With me in charge…

So, Mastodon user Samuel Wade and Twitter user Alexander Boyd highlighted this billboard in China, which contains a delightfully double-edged message attributed to Xi Jinping:

Boyd helpfully transcribes the message, left to right and then right to left and provides these translations:

功成不必在我
Today’s efforts will bear fruit after I’m gone.

我在必不成功
With me in charge, failure is guaranteed.

Backwards reading is not as esoteric in Chinese as it is in English: the traditional reading order for Chinese was top to down, right to left, and a title or slogan like this could be read right to left. I recently looked up the words on the Chinatown Gate in Chicago (because I wanted to build it in Minecraft), and the slogan there (天下为公 “the world is for everyone”) is read right to left. (Er, I mean what actually appears on the gate is 公为下天.)

I know just enough Mandarin (不多) to want to know exactly how this works. So here’s a gloss

功成 gōngchéng – achievements, outstanding work

不 bú – not

必 bì – must

在 zài – in

我 wǒ  – I, me

Google Translate suggests, reasonably, that this is more like “Success doesn’t have to depend on me.”  That matches the glosses. Backwards, it gives simply “I will fail”. Better, I think, would be “I must fail.” Zài in this context, before a verb, forms the progressive, e.g. 我在睡觉 “I am sleeping”.  I don’t think it combines well with bì ‘must’, but that’s more semantic than syntactic.

Note that 成功 chénggōng is interpreted as “success”. Mandarin often uses compounds where Old Chinese used single morphemes— gōngchéng is a compound of gōng “merit” and chéng “finished”. It happens to be lexicalized in both orders.

 

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A Couple of Soles

In politics, the GOP is still fitfully attempting to steal the election. But that’s not good for the blood pressure, so instead let’s look at some 17th century Chinese drama: A Couple of Soles (比目鱼 Bǐmùyú), by 李渔 Lǐ Yú.

I read the 2020 translation by Jing Shen and Robert Hegel, which is apparently the first translation of any of Lǐ Yú’s plays into English. The edition is quite nice, with contextualizing essays and an intimidating set of notes.

The play is part of the 传奇 chuánqí, an early type of Chinese opera. It consists of mixed songs and prose, though we don’t have the actual music. Apparently the prose portions were often ad libbed, but Lǐ Yú wrote them out explicitly. Plays were long, intended to be staged over two days; this one is the size of a short novel.

Soles is particularly interesting because it’s all meta: it’s a play about a theater troupe, and includes scenes of the actors acting out other plays. Moreover, they’re using those scenes to act out their own true feelings, which is pretty damn meta.

The hero is Tán Chǔyù, a scholar too poor to travel to the provincial capital to take the civil service exams. He is earning money as best he can by writing, when he sees a play an falls in love with the leading lady, Liú Miǎogū. The only way he can think of to get to know her better is to join the troupe himself.

Interspersed with his story is that of the righteous official Murong Jie. A righteous official always wants to retire in the countryside, but before he does so he defeats a local bandit chief. Then he and his wife toss out their emblems of status (his black gauze cap, her phoenix crown) and go to live as fishermen.

Liú Miaogu also has a predicament: her mother Liu Jiangxian wants her to be flirtatious with the male clientele, and more than flirtatious with the rich ones, which is a major way the troupe makes its money. Liu Miaogu is aghast; she wants to be virtuous, and indeed only play virtuous roles.

The play (and the commentary) explain that roles are divided into character types:

• 生 shēng – young male lead, such as Tan Chuyu
• 旦 dàn – young female lead, such as Liu Miaogu
• 淨 jìng – painted face, such as the villain, Qian Wanguan, and the bandit chief
• 丑 chǒu – clown, such as the traitor
• 外 wài – older male, such as the deity Lord Yan
• 末 mò – supporting male, mostly servants
• 老旦 laodàn – older female
• 小生 xiǎoshēng – additional male, such as Murong Jie
• 小旦 xiǎodàn – additional female, such as Murong’s wife, or Liu Miaogu’s mother

Tan Chuyu finds that the troupe strictly keeps its male and female members apart, so he can spend little time with Liu Miaogu— though he does manage to send her a poem declaring his love. He manages to upgrade his role from jìng to shēng, on the strength of his ability to quickly memorize plays. This at least allows him to spend more time rehearsing with Liu Miaogu.

Her mother, however, decides to marry her off, for the significant sum of a thousand taels of silver, to the local rich man, Qian Wanguan. She is to join him immediately.

However, she asks leave to perform one scene of a play for Qian. She chooses a scene from The Thorn Hairpin, in which a wronged woman expounds her troubles, then kills herself. At the climax, she leaps into a convenient nearby river and drowns. Tan Chuyu, watching this, does the same.

