. Beijing: Renmin weisheng chubanshe. TORESELLA, Sergio, and Marisa BATTINI. 1988. “Gli erbari a impressione e l’origine del disegno scientifico.” Le Scienze 239: 64–78. TSIEN Tsuen-Hsuin. 1984. “Technical Aspects of Chinese Printing.” In: Chinese Rare Books in American Collections, ed. Soren Edgren. New York: China Institute on America, China House Gallery, pp. 16–25. ——. 1985. “Paper and Printing (Part 1).” In: Science and Civilisation in China, ed. Joseph Needham. Vol. V. Chemistry and Chemical Technology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. WANG Qi ⥟ഏ and WANG Siyi ⥟ᗱ㕽. 1988 (1st ed. 1609). Sancai tuhui ϝᠡ೪᳗. facs. repr. Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe. Xinkan qimiao quanxiang zhushi Xixiang ji ᄅݎ࡛ע٤ઌုᤩ۫༖ಖ. 1954 (1498). Facsimile edition. In: Guben xiqu congkan chuji ءײᚭڴហॣעႃ. Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan. Yangzheng tujie 仞ℷ೪㾷. 2000 (ca. 1594). Facs. repr. Beijing: Beijing tushuguan chubanshe. Yuanben chuxiang bei Xixiang ji ܗᴀߎⳌ࣫㽓ᒖ㿬. 1927? (ca. 1610). Modern edition s.d. In: Qianqiu jueyan tulu ग⾟㌩䈨೪䣘 in Mao Xihe lunding Xixiang ji wujuan ↯㽓⊇䂪ᅮ㽓ᒖ㿬Ѩो. Songfenshi 䁺㢀ᅸ. ZHANG Baichun ᓴᶣ, TIAN Miao ⬄⏐, LIU Qiang ߬㬋. 2006. “Yuanxi qiqi tushuo luzui yu Xinzhi zhuqi tushuo banben zhi liubian” 䖰㽓༛఼䇈ᔩ᳔Ϣᮄ ࠊ䇌఼䇈⠜ᴀП⌕ব. Zhongguo keji shi zazhi 27.2 (June): 115–137. ZHU Xiao ᴅ. 1959 (1st ed. ca. 1406). Jiuhuang bencao ᬥ㤦ᴀ㤝. Shanghai: Zhonghua shuju, 4 vols.
II. TEXT AND IMAGE IN THE ERA OF PRINT-CULTURE
THE REPRESENTATION OF PLANTS: ENGRAVINGS AND PAINTINGS1 Georges Métailié We may take for granted that Chinese painters of the past were able to represent natural objects accurately from a modern point of view; Song dynasty paintings of plants and animals (Fig. 1) attest to that. Yet figures found in texts on medicinal products (bencao ء౻) of the same period appear to be less precise. For instance, the pictures of the wutong න tree [Chinese parasol, Firmiana simplex (L.) Wight] under the entry tongye ᆺ “leaves of tong trees” in the two still extant Song-period editions (1108 and 1249) of the Zhenglei bencao ᢞᣊء౻ by Tang Shengwei ାშპ are rather approximate and, in particular, do not take into account the very typical fruit (Fig. 2). This can however be considered logical, since in this case the materia medica is the leaf of the tree. Considering this I would say that paintings of plants are generally more precise than the pictures found in technical books like bencao or agricultural texts. The printed pictures of the first edition (1596) of Li Shizhen’s ޕழੴ famous Bencao gangmu ء౻≚( ؾClassification of the materia medica) offer strong supporting evidence for this point of view. The implicit questions that spurred the following reflections on the differences between the representations of plants in paintings and in woodblock engravings in printed books can be formulated as follows: Firstly: Are there technical reasons to explain the fact that paintings of plants are basically different from printed pictures of plants in technical books? Secondly: What is the purpose of pictures in technical texts on plants? One possible answer to the first question, namely that the technique of wood-block printing does not permit very precise images, has to be eliminated at once. A single look at the woodcuts of flowers in the Herbarum Vivae Eicones (1530–1532) by Otto Brunfels (?– 1534) demonstrates the contrary.2 Once we admit the possibility of ——— 1 I would like to thank Francesca Bray for her contribution towards finding les mots justes in English. 2 See for instance the pasque flower, in Blunt and Raphael (?1979: 121) or Arber
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precision in both genres, we see that several other factors lie behind the differences. Paintings in China differ from printed wood-blocks in techniques (paintings use brush and colours); in material context (paintings usually consist of one scroll, often containing several pictures in a row); in purpose (for paintings the purpose is always aesthetic but also symbolic,3 with clichés, like “flowers of the four seasons”, “flowers and fruits”, “vegetables”, “the friends of the cold season”, “the three hermits”, etc.). But perhaps the most significant difference stems from the fact that, within this conventional context, painters seem to have been able to select the plants that they were going to paint from a limited number, at