Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Kawakami Hajime

Collected Works of Weinan in fifty volumes, Notes from the Old Study in ten volumes—both pertaining to poetry.

This piece was formed by gathering and compiling elements found scattered throughout the narratives.

Fangweng's Poetry Criticism

(1)

Wu Jixian once remarked: "Though Canliao’s poem states, ‘On Lingping Mountain’s path in May / Lotus flowers in countless numbers fill Tingzhou,’ May is not the peak season for lotus blossoms, and thus ‘countless numbers fill Tingzhou’ cannot be accurate."

Lian Xuanzhong countered: "This prioritizes the beauty of the line. Had it said ‘Lingping Mountain’s path in June,’ it would not have achieved such excellence."

Wu Jixian retorted: "It is merely that you have memorized it so thoroughly that you consider May superior—but in reality, even if it were June, would that not also be excellent?"

(Notes from the Old Study, Volume 2)

(2)

Du Zimei's (Du Fu) poem on the plum rains states: "On Nanjing's Xipu Road / In April, yellow plums ripen / The profound Yangtze flows onward / Dim drizzle arrives swirling / Thatch huts sparse, easily dampened / Dense mists stubbornly linger / All day flood dragons revel / Whirlpools churn where shorelines bend."
This was indeed composed in Chengdu.
Present-day Chengdu has never experienced plum rains; only in mid-autumn does its humid climate accumulate overcast skies resembling Wu's rainy season.
Could it be that geophysical conditions differ between ancient and modern times?
(Notes from the Old Study, Volume 6)

(3)

In Ouyang Xiu’s morning court poem he wrote: “Jade bridles vied at gates as retinues entered; / Ivory tablets in hall announced ranks aligned.”
Li Dechu stated: “Since ancient times there has never been such a thing as ‘ivory tablets announcing ranks aligned’ in court rituals.”
When I examined this matter, it indeed aligned with Dechu’s argument.
Even when I inquired of those versed in court rituals, they too were perplexed and concluded there was no such practice.
Yet Ouyang Gong could not have erred; one must investigate past institutions more extensively.
(Notes from the Old Study, Volume 7)

(4)

In Zhang Wenchang’s *Chengdu Qu*, he wrote: "Westward near Brocade River’s misted emerald waters; / Fresh rains bring lychees ripe on mountain crests. / By Wanli Bridge, wine shops crowd the banks— / Which lodge claims the traveler’s rest?"
This verse came from one who had never reached Chengdu.
Chengdu knows no mountains—nor does lychee grow there.
Su Huangmen’s poem declares: "Shu’s lychees spring from Jiazhou’s soil; / Beyond to Mei, their presence thins to naught."
For Pengshan County in Mei—south of Chengdu—already lies beyond lychee’s domain; how much less could Chengdu itself claim them?
(Notes from the Old Study, Volume 5)

The four items above were transcribed in order to demonstrate how thoroughly Fangweng pursued factual accuracy.

The poem titled *Miscellaneous Writings* (*Jiannan Poetry Drafts*, Volume 52) stated:
And his self-annotation noted that both the chickens and dogs were actual events.
The poem titled *Depicting Impressions of a Poor Dwelling* (*Poetry Drafts*, Volume 68) wrote: "Sparkling new frost striped the tile gutters; / Lush winter vegetables graced the platter's offerings. / A servant boy clutched his bamboo broom, sweeping fallen leaves; / A dim-sighted maid lifted the lamp, mending a tattered robe."
And here too he added a self-annotation stating that both the servant boy and dim-sighted maid were factual records.
Even when composing poetry himself, he absolutely did not write careless nonsense.

I could not help recalling Gorky in this regard.
The copy of his *On Literature* currently in my possession—I do not consider it a fully reliable translation—but from within it, I shall attempt to transcribe here a certain passage sufficient to glimpse a fragment of his views.