But the play is only half over. The local water deity, Lord Yan, accepting sacrifices at various temples, learns about the couple’s death. He decides to turn the two into a couple of soles, and escorts them to the net of Murong Jie, who now calls himself Fisherman Mo.

Meanwhile there’s an inquiry into their death, which is an opportunity for a thorough satire of officialdom. The local official is only interested in the homicide inquiry as a means of profit. He manages to accumulate all the money involved (Qian’s original thousand, plus additional bribes) only to lose it to the next higher official.

In the mountains, Murong Jie fishes out the lovers, hears their story, and marries them off in a parody of a rustic wedding. He then gives them a sum of money so Tan Chuyu can take the provincial examinations. Tan succeeds and is appointed to be an official in the same region. Murong also gives him a book filled with pertinent advice.

There’s trouble, however: the bandit chief defeated earlier is back, and ravaging the country. He hires a man to impersonate Murong Jie and betray the government forces to him.

Tan Chuyu takes his post, following the righteous rules of Murong’s manual. He defeats the bandits, but the traitor escapes. He sends search parties out to look for him, and they find Murong instead. Regretfully, Tan prepares to execute his benefactor. This is sorted out, however, with the aid of the now-captive bandit chief.

Whew, that’s quite a lot of plot.

In the first half of the play, Lǐ Yú has a bit of an agenda: he is trying to show that dramas, and actors, can be morally uplifting. He was a failed scholar himself, as well as a producer and sometimes a bookshop owner; the transition to the new nomad-ruled Qīng dynasty probably didn’t improve the position of scholars. He himself had a reputation for being “wild and unrestrained in speech and behavior.” The moral uplift idea probably didn’t take; though it makes a fine motivator for the plot, Tan and Liu Miaogu’s high-mindedness doesn’t lead to success for the troupe even in the context of the play. Acting was an extremely low profession, one step up (if even that far) from prostitution. (Not that that prevented the gentry from enjoying the plays.)

The second half of the play, focusing on the bandits and the officials, in my view works better. Lǐ Yú was never himself an official, so he can only build up Murong and Tan as idealizations; but the convolutions of the plot which throw them into conflict are very well handled.

Will you actually enjoy it if you read it? (Or see it? It has been revived in modern times.) You can certainly enjoy the clever plot, and the information about Chinese drama and officialdom. (If you’ve read my China Construction Kit you’ll get a lot more out of it… e.g., you’ll catch the reference to the strategist Zhūgě Liàng.)

On the other hand, I’m not sure if the frequent poetry comes off well. E.g., here’s a bit sung by Liu Miaogu’s mother:

The child I bore wastes her flower-like beauty;
Vowing to remain chaste, she is an unworthy daughter.
By losing lots of money and vexing me deeply,
She occupies my mind the whole day long.

I’m sure it’s an adequate translation, yet it loses all the formal aspects and allusive concision of Chinese poetry.

I’ve never read any Chinese plays before, so I found it quite interesting. Also see my post on Kālidāsa, for Sanskrit theater.

The Three-Body Problem

I just read this, by 刘慈欣 Liú Cíxīn, a name almost designed to confuse people who don’t know Chinese. You can get close to it with lyoh tse-sheen. His given name means ‘kind (and) glad’; the surname Liu has no current meaning, but happens to be that of the rulers of the Han dynasty.

I liked the book a lot, though I’m going to have trouble describing it, because it’s written in the form a mystery. So even saying what it’s about is a spoiler. This mystery is initially faced by a nanotech physicist, Wang Miao, and a cop, Shi Qiang. In the near future, they’re called to a strange meeting where they hear about a wave of suicides among top physics researchers. One of the physicists they meet is playing a virtual reality game called Three Body, and that gets Wang playing the game as well. Oh, and the book starts with a sequence set in the Cultural Revolution, focused on a very unlucky physics student, Ye Wenjie.

This sounds rather random and slow, but it’s a whole Chekhov’s armory. Everything ends up being connected and important.

I always skip the testimonials and other stuff that comes before the title page, and now I see that the very first page gives the plot away. But, well, I still won’t. I’ll say, though, that the trilogy of which this is the first book can be described as space opera.

So the first thing I’d say about the book is that it’s very tightly plotted, though it doesn’t seem so at first. And the second thing is that it’s pretty compelling– once I got going, I kept reading till the end.

It’s pretty interesting to see sf from a non-American perspective. Liu has said that he doesn’t write sf to comment on contemporary society; but he does of course write within it. American sf has tracked the corruption of our own society: classic sf came from a confident, ever-more-prosperous society, and largely projected that into the future; as plutocracy took over, sf plunged into endless dystopias. China has almost the opposite trajectory: two centuries of frustrating oppression, of which the Cultural Revolution was only a  part, and then a burst of dizzying progress. But while the Cultural Revolution lives in current memory, there’s not the same triumphalism of 1950s American sf. (In an interview, Liu mentions that Chinese sf is usually dystopian, and he’s considered an optimist.)