most about two hundred, generally far fewer, all with a symbolic value.4 These plants, most of them ornamentals, could easily be observed directly, very often in gardens. There were also treatises on the painting of plants, in which the most appreciated (including mei ම – Japanese apricot, lan ᥞ – cymbidium orchid, ju ဘ – chrysanthemum, and mudan ߃կ – tree peony) were discussed at length. In the case of technical books things were quite different. For a start the illustrators—whether artists, craftsmen or scholars—had to draw sometimes as many as several hundred plants.5 Since their drawings were going to be used to carve block prints, they had to draw the lines of the parts of the plants very clearly. If plants were associated on a same page, the arrangement followed a rationale linked to the subject of the book and to the inherent classification followed by the author for whom they were working. And finally, many of the plants illustrated in technical works, especially in bencao, grew in the wild, or in far away places, and were known only from the dried parts (leaves, barks, roots, fruits, etc.) that were used as drugs, and from what had previously been written about them. In this case, when the real plants were not at hand, the draughtsmen were often most likely to turn for their principal reference not to “The Book of Nature”, or to plants in a garden, but to earlier pictures or textual information. In all the various editions of the Bencao gangmu, almonds, the fruits of a tree which Li Shizhen calls badanxing ֣ޖ؟, “badan apricot”—badan being a loan-word borrowed to the Persian ——— (1938: 53–57). 3 See de Carle Sowerby 1940: 133. 4 On the meaning of plants in Chinese art, cf. Gyllenswärd (1965), Tse Bartholomew (1980, 1985). 5 The Bencao gangmu (1596) by Li Shizhen, has 1096 names of plants as entries, the Zhiwu mingshi tukao (1848) by Wu Qijun some 1732.
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bƗdƗm6—are represented like those of the apricot tree. In the case of maize (Indian corn) in the Bencao gangmu we find proof of both attitudes. The plant is properly described by Li Shizhen (presumably following “The Book of Nature”), but in the first edition the picture, though obviously drawn following Li Shizhen’s correct description, is wrong.7 All the images of maize in later bencao or agricultural books, like the great imperially sponsored agricultural encyclopaedia Shoushi tongkao ழຏ ەcompiled under the authority of E’ertai ၠዿ and presented to the throne in 1742, were inspired by this first illustration, in which the position of the male inflorescence and one female spike were inverted, a single ear standing on the top of the stalk. In most of the later bencao books this picture was “amended” by the suppression of the tassel, making the representation even worse. Only in 1885 did a new edition of the Bencao gangmu provide a correct image which was almost the same as the one in Wu Qijun’s ࠡܦᛕ Zhiwu mingshi tukao ཬढټኔቹ( ەResearch of images and reality of names of plants) of 1848,8 a work with a new approach to picturing plants, which I discuss further below. We may suppose, however, that such pictures were first and foremost a tool to help the reader recognise the plants that the text was dealing with. The first evidence I shall offer in support of this hypothesis is the structure of these illustrated books. The following examples are drawn from publications of the Ming and Qing dynasties. Bearing in mind the comparison suggested by Zheng Qiao ᔤᖱ (1104e1162),9 who likened the formal relationship between texts and images in a book to that between warp and weft in a textile, we can distinguish two different types of composition: 1/ Books with texts and pictures clearly separated. 1.1 All the pictures placed before the text: Peihua aojue lu ഛक़ ᙕ (ca. 1640), by Sun Zhibo ୪व ;܄Huajing क़ᢴ (1688, secondary edition), by Chen Haozi ຫ∻;10 Ben cao huijian ء౻Ⴊᱪ (1777), by Gu Yuanjiao ցٌ; or after the text: Bencao gangmu (1596) by Li Shizhen. ——— 6 7 8 9
Laufer, 1967: 406. Rudolph 1966: 107. Haudricourt and Métailié 1994, pp. 405, 407. In the essay, Tupu lüe ቹᢜฃ (A brief account of illustrated treatises), juan ࠴ 72 of the Tongzhi ຏ( ݳHistorical collections) in about 1150. 10 This edition, although dated 1688 like the 1st edition (see 1.2), is not identical with the latter, comprising only one quarter of the original illustrations.
