34—
Liu Chi (1311–1375)

Liu Chi began his career in the service of the Yüan dynasty but later joined with Chu Yüan-chang to become one of the founders of the Ming and a powerful court official. He was born in Ch'ing-t'ien in present-day Che-chiang into a family of scholars and teachers. In 1331 he became a Metropolitan Graduate and served in a series of local posts under the Mongols but resigned owing to a minor political conflict. When Fang Kuo-chen began to revolt in 1348, Liu Chi was recalled, but he disagreed with the policy of appeasement and favored military suppression; once again, he was removed and spent his leisure traveling and writing. He continued for some years to accept posts in which he attempted to defend the Yüan only then to resign because of policy differences. When Chu Yüan-chang attacked southeast China in 1360, Liu Chi and Sung Lien opportunely joined his cause, providing critical leadership for Chu's military victories over other contenders. With the establishment of the Ming dynasty in Nanking in 1368, Liu became a pivotal figure at court and was much relied upon by Chu, the Emperor T'ai-tsu. He rose to the position of Academician of the Hungwen Palace and was ennobled as the Earl of Sincerity (Ch'eng-i-po). Like many scholar associates of the emperor, however, he fell prey to T'ai-tsu's suspicions, which in turn were incited by the jealousy of Hu Wei-yung, the prime minister whose subsequent execution for treason also led to the exile of Sung Lien. Liu, though, was allowed to retire in 1371, and he spent his last years in angry frustration over his political fate. It has even been suggested that he was poisoned by Hu Wei-yung. Liu Chi posthumously became a character in popular fiction and drama, often being portrayed as a seer.

As a writer, Liu helped to shape literati taste by reintroducing

Ancient Style prose. He was also influential in institutionalizing the Ancient Style within the Ming examination system, by selecting the Confucian corpus of the Four Books and the Five Classics (Szu-shu wu-ching ) as the basis for essays, and by advocating stylistic values in prose that later were codified in the "Eight-legged Essay" (Pa-ku-wen ). These remained standard elements of official recruitment for the more than five centuries of the Ming and Ch'ing dynasties. He produced most of his important literary work during the Yüan, criticizing the decadence at the end of the dynasty and the suffering of the common people. He addressed these issues in a collection of over 180 essays entitled Master of Enlightenment (Yü-li-tzu ), which contains far-ranging discussions and debates, some of which employ allegory in the mode of the Chuang-tzu and the T'ang-Sung Masters. While his writing became more conventional under the Ming, a notable exception is a long poem of more than twelve hundred characters entitled "Two Ghosts" (Er-kuei ), in which two mythical spirits in charge of the Sun and Moon (representing Liu Chi and Sung Lien) anger the Emperor of Heaven and are banished from Heaven. The poem expresses the hope that they will be pardoned and return to the court.

Liu Chi wrote a number of travel records both in and out of office. The following two pieces were composed while he was serving the Yüan, about five years before he met Chu Yüan-chang. They are sensitive responses to the natural stimuli encountered at the Wind-in-the-Pines Pavilion. The first is more expository, as Liu objectively considers the philosophical meanings of natural phenomena; in the second, he responds more lyrically to the concrete features of the environment.

The Wind-in-the-Pines Pavilion I   (1355)

Rain, wind, dew, and thunder are all produced by Heaven. Rain and dew have a form, and things depend on them for nurture. Thunder takes on no form but has a sound—only wind is similar.

Wind cannot create sound on its own: it sounds only in connection with things. It is unlike the ferocious clamor of thunder, which rumbles through the void. Since wind sounds only in connection with things, its sound depends on the thing: loud or soft, clear or vague, delightful or frightening—all are produced depending on the form of the thing. Though it may come into contact with earthen or rock pedestals in the shape of tortoises,^[1] sounds are not produced. If a valley is empty

and immense, its sound is vigorous and fierce; when water gently flows, its sound is still turbulent and agitated—neither achieves a harmonious balance, and both cause man to feel fearful and frightened. Therefore, only plants and trees can produce suitable sounds.