If you’ve read my China Construction Kit, that would be excellent preparation for this book, as you’ll already know some historical figures that show up here. (They’re explained in footnotes, but it’s more fun to recognize them rather than be told.)

I would say, on the whole, that Liu is like classic sf in that he’s more interested in ideas than in people. It’s not that he’s bad with people, or that they seem artificial; but it’s definitely not a character study, and for the most part they are fulfilling roles demanded by the plot. So, Wang is just curious enough to go talk to people and play the Three Body game, and react with the appropriate puzzlement or despair; Shi is the cop who doesn’t play by the rules but gets things done, on loan from every cop movie. It works fine, but Liu obviously has more fun when he gets to talk about string theory or the titular problem in celestial mechanics.

(One bit did seem unconvincing: a description of future technology involving a couple of protons. They seemed a bit overpowered. But it is future tech, which is after all pretty hard to talk about.)

One more thought, which I’ll leave in white to avoid spoilers. Liu makes a case that the existence of aliens would be terrifying news. The book has been compared to War of the Worlds, and it’s notable that both Wells and Liu are well aware of the problem of colonialism. China was a great victim of it; Wells had a guilty conscience about it. Americans, by contrast, barely got into the business of direct colonialism; they’re neither conquerors or conquered, so they’re far more likely to think about aliens as exciting and interesting. 

Dragons win!

I never got into watching sports much.  And I still don’t! But it turns out I like watching esports, namely, Overwatch League and other high level play.  It’s back for 2019, and in just the second week we got the upset we’ve been waiting for since forever: the Shanghai Dragons won.

If you’re not quite sure what that’s about: Shanghai had the worst record in the first season, 0-40. And despite a near total change in team roster, they seemed to continue it last week with two more losses. Yet they’ve been a fan favorite, largely because they have the only female player in Overwatch, Geguri.

(Not the longest drought for a team I’ve supported though.  That would be my alma mater, Northwestern U., whose football team lost every game during the four years I attended. Well, as we always said, our SATs were higher.)

If you know nothing about Overwatch, the rest of the post may well be undecipherable. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Tonight’s match was pretty decisive, though: 3-1 on maps.  The first two maps were close to blowouts; the third was a nailbiter. It was a capture map, Horizon Lunar Colony.  Shanghai and Boston each capped both points, for a score of 2-2. But Shanghai had nearly 5 minutes more time going into the next round… still, they lost a lot of that time advantage, and both teams capped again.  Now it was 4-4.  Third round: Boston didn’t have much time, but they got 2 of 3 ticks on the first point. Shanghai had to beat the capture percentage of 79.5%… and they did, in a chaotic fight that lasted all of one minute.  (They had 1:17 left on the clock.)

The crowd went wild; whereas there are few things sadder than the panning shot over the Boston team just after their loss.  (“Someone had the break the streak… but why us?”)

The outstanding player of the match was new: Dding, on Sombra.  He was constantly behind the enemy scouting and hacking, and his timing on her EMP was spot on. This was particularly fun to watch since I sometimes play Sombra.  I’m trying to learn the playstyle: hack and shoot till you start to lose health, then teleport back to where you left your translocator.  Unless I forget to set it up, which I do at least once per game.  Needless to say, Dding does not have this problem.

Matches so far this season have been full of surprises. Last year’s top three teams were New York, Los Angeles Valiant, and Boston. As of tonight, New York is still on top, but the other two are in the bottom six; indeed, Boston is the team that Shanghai just beat. London, which won the championship last year, is also in the bottom six.

The eight expansion teams have done surprisingly well: right now five of them are in the top eight in the standings.  Matchups have also been startlingly non-transitive.  Dallas, which I also support because of streamer/coach Jayne, is 1-2, but one of those wins was against third-place Seoul. Hangzhou slaughtered two teams last week, but lost tonight to #14 Houston. Seoul has beaten Chengdu, which beat Guangzhou, which beat Dallas, which beat Seoul.

Probably things will sort out soon enough. But I’d say that at this level of play, Overwatch is not quite predictable: the game rules provide a final ranking that does not necessarily correspond to team skill.  These are all really good players who fight as a unit, and most team fights begin with a single kill.  Somebody’s gotta go, and it may be semi-random. At my level, a 5×6 fight is far from definitive, but at the pro level, it generally means a lost fight. And ults are a huge wild card whose success depends on split-second timing, and very careful tracking of enemy ults. I’ve watched a lot of team fights where you’d really have to watch several times at slow speed to figure out why it went the way it did.