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1.2 Pictures of the plants mentioned in a juan ࠴ (chapter) placed at the beginning of the juan, before the text: Bencao gangmu (1603: Jiangxi edition), by Li Shizhen; Bencao huiyan ء౻Ⴊߢ (1624), by Ni Zhumo ଧ ;᠂ڹHuajing (1688, 1st edition), by Chen Haozi. 1.3 Picture of a single plant placed on the first page (right side) of a sheet, with the text about the plant following on the second page (left side of the sheet):11 Sancai tuhui Կթቹ ᢄ (1609), by Wang Qi ݆׆and Wang Siyi ׆৸ᆠ; Zhiwu min shi tu kao (1848), by Wu Qijun; Yecai bolu ມလ໑ᙕ (1622), by Bao Shan ᚁ՞. 1.4 Picture on the second page of a sheet, following the text about the plant which is on the previous page: Jiuhuang bencao එء౻ (1406), by Zhu Xiao ڹ㒺; Yecai bolu (1622), by Bao Shan, in Siku quanshu ٤ (1782). 1.5 Picture of one plant on a page followed, often on the same page, by the text or its beginning: Bencao pinhui jingyao ء ౻ნ壄 (1505), under the editorship of Liu Wentai Ꮵ ֮; Bencao mengquan ء౻፞┱ (1565), by Chen Jiamo ຫቯ᠂; Gujin tushu jicheng ײվቹႃ( ګ1725), compiled by Chen Menglei ຫኄሼ, Jiang Tingxi ᓏݪᙔ and others. 1.6 Picture of one plant on a full page at the end of a small chapter devoted to this plant: Tongyi lu ຏ ᢌ ᙕ (1807: “Shicao xiaoji” ᤩ౻՛ಖ – “Shipeng” ᤩᓒ, 5b), by Cheng Yaotian ࿓䵏ض. 2/ Books with pictures and texts clearly interrelated by association on the same page, or with explicit references in the text to images included in it. 2.1. Every page looks like a framed picture with a drawing and some text. o In the upper half there is a poetic evocation—in no ———
11 In Chinese woodblock printing one wooden block, or printed leaf, corresponds to two pages. In the case described here, illustration and text are both carved side by side onto a single block. However, because the leaf printed from the single block is subsequently folded in two down the middle for binding, when the bound book is opened, the two printed pages which were side by side when the leaf was flat can no longer be seen together; the reader must turn the page to see both picture and text (as in cases 1.3 and 1.4).
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more that eighty characters—of the plant represented in the lower half of the page. On the left side of the picture of the plant two rows of characters give information on when and how to collect the edible part of the plant: Rucao bian ಀ౻ᒳ (1582, printed around 1600), by Zhou Lüjing ࡌᐌ壃. o
A short text beside the picture explains how it illustrates information provided in the text: Tongyi lu (1807: “Jiugu kao” ᒜ“ – ەTu sigu ji” ቹᒜಖ, 3b, 4a, 5a; “Shicao xiaoji” – “Shili” ᤩ㏛, 8a,b; 9a), by Cheng Yaotian.
2.2. The picture of the part of a plant used as materia medica occupies the space of a few columns in a page. Within this framed space, short commentaries above, beside and under the picture give information on the classification and morphology of the materia medica: Bencao yuanshi ء౻ࡨ (1612), by Li Zhongli ޕխم. 2.3. A small picture appears in the text as an illustration of what has just been explained: Tong yi lu (1807: “Shicao xiaoji” – “Muxu” ૐᓔ, 5b), by Cheng Yaotian. From this categorisation we realise that, with the exception of the works in which all the images are put together at the beginning or at the end of a long chapter, or of the whole text (1.1 and 1.2), there is a relationship of proximity between texts and pictures. However, in the great majority of texts, there are no explicit textual references to the pictures, as if their mere presence was enough. Generally each author keeps to the same structural model all through the book. The one exception is Cheng Yaotian (1725-1814), who uses different possibilities depending on what he wants to demonstrate. The best example of long descriptive texts without any reference to the illustrations is the Bencao gangmu, but generally when descriptions coexist with pictures within a text, they are brief or very concise. Considering that generally no reference is made in the texts to the pictures, one may wonder what kind of relationship there actually is between text and image. This is another way of asking our earlier question on the role of illustrations in technical books on plants. Two cases will be analysed to give a tentative answer to the question, the case of the wutong [Firmiana simplex (L.) Wight.; Chinese parasol
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tree] and the case of the lamei ᥣම [Chimonanthus praecox (L.) Link; a Wintersweet].