The following passage concerned Marchanov, a new writer, and his full-length novel *Peasants*: ――

"Many critics praise Marchanov extravagantly, but I cannot help but state the following: That is to say, he is a man of talent, but as a literary scholar, he is dreadfully uneducated. As evidence, on page 210, it states: 'Under Vladimir Ilyich’s orders, Madvey moved from Petersburg to the Urals region in 1898 and organized a combat unit of old Bolshevik guards'—however, in 1898, V. Ilyich had been exiled and was not in Petersburg. And what sort of combat unit is this author even talking about? Originally, such combat units were formed much later. The author also writes in one passage about the trembling voice of a female bush warbler, but even any rural child knows that female birds do not sing. The author also writes about the feast prepared at a wealthy farmer’s house to celebrate the Feast of the Transfiguration: 'large barley-made buns richly seasoned with sour cream and thinly spread with butter like first ice; white wheat shaniga (translator’s note: a type of curd pastry) as voluptuous as Anna’s breasts; large fish-filled buns crowding the table; and countless khvorost (translator’s note: fried pastries) and curd pastries.' And on the *pechka*’s hearth were lined up greasy meat stew dishes, cod’s ear soup dishes, ham, veal, hazel grouse meat, porridge, butter, sauce, and so on. He writes '... ,' but it is physically impossible to place the number of dishes the author has listed on the hearth of a peasant’s *pechka*."

Incidentally, I shall now explain about the lychee that appears in Fangweng’s writings.
The tree grows to approximately three zhang (about nine meters) in height, with smooth leaves shaped like arrowheads; its fruit resembles that of the longan (as illustrated in Mr. Shinmura Izuru’s Jien), turning crimson when ripe, with white flesh rich in sweet juice.
In Su Dongpo’s Chaozhou Han Wengong Temple Stele, it concludes with “dined on lychee-dan and banana-yellow”—this “lychee-dan” refers precisely to the lychee fruit.
This was likely an exceedingly rare delicacy.
Fangweng left further records on the matter.
“I and Yidai Jianwu of Chengdu—we are all men of refinement,”
“who take pleasure in each other’s company.”
Xue Xuchang once came to administer the prefecture through the Chengdu military government.
He did not remain long before resigning his post.
Thus his lychee poem states: “At year’s end in Jianzhou, trees were glimpsed; / When fresh fruits graced the feast, only their fame was heard.”
This indeed lamented missing the season’s bounty.
“Each time, we would recite these lines together with those two gentlemen.”
He even documented others’ experiences as follows:
“Yu Shen, having resigned his chancellorship, dwelled in his Fuzhou estate.
A lychee tree there bore fruit for the first time,
immense and splendid, named ‘Lianggonghong.’
Lianggong was the name of Yu Shen’s family library.
During the Jingkang era, Shen was exiled to Jianchang Army and departed.
The lychee tree bore no further fruit.
When Shen returned the following year, the lychee again fruited as before.”

It was sufficient to imagine how exceedingly rare lychees were.

Let me add one more note by way of preface. During Dongpo’s exile in Huizhou, there existed a poem titled *Six Poems Harmonizing with Tao’s “Returning to Dwell in Gardens and Fields”*, whose preface stated: “Lychees hang in clusters, resembling foxnuts. There was an elderly villager, eighty-five years old, who pointed [at them] and said to me: ‘When these become ripe enough to eat, might Your Excellency deign to bring wine and come enjoy them?’” Furthermore, in a poem titled *Coix Seed*, there were the lines: “Plants and trees each have their proper place; rare products throng the southern wilds.” There was a couplet that read: “Crimson pouches hang lychees; snowy powder parts sugar palms.” Crimson was a deep red color. He had likely described lychees ripening bright red as resembling suspended crimson pouches. Since they were also listed among the rare products of the southern wilds, they must have seldom been seen outside warm South China. Now, to digress even further within this digression: when I examined the Su Dongpo Poetry Collection included in the *Zokukoku Yakkan Buntaishū* (Continuation of National Translations of Chinese Literary Classics), I found the previously cited lines explicated as follows: “Even plants and trees each have their suitable places, and in the southern wilds, especially, rare products are arrayed. Lychees hang interspersed like crimson pouches; should one split open a sugar palm, within lies powder like snow—various rarities and such.” Now, what did it mean to “hang interspersed crimson pouches”? Thinking it strange, I checked the character annotations and found that Cai Junmo’s lychee poem stated: “Thick leaves and slender branches interspersed with crimson pouches.” If one described lychees hanging like crimson pouches interspersed among thick leaves and slender branches, that made sense—but merely inserting crimson pouches haphazardly achieved nothing. Wondering who on earth had written such a thing, I checked the front of the volume—and there it was, translated and annotated by Dr. Kubo Tenzui.