Lots of people have been complaining about Goats, or 3-3 as the casters call it: the three-tank three-support meta that’s been dominant since last summer. I think most people don’t like it because you have to be pretty high level to play it, much less appreciate it. Most people want to play DPS, and as Jayne says, all but high-level games are usually played as DPS deathmatch. At my level, it’s hard to even get two tanks per game. If you play DPS, you watch pro play and don’t see anyone playing your hero. (I don’t mind so much, because my main characters are tanks, D.Va and Orisa.)

Thanks to some recent game changes, Goats is slightly less dominant; some teams have ran a Symmetra, and some games tonight featured Reaper and Soldier. A few teams have tried a one-tank strategy, that tank being Hammond, which seems really weird.

It’s been kind of cringey listening to the casters trying to pronounce Chinese names. You’d think they would have someone they could ask, like the players. If you want to do better than most of the casters do:

• Guangzhou = gwahng joe
• Hangzhou  = hahng joe
• Chengdu = chung do
• Shanghai = shahng high

The -ang has the same /a/ vowel as in hot, father, taco; it doesn’t rhyme with hang or hung. For an even closer pronunciation, see my book.

Anyway, hoping Dallas can pull it together tomorrow afternoon…

Pears: not Chinese mangoes

One reason I can tell my India book is almost done is that I keep finding things that are interesting, but too detailed or particular to go in the book. But they can go in this blog!

I’m reading Colleen Taylor Sen’s Feasts and Fasts: A History of Food in India, which is pretty good. At one point she writes

The Sanskrit names of several Indian foods contain the element china, indicating their Chinese origin, including peaches (chinani), pears (chinarajaputra), lettuce (chinasalit), and cinnamon (dalchini, or Chinese bark).

Sounds good, except when I checked a Sanskrit dictionary to get more scholarly transliterations. None of these words appears there. Other words are given for all but ‘lettuce’.

Time for some Googling.  I find Sen’s claim repeated in several places. But then I find an old book which has this to say:

The Sanskrit names here given for the peach and the pear seem to be known only from this narrative. Later authorities tell us that these fruits are indigenous in the country, and the whole story of the hostage is possibly invention.

What hostage?  Well, it’s too good a story not to repeat.

When Kanishka was reigning the fear of his name spread to many regions so far even as to the outlying vassals of China to the west of the Yellow River. One of these vassal states being in fear sent a hostage to the court of king Kanishka… The king treated the hostage with great kindness and consideration. …The pilgrim proceeds to relate how Peaches and Pears were unknown in this district and the part of India beyond until they were introduced by the “China hostage”.

The story is not impossible, but we should be extremely skeptical, not least because this is precisely the kind of story people love: tracing a cultural change not to some nameless trader, but to a colorful celebrity, here the son of a far ruler with an inexplicable fear of an Indian monarch. Plus we have the non-confirmation from the lexicons.

All this is a good reminder to approach sources with caution, and to wonder how many normal-sounding statements in history books are based on things as shaky as this. However, it doesn’t affect my book at all— it takes too much space to explain what turns out not to be a fact at all.

Still, there’s more to say! The “old book” I found is called On Yuan Chwang’s Travels in India, 629-645 A.D., by Thomas Watters, 1904.  Yuan Chwang is the “pilgrim” referred to in the cite above.

But who is he?  Turns out he’s none other than 玄奘 Xuánzàng, who some readers may remember from my China Construction Kit, and whose trip to India inspired the Míng novel Journey to the West. I’m tempted to read Watters’ book, because I’m curious to know more about Xuánzàng’s actual trip, as opposed to the mythological joyride of Journey to the West. Bookmarked for later!

It’s a great thing, by the way, that scholars have finally standardized on pinyin, because Chinese names used to be murder for scholars. Not a few historians of India didn’t get the memo, as they still refer to “Hiuen Tsang”. Other variants include Hiouen Thsang, Hsüan Chwang, Hhüen Kwân, and Shuen Shang. What a mess. Contrariwise, it’s very nice that even a century-old book like Watters uses a Sanskrit transliteration almost identical to what we use today.

Oh, what’s that about Chinese mangoes?  That’s the literal translation of chinarajaputra. (Well, rajaputra literally means ‘prince’, but it’s also a word for mango, so if you did need a word for ‘pear’, ‘Chinese mango’ makes more sense than ‘Chinese prince’.) (But the real Sanskrit word for ‘pear’ seems to be amritaphala.)

 

 

 

Beware the Cyber World

I saw this on Twitter, and decided that this was an important phrase to learn in Chinese:

網上虛擬交心不宜

wǎng-shàng xūnǐ jiāoxīn bù yí

web-above virtual entrust not should

You should not make virtual commitments online.

 

While we’re at it, my Overwatch pals have been quoting D.Va’s comments in Korean, so let’s look at those in more detail.

안녕하세요!

a̠nɲjʌ̹ŋ ɦa̠sʰe̞jo

Annyeong haseyo!

peace you.have

Do you have peace? = How are you?