THE CASE OF THE WUTONG [FIRMIANA SIMPLEX (L.) WIGHT.]; CHINESE PARASOL TREE At first glance the picture of a wutong tree in the first edition (1596) of the Bencao gangmu (juan 35) seems rather crude (Fig. 3). Looking more carefully, we see six ovoid objects, with small circles round the sides, at the end of some of the branches, quite different from the leaves. They may be fruits or flowers. Anyway, for someone who has never seen the tree, it is almost impossible to recognise it using nothing but this picture. Probably Li Shizhen did not intend to add pictures to his text; I myself believe that he never saw the set of pictures which made up the two last juan of the first edition of his book, under the title Bencao gangmu futu ء౻≚ॵؾቹ (Added pictures to the Bencao gangmu). They were collected by one of his sons, Li Jianzhong ޕ৬խ, drawn by another, Li Jianyuan ޕ৬ց, and carved by a grandson, Li Shuzong ޕᖫࡲ.12 Now let us turn to the description of the wutong given by Li Shizhen13 and let us also consider the figure of the same tree in a modern flora (Fig. 4):14 Wutong are found everywhere. The tree is similar to the paulownia (tong ) with a deep green smooth bark. Its wood grows straight; it is without nodes, with a smooth grain but a tight nature. The leaves are like paulownia leaves but smaller, glossy, with sharp extremities. The flowers have thin anthers, they fall down like scum. The pods are about three inches long, formed by five joined strips. When old, they split open and look like winnowing-baskets. They are called ‘long bagcalyces’ tuo15 e 䅐ၠ. The seeds are basted onto them, five or six at most, two or three at least. The seeds are as big as pepper-corns, with a wrinkled skin.
If we turn back to the picture in the Bencao gangmu, considering its quality compared to the written description, one wonders whether it was not drawn based upon the text rather than from direct observa——— 12 13 14 15
See Miyashita 1979, Haudricourt and Métailié 1994. See Li Shizhen 1975–1981: 1999. Anon 1972, vol. 2: 823. This is a bag open at both ends, carried wrapped around the waist, usually used to hold a staple food.
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tion. Yet, crude as it is, it seems to me that once the text is memorised and associated with the picture, the picture can serve to tickle the memory even if it is not a true representation of the real wutong tree.16 Quite the opposite is true of another bencao book, the Bencao huiyan (1624) by Ni Zhumo (Fig. 5). It does not give any description of the tree, and the picture, even with the detail of the leaf, is less informative than the one in the Bencao gangmu. In this case, the picture seems to be purely rhetorical, and the text has only pharmacological content. In the Rucao bian (1582; printed around 1600) by Zhou Lüjing (Fig. 6), and the Zhiwu mingshi tukao (1848) by Wu Qijun (Fig. 7), the texts do not give any morphological detail. On the other hand the pictures are quite realistic, in fact they are good enough to allow the reader to pick the tree out from other species. The first book belongs to what Joseph Needham and Lu Gwei-djen called the “esculentist movement”. 17 It was intended to help to relieve hunger or, more probably, as a manual for adepts of an elegant rustic life. It was published in Jinling ८ສ (modern Nanking) during the Wanli era (15731619), by the Jingshan shulin ౸՞ࣥ printing house.18 If its purpose is apparently technical, the layout of every page with a picture accompanied by two texts suggests the image of a framed printed painting rather than that of a technical picture. However, the text in the upper part evokes, in poetic mode, the quality of the wutong’s seeds, and the short text on the left side of the picture indicates how to eat them. The quality of the picture is sufficient for even someone who does not know the plant by name to recognise it. The first two chapters, juan, of the book are laid out in the same format, one perfectly appropriate to its purpose. The illustrative format also matches the purpose of the work in the Zhiwu mingshi tukao. This book is the first one in Chinese history entirely devoted to plants as such. Its author, Wu Qijun,19 a high official and a scholar of the kaozheng ەᢞ school, was very concerned about pictures, as indicated by the title of the book. He is the first, as ——— 16 We have found other similar cases in the Bencao gangmu, see Haudricourt and Métailié (1994: 394–396). 17 The authors who have written texts on the consumption of wild vegetables are qualified in this way by Joseph Needham and Lu Gwei-djen who consider their texts as composed in a purely altruist perspective to relieve people from hunger (Needham and Lu, 1986b: 328–355). However wild plants could also be chosen to prepare an elaborated cuisine by hermits or scholars in an aesthetic perspective (Sabban 1997). 18 Wang 1983: 418. 19 On Wu’s life, see Bretschneider (1881: 73–74) and Zhang (1991: 1–20).