Among plants and trees, those with large leaves have a muffled sound; those with dry leaves have a sorrowful sound; those with frail leaves have a weak and unmelodic sound. For this reason, nothing is better suited to wind than the pine.

Now, the pine as a species has a stiff trunk and curled branches, its leaves are thin, and its twigs are long. It is gnarled yet noble, unconstrained and overspreading, entangled and intricate. So when wind passes through it, it is neither obstructed nor agitated. Wind flows through smoothly with a natural sound. Listening to it can relieve anxiety and humiliation, wash away confusion and impurity, expand the spirit and lighten the heart, make one feel peaceful and contemplative, cause one to wander free and easy through the skies and travel along with the force of Creation. It is well suited to gentlemen who seek pleasure in mountains and forests, delighting in them and unable to abandon them.

There are three pines on Golden Cock Peak^[2] that are I don't know how many hundreds of years old. When a slight wind vibrates them, the sound is like an underground spring— "sa-sa "—as it emerges to flow quickly over rocky shoals. When the wind is slightly stronger, it sounds like ancient court music. And when a great wind arrives, it is like stirring up waves, or like pounding drums with faint traces of a rhythm.

The Venerable Fang-chou built a pavilion below and named it "The Wind-in-the-Pines Pavilion." I stayed there while on route and was so contented that I wanted to remain and forget about returning. Perhaps it is because though situated amid a mountain forest, it is still not far removed from people. In summer, the heat is not unbearable; in winter, the cold is not so bitter. Gazing at the pines soothed my eyes; listening to the pines soothed my ears. I escaped from my duties and with this leisure time wandered free and easy here and there without any worldly concerns to perplex the mind. I can feel happy here and pass the entire day this way. So is it really necessary to wash in the Ying River to feel exalted or climb Mount Shou-yang to feel pure?^[3]

I have dwelled in every part; my movements and domiciles are never predictable. Yet I cannot forget the feeling I have for this pavilion, so I wrote this out as an account upon bidding farewell to the Venerable on the ninth day of the seventh month of the fifteenth year of the Chih-cheng era [August 16, 1355].^[4]

The Wind-in-the-Pines Pavilion II   (1355)

The Wind-in-the-Pines Pavilion is located below Golden Cock Peak, above the source of the Effervescent River. I arrived here for the first time this spring and stayed for two days. It rained the entire time. I could hear only the sound of waves day and night and was unable to view its marvelous sights completely. This time, I came and stayed at the pavilion for more than ten days and became thoroughly familiar with its changing appearance over time.

The peak behind the pavilion stands highest among the group of other peaks. Also, there are pines on its summit. I gazed up at them, and they resembled a feathery canopy above the mountain's head.^[1] Just when the sun reached its height, a wind rustled the branches, and they became like dragons and feng -birds soaring in dance, their "feathers" moist and coiling around, intertwining as they moved about. Shadows fell among the roof tiles; gold and green wove themselves into a brocade. Whoever observes it finds his vision becoming more acute. The sound was like a hsün ocarina or a ch'ih flute;^[2] like passing rain; and like water striking against a cliff; or like armed cavalry charging, swords and spears grinding and clashing. Then, suddenly, it became like insects chirping insistently—"ch'ieh-ch'ieh "—now loud, now faint; seemingly distant and yet close by. No description could fully capture it. Whoever listens to it finds his hearing becoming sharper.

I asked the Venerable about this. He replied, "I have no awareness of it at all. Our Buddha considers the neutralization of the Six Defilements^[3] as the basis for enlightening the mind. Whatever enters the eyes and ears is empty and false." I said, "Yet you named the pavilion after such things. Why?" The Venerable laughed and said, "It just happened by chance."

I lingered at the pavilion for another three days, then returned.

RECORDED ON THE TWENTY-THIRD DAY OF THE SEVENTH MONTH OF THE
FIFTEENTH YEAR OF THE CHIH-CHENG ERA [AUGUST 30, 1355]^[4]