That first word is a borrowing from Chinese 安寧— Mandarin ānníng ‘peace, tranquility’. You will undoubtedly recognize the first character from 西安 Xī’ān, the ancient capital of China; also Heian, the ancient name for Kyoto.

D.va is very informal and also from the future, so she just says Annyeong!

감사합니다

ˈka̠ːmsʰa̠ɦa̠mnida̠

Kamsa hamnida!

thanks have.assertive

I am thankful! = Thank you!

Again, the first word is a borrowing: 感謝 gǎnxiè ‘gratitude’; the common way to say “Thank you” in Mandarin— which you can hear Mei say in Overwatch— is 謝謝 xièxiè.

And again, D.Va informally says just Kamsa!

Mei’s “Hello” is 你好 Nǐhǎo, literally “you good?”

 

The Shadow Hero

In 1944— a time when the war lowered a lot of barriers— Chu Hing became one of the first Asian-Americans to work in comics. He created a superhero named the Green Turtle, who fought the Japanese who were attempting to conquer China. Rather strangely, the comic never shows Green Turtle’s face; the supposition is that the publisher refused to allow an Asian face, and in return Hing refused to draw a white one.  Another oddity is that the Turtle’s shadow is drawn (without explanation) as a big black turtle, with yellow eyes and a red mouth.

Now Gene Luen Yang (Asian-American) and Sonny Liew (Malaysian-Singaporean) have teamed up to revive and explain the character.

His origin story: he’s Hank, a Chinese-American boy whose only goal is to help his father run a grocery store, and run it himself after him.  But after his mother meets a superhero, she gets it into her head that Hank should be one too. She takes him for martial arts training, arranges accidents with industrial waste, and even knits him a costume… with a big 金 and the helpful legend GOLDEN MAN OF BRAVERY.

This part of the book is a lot of fun— Hank’s mom is both adorable and annoying, and Yang recognizes that the whole superhero thing is a little ridiculous.

It gets more serious later on, as Hank confronts the tongs that control Chinatown. As part of this, he meets the tortoise spirit, one of four ancient spirits that safeguard the Chinese Empire, and are a little lost when the Empire disappears.  So now he has real superpowers— though he has to learn how to use them to do some good. Also he can finally choose a better superhero name, the Green Turtle. (Which happens to be close to the name of his father’s shop, 玉龜 ‘jade tortoise’.)

(Pedantic note: the book gives this as Yu Quai, but the family is Cantonese so the first character should really be Yuk. Possibly a little interference from Mandarin yù?)

The story is set in the 1940s, and deals realistically with the casual anti-Chinese racism of the time. The viewpoint however is always with Hank and his family, who have little interaction with whites; even the villains are other Asian-Americans.

I have to say that Sonny Liew’s art takes some getting used to. He’s great with cityscapes and shadow creatures and Hank and his father.  Everyone else is caricatured in a weird ugly way… if a white guy drew Chinese people like that it would come off as racist. Still, I’d love to see a Volume 2.

As a bonus, the book provides one of the original Chu Hing Green Turtle comics from 1944. Even at the time, it was surely a bit odd that you never saw Green Turtle’s face. For a modern reader, there’s another peculiarity: the Chinese in the story are drawn nicely, but the Japanese are monstrous.

I also recently read a graphic novel of Liew’s: The Art of Charlie Chan Hock Chye.  It’s an odd meta thing: a mock retrospective of a not-very-successful imaginary cartoonist. This gives Liew the opportunity to parody all sorts of historical styles (e.g. there’s a nice tribute to Pogo), and also to recount the dramatic history of Singapore: British rule, the Japanese invasion, independence, Lee Kuan Yew’s authoritarian rule. The mockumentary format is well suited for wandering through history, and for pastiching cartoonists he admires; perhaps less so for maintaining narrative momentum.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wáng Wéi

In my China book I included a poem by the Táng poet 王维 Wáng Wéi, 鹿柴 Lù Chái (Deer Park), one of the most-translated poems from Chinese.

Prompted by my friend Adrian’s thoughts on the poem (with his own translation), I thought I’d provide the glosses and grammatical notes so you can create your own version.

(The poem may actually be Lù Zhài. 柴 is sometimes read zhài, but my dictionaries don’t have this reading, apparently rare.)

空山不见人

Kòng shān bú jiàn rén

empty mountain not see person

An empty mountain. No one is seen

“Kòng shān” is a topic here, giving the setting. The subject is omitted— this lack of overt viewpoint is one of the features of Chinese poetry.  Rén can of course be either “person” or “people”. Chinese verbs have no tense, which helps create a timeless mood in poetry. (They have aspect, but with the limited characters per line available, I believe it’s rarely used in poems.)

但闻人语响

Dàn wén rén yǔ xiǎng

however hear person words/speak sound

Yet we hear the sound of voices.