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far as I know, to have given an accurate picture of the maize plant,20 which had been introduced three centuries earlier. Besides plants that were already known, for which Wu Qijun gave good pictures, he also reproduced some crude drawings of plants, copied from ancient books, that he was unable to identify, but which he included to provide reference material for the reader so as to facilitate further research. But what is most original in Wu Qijun’s approach is that he provides illustrations and descriptions for the many plants he encountered during his travels which were not previously known in the written records. In this case, since no “classical” names existed, he chose to give the newly introduced plants the names which had been indicated to him by local people. Where he could not obtain even a vernacular name, he gave an illustration and a description but labelled the plant “without name”, wuming ྤټ, presumably a temporary expedient until the “real” name could be found, thanks to the details he gave, by consulting an ancient document or inquiring among people from the countryside. Comparing Wu Qijun’s illustration of the wutong (Fig. 7) to a photograph of a detail of the wutong tree growing in the School of Botany at the National Museum of Natural History in Paris (Fig. 8), one realises that his quite informal picture is very illuminating. It is done in the same spirit as illustrations in modern botanical books. Only the pertinent features are described, not the whole tree; leaves, flowers and fruits are very accurately portrayed. Nevertheless the book is not a modern flora, that is to say, it does not give any key within a taxonomic system that would allow someone looking at the plant itself to find its proper botanical name. However, once they have looked at and memorised the picture, anyone looking at a wutong tree, whether in blossom or bearing fruits, will immediately be able to associate the image in the book with what they see before them. The leaves alone can be a rather good indicator. Looking in contrast at the paintings of wutong by an unknown artist of the Song period, (Fig. 1) or of the Ming artist Lan Ying ៴21 and the engraving of the Rucao bian by Zhou Lüjing (Fig. 6), one realises how very evocative they are too, though in a different way. In the case of the wutong tree, an artistic painting, the printed image in the Rucao bian and the technical pictures in the Zhiwu mingshi ———
20 Haudricourt and Métailié 1994: 405, Fig. 21. 21 I thank Cedric Laurent who communicated this information to me. One repro-
duction can be seen in Qin Xiaoyi, ed. (1992: 221).
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tukao all provide the same result, a proper representation. All differ from the Bencao gangmu where, in fact, it is the text which gives the best picture of the plant. Probably this seemed obvious to the scholars responsible for the 1640 and 1885 editions of the book, both of which had partially new iconography. Although for his 1885 edition Zhang Shaotang ്ฯཞ borrowed heavily from Wu Qijun’s pictures of plants, in the case of the wutong he chose to keep the very approximate picture from the 1640 edition. From the foregoing examples we may conclude that the situation is in no way uniform. There is an inverse ratio between quality of textual description and visual representation in the Bencao gangmu on the one hand, where the information about morphology is to be found in the text, and in the Rucao bian and the Zhiwu mingshi tukao on the other hand, where there is a good visual representation with almost no description. The text accompanying the picture in the latter simply gives the terms used for the wutong in the 3rd century BC encyclopedic text Erya, and adds “in Spring opens delicate flowers, gives fruits called ‘long bag’ tuo 䅐.” There is no description and only a very approximate representation in the Bencao huiyan. Compared to the pictures of the fruits in the Rucao bian and the Zhiwu mingshi tukao, the Song and Ming paintings seem to bring something more, emphasising the elegant curve of the twig bearing the follicles, these singular fruits of the wutong tree.