(5)

In Zhang Ji’s poem *Night Mooring at Maple Bridge*, it states: "Outside Gusu City, Hanshan Temple— / Midnight bell sounds reach the traveler’s boat." Ouyang Gong ridiculed this and said, "The lines are excellent, but what can be done about the fact that midnight is not the time to strike bells?" Later scholars also claimed that only in Suzhou did midnight bells exist. All are mistaken. Upon examining Yu Ye's *Impromptu Poem at Baozhong*, it states: "Distant bells arrive at midnight; / The bright moon enters a thousand homes." Huangfu Ran’s poem *Staying at Yan Wei’s Residence in Kuaiji on an Autumn Night* states: “Autumn deepens by waterside moons; / Midnight bells beyond mountain peaks.” Could this too be considered a Suzhou poem? It is likely that Tang-era Buddhist temples themselves maintained midnight bell-ringing practices. The street drums of Kyoto remain abolished even now. When later generations read Tang poetry and encounter references to street drums, they often remain utterly bewildered, unable to comprehend them. How much more so for the midnight bells of Buddhist temples? (*Notes from the Old Study*, Volume 10)

In the annotations of the *Tang Poetry Anthology* Iwanami Bunko Edition, the following annotation had been added regarding these midnight bell sounds.
"There has long been debate over whether midnight bell sounds existed or not."
Hu Yinglin stated: "Midnight bell sounds reach traveler boats—discussants argue endlessly, all being mocked by the ancients."
Poetry establishes its discourse by borrowing fleeting scenes; it lies solely in the harmony of tonal patterns and the resonance of evocative imagery—how could they possibly have time to dwell on trivial factual details?
"Do not debate the existence of midnight bells—for whether their tolling was ever truly heard remains unknowable."
As such, Hu Yinglin asserted that in poetry there was no time to dwell on trivial factual details, while Fangweng’s attitude stood diametrically opposed to this—as all the preceding sections had demonstrated.

Fangweng himself had a seven-character quatrain titled *Staying at Maple Bridge*, which read: "Seven years had passed without visiting Maple Bridge Temple; / Upon the traveler’s pillow, midnight bells still resounded." This was of course not an actual hearing of midnight bell sounds; rather, it constituted hearing—through Zhang Ji’s work—the lingering resonance still transmitted within the poetic world more vividly than any physical tolling of bells. This poetic realm arose precisely because Zhang Ji’s poem *Night Mooring at Maple Bridge*—with its line "Midnight bell sounds reach the traveler’s boat"—had been preserved. Thus here again I recalled Gorky’s words: "True art possesses the law of expansion and exaggeration—it is not mere fantasy but a poetic exaggeration of objective facts that is entirely lawful and inevitable," and "In great art, romanticism and realism always seem to be perfectly fused."

In Hirano Hidekichi’s *Complete Annotations on the Tang Poetry Anthology*, it states: “Later, Zhang Ji revisited this site and composed a poem titled *Re-Mooring at Maple Bridge*: ‘White-haired, I return again—all within a single dream; / Green mountains retain their former visage; / Crows caw, the moon sets over the riverside village temple; / Leaning on my pillow, I still hear midnight bells.’ However, its poetic quality is inferior, and since it does not appear in the *Complete Tang Poems*, it may be a later forgery” (the same point appears in Kandō Michiaki’s *Detailed Explanations of the Tang Poetry Anthology*). However, when examining Zhu Chengjue’s Ming-era *Cunyu Tang Shihua*, I found it states: “Zhang Ji’s poem *Night Mooring at Maple Bridge* has been widely transmitted.” Recently, while reading Sun Zhongyi’s poem on passing by Maple Bridge Temple, I encountered these lines: “White-haired, I return again—all within a single dream; / Green mountains retain their former visage; / Crows caw, the moon sets by the bridge-side temple; / Leaning on my pillow, I still hear midnight bells.” The text adds: “This could indeed be said to channel the spirit of earlier poets.” From this comparison, Mr. Hirano’s attribution differs in authorship, and in the poem itself, Jiangcun Temple had become Qiaobian Temple.

(6)

(*Colophon to Dongpo’s Draft Poems*) This poem of Dongpo states: "Pure chants mingle with dream-filled slumber; / Gained verses vanish in an instant."

This was inherently remarkable from the start. When exiled to Huizhou in his later years, he produced another couplet stating: "The spring river holds fine lines; I, drunk, fall into misty vastness." He thereby elevated his youthful works to first-class status. Among modern poets who grew more rigorous with age, there has yet to be one like Dongpo. Why do scholars read this with such careless minds? (Collected Works of Weinan, Volume 27)

This was likely a colophon appended to a manuscript in Dongpo's own hand. Judging from Dongpo's own mention in this poem, it probably existed only as a single piece. Now, what was the complete form of this Dongpo poem containing the lines "Pure chants mingle with dream-filled slumber; / Gained verses vanish in an instant"? Though I searched exhaustively through my personal copy of the Su Dongpo Poetry Collection at hand, it remained unfound. It brought to mind Zhu Jifang's Song dynasty lines—"Where dust cannot reach, mountain hues enter straw sandals; / Riding inspiration, one chants at length; / Turning back, already forgetting the verse"—though Zhu Jifang likely belonged to a later period. As for "The spring river holds fine lines; I, drunk, fall into misty vastness," I fortunately managed to obtain the complete poem. It forms one of six pieces from *Harmonizing with Tao's Returning to Dwell in Gardens and Fields*, reading as follows.