OC is comfortable with N +  N, or as here, N + N + N phrases— “person speech sounds”. Again, no explicit subject— my “we” is an interpolation, to avoid an awkward passive. 

返景入深林

Fǎn jǐng rù shēn lín

return brightness/view/situation enter deep/thick forest

Evening light penetrates the deep forest

The first word is difficult. It just means ‘return’, but what is returning light? My friend Ran suggested “the setting sun is described as returning its light because as it moves forward toward the horizon, any sort of light it casts is perceived as being opposite to its direction of motion.”  To me the sentence suggests the edge of the forest, where low evening light temporarily lights up the forest floor. In any case translators all seem to agree, for whatever reason, that we’re talking about dusk!

复照青苔上

Fù zhào qīng tái shàng

repeat/again shine dark.green moss above/on

It shines again on the green moss.

Easy part first: “X shàng” is the OC way of saying “on X”; versions that use the meaning “rise” are a real stretch.  I’m not sure why “again” is specified, unless it’s what I mentioned above— a daily cycle of low light illuminating the forest floor. (Or moss in the trees— see the picture in Adrian’s posting.)

If you missed it: lines 2 and 4 in the original rhyme.  Lines 1/3 do not, either in Mandarin or in Táng Chinese.

China book news plus free opinions

I’v e been proofing China Construction Kit, plus incorporating reviewers’ suggestions.  It’s about time to print another proof; I think I’m still on target for a release at the end of the month.

Dowager Empress Cíxǐ, the de facto and disappointing late-19C ruler

But I find myself with a few opinions that didn’t get into the book. A few opinions made it in, but opinions take up a lot of room, you know, so I’ll put them here instead.

The biggest point is in reaction to William Rowe’s China’s Last Empire: The Great Qing.  He notes that scholarly tradition, in East and West, has been to divide the Qīng (Manchu) dynasty in 1842, with the first Opium War.  The preceding period goes with the rest of imperial China; the later period is part of modern history.  He describes his book as “revisionist”, incorporating a new overall picture of the Qīng, in which the Opium War is only one incident, and the Qīng were stronger and better than they looked.

He then spends the rest of the book basically showing, despite himself, that the traditional view is more or less correct.

Now, it’s not that he’s wrong, exactly. Early European visitors tended to be impressed with China, until the 19C when they suddenly saw it as backwards yet arrogant (and, more to the point, ready for plucking).  It’s hard sometimes not to just exclaim that 19C Westerners just sucked.  At the same time they were roughing up China, they treated Chinese immigrants, well, about like the West is dealing with Syrian refugees today– that is, with a maximum of ignorant fear and horror.  And when the West got around to the scholarly study of modern China, they were way too interested in the history of Westerners in China.

From a Chinese point of view, an answer to the burning question of why China was slow to modernize was: it came down to really bad luck.  A pattern going back two thousand years is that Chinese dynasties move from active and prosperous, to divided and chaotic. When a dynasty is started, a lot can get done: distribute land, expand the borders, establish internal peace, promote scholarship.  The dynamic period rarely lasts more than 150 years.  Large landowners start to take most of the land, which reduces the tax rolls, which leads to tax increases on the poor, which eventually leads to starvation and revolts.  Often later monarchs are dominated by the eunuchs (or in the Manchu era, their families).  The scholar-officials get bogged down in acrimonious debates, which bring down any serious reform movements. Finally everything falls apart.

The Manchus produced some especially fine early rulers, who lasted till about 1800… which means, the Westerners became powerful just at the worst possible time, after the 150-year mark when the dynasty started to decline fast.  From a purely internal point of view, there was more destruction caused by the White Lotus Rebellion and the Taiping Rebellion than by the wars with the West.

At the same time… well, the Manchu response to the West was pitifully inadequate.  But then, the same can be said of almost every other non-Western nation– it’s not a particular shame for the Chinese.  The Japanese ability to adapt Western ways with great speed is the real outlier.

Development is a tricky problem, and I’d venture to say that almost all the Western advice that China received, for a century, was useless. Not only did 19C Westerners not know how to develop a country, they didn’t even want to.  They wanted to trade, do missionary work, and if possible take over. If they couldn’t take over, they wanted local leaders who would guarantee stability and safeguard Western interests.  To the extent that the West had some good ideas about democracy, free speech, science, civil law, and free enterprise, they did their best to keep it to themselves.

Anyway, see the book for the actual course of events. I do try not to over-emphasize the West, though of course it has to be discussed in the modern period. So I’ve left out (say) what the British ambassador thought of China in 1793, something that tends to fascinate British authors.