THE CASE OF THE WINTERSWEET, LAMEI [CHIMONANTHUS PRAECOX (L.) LINK = MERATIA PRAECOX RHED. ET WILS.]. The case of the wintersweet, lamei, is interesting because this small tree with very fragrant, winter-blooming flowers is well known and appreciated as a widely cultivated ornamental. Though linked by name with the Japanese apricot mei, it is, however, quite distinct from a botanical point of view, each plant belonging to a different family, the Rosaceae for the mei, and the Calycanthaceae for the lamei. Fan Chengda ᒤګՕ (1126-1193) in his Meipu මᢜ (1186) (Treatise on Japanese apricot) writes: … the lamei basically does not belong to the category of the mei ‘Japanese apricot’. It is called lamei ‘waxy Japanese apricot’ because [it blossoms] at the same time as the Japanese apricot, their perfumes are close to each other, and its colour is similar to the colour of a honeycomb.
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Almost nothing of the plant can be recognised by looking at the picture in the first edition of the Bencao gangmu (Fig. 9a). The same is true for the six following editions. In 1640 a new edition appeared in Wulin ࣳࣥ (Hangzhou) with a good number of quite different pictures (Fig. 9b). Known as the Qian edition, from the name of the editor Qian Weiqi ᙒᓉದ,22 the quality of its iconography made this new edition the reference for most of the new printings of the book up to the end of the nineteenth century. The names of the man who did the drawings (hui ᢄ), Lu Zhe ຬ㹝, and of the carver of the block prints, Xiang Nanzhou ႈতڠ, are printed beside the first two pictures in the book; Xiang Nanzhou is well-known for his engravings of illustrations by famous painters in literary books.23 This edition of the Bencao gangmu is the one chosen for reproduction in the Siku quanshu. The image which illustrates the entry lamei, wintersweet, represents some pretty flowers with many petals, on four leafless twigs. Even if the corollas are different, it reminds us of representations of mei flowers. One leaf is partly visible. This single leaf contributes to the verisimilitude of the picture, because when the lamei tree blossoms in winter, although it does not put out new leaves, it may still bear some remaining ones. But the upward-pointing position of the flowers seems strange and unnatural. When the tree grows outside, all the flowers—which blossom in full winter—open downwards, which prevents snow from covering and filling them. I would say that if this drawing has been made observing real flowers, these flowers were on a carefully tamed ornamental tree in very protected surroundings. Turning now to the text by Li Shizhen, we find that it contains minimal information: “the lamei is a small tree with compact branches and pointed leaves. There are three kinds (…) The fruit is like a bell hanging down, sharp, one inch long, the seeds are inside”. Given the emphasis on the fruits in the text, one might find it curious that they are precisely the part of the tree that the illustration leaves out. Li Shizhen has borrowed a lot from Fan Chengda’s text, but he omits to quote the sentence where Fan Chengda says that although the deep perfume of the lamei is far stronger than that of the Japanese apricot mei, it has not inspired as many poems because it has a bushy and rather inelegant habit—a statement contradicted by the rendering in Fig. 9a where the bushy aspect is totally absent. This may also ———
22 See Xie 1985: 146. 23 P.c. Michela Bussotti.
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explain why instead of drawing a picture of the whole plant, as in the first edition of the Bencao gangmu, the aesthetic concerns of the author of the new picture led him to choose the blossoming end of a small branch of a well pruned ornamental reminiscent of the form of the Japanese apricot, mei. In 1622, a few years before the publication of the new set of illustrations of the Bencao gangmu, a book titled Yecai bolu (Extensive notes on wild vegetables) was completed by another member of the esculentist movement, the hermit monk Bao Shan. Here we find a picture (Fig. 10) illustrating an entry called lamei hua ᥣමक़ (lamei flower) because for the author the edible part of this tree is in fact the flower, which is eaten boiled and seasoned with oil and salt. When we compare this picture with the previous image from the 1640 edition of the Bencao gangmu, the flowers appear to be very different. Considering the fact that the Yecai bo lu is concerned with wild rather than garden plants, and bearing in mind that Li Shizhen, following Fan Chengda, mentions three kinds of lamei, two of which are grafts, one might think that this illustration shows the one which “grows from seeds without having been grafted.” The orientation of all the flowers facing downwards, and the dense branching, confirm that the picture was drawn from observation of a model which was a plant growing unprotected from winter weather. The Bencao huiyan (1624) shows a picture (Fig. 11) of a quality comparable to the one in the first edition of the Bencao gangmu, where it is impossible to identify the plant. In the Shizhuzhai shuhua pu Լێសᢜ (Album of calligraphies and paintings of the Ten Bamboos Studio) published 