The destitute ape has cast itself into the woods;
The emaciated horse first shakes off its harness.

The emptied mind satiates itself with fresh insights;
Familiar surroundings linger in residual dreams.

River gulls gradually grow accustomed and gather;
Boatmen elders already come and go.

South Pond's green coins emerge;
North Ridge's purple shoots lengthen.

Does lifting the flagon understand drinking?
Fine words occasionally broaden perspectives.

"The spring river holds fine lines;
I, drunk, fall into misty vastness."

Now, examining Mr. Kubo Tenzui's commentary on this final couplet, it states:
"When facing the spring river, fine lines naturally arise, but soon I became drunk and fell asleep amidst the vast expanse of plants and trees."

In this case, even Master Dongpo would have no choice but to give a bitter smile.

In poetry, *miao-mang* refers to an appearance of vast boundlessness.
What falls into this *miao-mang* was not Master Dongpo, but the spring river's fine lines.
Thus those verses—gained only to be instantly forgotten, amusing yet still lacking subtlety—were poetically transformed like spring haze, marking a new stage of progression.
The comment about Fangweng growing ever more rigorous with age likely pointed to this.

When we examined Zhu Chengjue’s *Cunyu Tang Shihua* cited earlier, it stated: “Dongpo had a youthful poem that declared: ‘Pure chants mingle with dream-filled slumber; / Gained verses vanish in an instant.’” This was remarkable from the very beginning.

In his later years, when exiled to Huizhou, he produced another couplet: "The spring river holds fine lines; I, drunk, fall into misty vastness."
He then applied a first-class ranking to his youthful works.
"People say that when evaluating calligraphers, their brushwork matures with age—is it not that poetry also follows the same?"
How could someone who writes poetry criticism and the like plagiarize predecessors' theories so nonchalantly?

(7)

Dongpo’s peony poem states: "A single blossom of enchanting red, its vividness flows."
At first, he did not comprehend what the phrase "vividness flows" signified.
When he traveled to Chengdu and passed through Muxing Street, there was a large sign at a market shop that read: "Guo Family Fresh Crimson Paper Shop."
Having inquired of the locals, he came to understand that in the Shu dialect, "fresh crimson" (鮮翠) was akin to "vivid and bright" (鮮明).
Dongpo had indeed employed regional dialect in his expression.

(Notes from the Old Study, Volume 8)

Dongpo’s poem is one titled *Harmonizing with Shuogu’s Winter Day Peonies: Four Poems*, and it reads as follows.

A single blossom of enchanting red, its vividness flows;
The artisan of creation seeks only to display novel ingenuity,

When examining the *Zoku Kokuyaku Kanbun Taisei*, there I found that this section featured Mr. Iwatare Norinori’s translation and commentary, and the *Notes from the Old Study* that I had cited here was quoted.
Through this, I was able to ascertain that this work was not entirely neglected by the world.
Moreover, in the section titled "Character Explanations," Mr. Iwatare had cited Gao Sisun's *Weilue* from the Song dynasty.
In it, it stated as follows.
"Vividness describes a state of clarity, not a color."
“Otherwise, if Dongpo’s poem already speaks of ‘red,’ how could it also speak of ‘vividness’?”

(8)

Dongpo, while in the Lingnan region, took greatest delight in the two collections of Tao Yuanming and Liu Zongyuan, calling them the two companions of his southern exile.
When I read Minister Song Bai’s *Jade Inlet Miscellany Poems*, I found a line stating: "In sitting or reclining, what shall I take? The poetry of Tao and the prose of Liu."
Thus there were indeed predecessors whose thoughts unwittingly coincided with the Master’s.
(Notes from the Old Study, Volume 9)

(9)