And while I’m offering opinions, here’s another one: the Empire was better governed than perhaps any Western monarchy; but monarchy still sucks. This was realized, of course, in both East and West. The Western path was to limit the absolute power of the monarch– basically, in favor of the other power bases of Western society: the nobility, the church, and the towns. The Chinese way was to inculcate in both monarchs and officials an ideology of public-spirited rule.  Mark Elvin quotes some remarkable letters from Manchu monarchs expressing personal shame over reports of droughts and other poor weather. The teaching was that Heaven might show its displeasure with a ruler by bringing such catastrophes; one may wonder if the emperor 100% believed in what he was saying, but he obviously thought it worth saying, and it’s hard to imagine George III or Napoleon or Frederick the Great ever saying it. When the emperor was scrupulous, hardworking, and respectful of his officials, government was more effective than Westerners managed until very late in history.

But of course emperors could also be lazy or incompetent, or paranoid and vicious, or dominated by the court. And in between dynasties, you generally had warlords of varying ferocity. And worldwide, no one ever really achieved a better record with monarchy; see here for more.

(I know, we look at Donald Trump and things don’t seem much better.  But Trump is– thankfully, so far– an opposition candidate, and nothing about democracy guarantees that the opposition is any good.  When you really have a stinker of a president, you can get rid of him in 4 years; a bad monarch can afflict you for decades, and act much more opposite the interest of the masses.)

 

 

 

 

Ballad of Mùlán

The original story of 木兰 Mùlán (‘Magnolia’) comes from an 11C anthology— The Ballad of Mùlán (Mùlán cí)— though the actual source is probably centuries earlier.  I had the whole thing in my book but decided that the full Chinese translation was overkill there, so it’s going here instead.

The illustration is of 侯梦瑶 Hóu Mèngyáo in a Chinese production, The Legend of Huā Mùlán— she acquired a surname in a Míng play. Mùlán doesn’t belong to Disney!

唧唧复唧唧，木兰当户织。

Jījī fù jījī, Mùlán dāng hù zhī.

(onomatopoeia) again (onomatopoeia) / Mùlán at door weave

Spin spin, again spin spin, Mùlán, facing the door, weaves.

不闻机杼声，唯闻女叹息。

Bù wén jīzhù shēng, wéi wén nǚ tànxī.

not hear machine-shuttle noise／ only hear girl sigh

The loom’s sound is not heard, only the girl’s sighs.

问女何所思？问女何所忆？

Wèn nǚ hé suǒ sī? Wèn nǚ hé suǒ yì?

ask girl what SUB think / ask girl what SUB remember

Ask her, what are you thinking, what do you recall?

女亦无所思，女亦无所忆。

Nǚ yì wú suǒ sī, nǚ yì wú suǒ yì.

girl also not.have SUB think / girl also not.have SUB remember

She does not think, does not recall anything.

昨夜见军帖，可汗大点兵，

Zuóyè jiàn jūn tiě, Kèhán dà diǎn bīng,

yesterday-night see army notice / Khan big point troops

Last night she saw the army notices:

the Khan is mustering a great army—

军书十二卷，卷卷有爷名。

Jūn shū shí’èr juàn, juànjuàn yǒu yé míng.

army book 10 2 scroll / scroll scroll exist father name

The muster fills twelve scrolls, Father’s name is in each one.

阿爷无大儿，木兰无长兄，

Āyé wú dà ér, Mùlán wú zhǎng xiōng,

honorific-father not.have big son / Mùlán not.have extended older.brother

Father has no grown son, Mùlán has no elder brother.

愿为市鞍马，从此替爷征。

Yuàn wéi shì ān mǎ, cóngcǐ tì yé zhēng.

will serve city saddle horse / from this replace father levy

I will buy saddle and horse in the market, and take his place.

东市买骏马，西市买鞍鞯，

Dōng shì mǎi jùn mǎ, xī shì mǎi ānjiān,

east market buy spirited horse / west market buy saddle

In the east market she buys a fine horse, in the west a saddle;

南市买辔头，北市买长鞭。

Nán shì mǎi pèitóu, běi shì mǎi chángbiān.

south market buy bridle / north market buy whip

In the south market a bridle, in the north a whip.

旦辞爷娘去，暮宿黄河边。

Dàn cí yéniáng qù, mù sù Huánghé-biān.

dawn from father-mother go / dusk lodge Yellow-River-side

At dawn she leaves her parents,

at dusk she camps at the side of the Yellow River.

不闻爷娘唤女声，但闻黄河流水鸣溅溅。

Bù wén yéniáng huàn nǚ shēng, dàn wén Huánghé liúshuǐ míng jiānjiān.

not hear father-mother call girl sound / but hear Yellow-River flowing-water sound (onomatopoeia)

She doesn’t hear her parents calling to her,

only the splashing of the Yellow River’s water.

旦辞黄河去，暮至黑山头。

Dàn cí Huánghé qù, mù zhì Hēishān-tóu.

dawn from Yellow-River go / dusk arrive Black-mountain-head

At dawn she leaves the river, reaches the Black Hills at dusk.

不闻爷娘唤女声，但闻燕山胡骑声啾啾。

Bù wén yéniáng huàn nǚ shēng, dàn wén Yān-shān hú qí shēng jiūjiū.

not hear father-mother call girl sound / but hear Swallow-mountain barbarian-rider sound (onomatopoeia)

She doesn’t hear her parents calling to her,

only the sound of the nomads riding on Mt. Yān.

万里赴戎机，关山度若飞。

Wànlǐ fù róng jī, guān shāndù ruò fēi.

10,000-mile go military moment / cut mountain-pass like flying

10,000 miles of riding to battle,

dashing across mountains and passes as if in flight.

朔气传金柝，寒光照铁衣。

Shuò qì chuán jīn tuò, hán guāng zhào tiě yī.

new.moon energy transmit metal watchman.rattle / cold light shine iron armor

The watchman’s clapper rings in the icy wind,

a cold light shines on iron armor.

将军百战死，壮士十年归。

Jiāngjūn bǎi zhàn sǐ, zhuàngshì shí nián guī.

general hundred battle die / warrior ten year return

Generals fight to the death in a hundred battles;

warriors return after ten years.

归来见天子，天子坐明堂。

Guīlái jiàn tiānzǐ, tiānzǐ zuò míngtáng.

return-come see heaven-son / heaven-son sit bright-hall

She returns to see the Emperor, seated in his bright hall.

策勋十二转，赏赐百千强。

Cè xūn shí’èr zhuǎn, shǎngcì bǎi qiān qiáng.

plant merit twelve turn / reward hundred thousand power

He bestows the highest honors on her, and countless sums.

可汗问所欲，“木兰不用尚书郎，

Kèhán wèn suǒ yù.“Mùlán bù yòng shàngshū-láng,

khan ask SUB desire / Mùlán not need honor-book-scholar

The khan asked what she wanted. “Mùlán does not need an appointment to office.

愿借明驼千里足，送儿还故乡。”

Yuàn jiè míng tuó qiānlǐ zú, sòng ér huán gùxiāng.”

will borrow bright camel thousand-mile sufficient / send child return home

I want only a camel capable of a long journey,

to carry me back to my home town.”

爷娘闻女来，出郭相扶将。

Yéniáng wén nǚ lái, chū guō xiāng fújiāng.

father-mother hear girl come / go.out city.wall mutual support

The parents hear that their daughter is coming;

they wait at the city wall, holding each other up.

阿姊闻妹来，当户理红妆。

Āzǐ wén mèi lái, dāng hù lǐ hóngzhuāng.

honorific-older.sister hear younger.sister come / at door arrange red-adornment

The older sister hears that her younger sister is coming,

she waits at the door, applying red makeup.

小弟闻姊来，磨刀霍霍向猪羊。

Xiǎodì wén zǐ lái, mó dāo huòhuò xiàng zhū yáng.

little-younger.brother hear older.sister come / grind knife (onomatopoeia) to pig sheep

The younger brother hears that his older sister is coming,

he quickly sharpens the knife for the pig and sheep.

“开我东阁门，坐我西阁床。

Kāi wǒ dōng gé mén, zuò wǒ xī gé chuáng.

open I east chamber gate / sit I west chamber bed

“I open the door on the east side of the room,

sit on the bed on the west side.

脱我战时袍，着我旧时裳。”

Tuō wǒ zhànshí páo, zhuó wǒ jiùshí cháng.

remove I battle-time robe / dress I former-time skirt

I take off my wartime gear, put on my old clothes.”

当窗理云鬓，对镜贴花黄。

Dāng chuāng lǐ yúnbìn, duì jìng tiē huā huáng.

at window arrange cloud-hair / facing mirror stick flower-yellow

At the window she arranges her flowing hair;

before a mirror she applies a flower decoration.

出门看火伴，火伴皆惊惶。

Chū mén kàn huǒbàn, huǒbàn jiē jīnghuáng.

go.out gate see fire-mate / fire-mate all shock-fear

She comes to the gate to meet her fellow soldiers,

who are all utterly shocked:

同行十二年，不知木兰是女郎。

Tóng xíng shí’èr nián, bù zhī Mùlán shì nǚláng.

with go twelve year / not know Mùlán be girl-youth

Her companions for twelve years didn’t know she was a woman.

“雄兔脚扑朔，雌兔眼迷离；

“Xióng tù jiǎo pū shuò, cí tù yǎn mílí;

male hare foot push north / female hare eye blurred

“[Held up,] the male rabbit’s foot kicks quickly;

the female rabbit’s eye is nearly closed.

两兔傍地走，安能辨我是雄雌！”

liǎng tù bàng dì zǒu, ān néng biàn wǒ shì xióng cí!”

both rabbit close earth go.along / how can distinguish I be male female

But if both are running on the ground,

how can I tell which is which?”