Dongpo’s quatrain states: "Pale white pear blossoms, willows deep green; / When willow catkins fly, flowers fill the city. / Melancholy at the eastern railing—a single tree of snow— / How many times in life can one behold such purity?" During the Shaoxing era, I was in Fuzhou. When examining He Jinzhi’s major work, I found that he himself stated: “Long ago, when I accompanied Zhang Wenqian on his travels, whenever I saw Wenqian reciting this poem, I considered it beyond compare.” I note that Du Muzhi has a line stating: "At the base of the steps, pear blossoms form a heap of snow; / Next year, who will lean on this railing here?" Dongpo is certainly no plagiarist of Muzhi’s poetry—yet ultimately, these are lines already expressed by predecessors. Why then does Wenqian cherish them so profoundly? Could there be any other meaning? I tentatively record this to await discerning scholars. (Notes from the Old Study, Volume 10)

Dongpo’s poem was one of the five quatrains titled *Eastern Fence Pear Blossoms* from *Harmonizing with Kong Mizhou*.
Du Muzhi was what the world called "Little Du"—that is, Du Mu.
He belonged to the Late Tang period.

(10)

Liu Zihou’s poem stated: "Sharp mountains on the sea resemble sword tips; / When autumn comes, everywhere cuts through sorrowful hearts."
Dongpo, employing this imagery, wrote: "To cut sorrow there remains Sword Tip Mountain."
Some scholars argued one should say "cutting through sorrowful bowels," maintaining that simply saying "cutting sorrow" was impermissible.
My deceased brother Chuko had noted: "In the poem by Zhang Wang of the Jin dynasty, it says: 'When sorrow comes, it cannot be cut.' This constitutes the origin of the two characters 'cutting sorrow.'"
(Notes from the Old Study, Volume 2)

Dongpo’s poem was one titled *Two Poems on Passing by Zhai Xiucai of the Western Neighborhood on the Night Before My New Dwelling at White Crane Peak Was Completed*.
The couplet in question formed these lines: “Tethering melancholy—is there no Luo Dai River? Cutting sorrow still has Sword Tip Mountain.”
The former line was by Han Tuizhi; the fact that the latter line was by Liu Zihou had been recorded in his self-annotation.
However, in the *Zoku Kokuyaku Kanbun Taisei*, Liu Zihou’s line quoted in the self-annotation read: “sharp peaks on the sea resemble sword tips.”
Fangweng must have taken up his brush according to memory and mistakenly rendered “peak” as “mountain” and “like” as “resemble.”
Being deficient in reference materials, I could not verify this conclusively.

(11)

The night's chill hinted at approaching rain; the courtyard's silence mimicked a temple devoid of monks.
This was Pan Xiaoyao's poem.
(Notes from the Old Study, Volume 5)

Dongpo’s Poem

The Buddha’s lamp gradually dims as hungry rats emerge;
mountain rain suddenly arrives, and tall bamboos rustle.

Who knows whose old verse this is?
It must already know the feelings I hold now.

In the preface to this seven-character quatrain, it states: "When he was young, he once passed by a village temple and saw a poem on its wall." It reads: 'The night’s chill suggests impending rain; the courtyard’s stillness resembles a temple without monks.' He did not know whose poem it was. When he later lodged at Huangzhou’s Chanzhi Temple—where all monks were absent—and midnight rain began falling, he still remembered this poem. Therefore he composed a quatrain." That the word "know" in "Whose old poetic lines are these?" actually signifies "not knowing" requires no explanation. This line transmitted through Dongpo’s poetry remains memorable even to someone like me; thus we need not wonder how Fangweng—who lived long immersed in books—came upon such details. Pan Xiaoyao’s given name was Lang. Summoned by Emperor Taizong of Song and conferred the Jinshi degree, he fled to Zhongtiao Mountain after becoming implicated in an incident. Though later arrested, Emperor Zhenzong pardoned his crime and appointed him as a military officer in Chuzhou. He left behind poetry collections and ci collections.

In Japan, there were literary figures such as Nakano Shōyō and Tsubouchi Shōyō.
Did these people know of this Pan Xiaoyao?

(12)

(Colophon to the Collected Works of Yuanming) When I was thirteen or fourteen years old, I attended upon my late father, the Junior Tutor, and dwelled in a small hermitage south of the city. By chance, upon the wisteria bed, I saw Yuanming’s poems and thus took them up to read. Joyfully connecting with the verses, I found the day neared dusk. Though my family members called me to eat, I took greater pleasure in reading poetry, and by nightfall still had not taken a meal. Now when I think of this, it feels as though it were but a few days ago. The second year of Qingyuan, cyclical year Yimao, ninth month, twenty-ninth day. Lu Mou Muguan of Shanyin, written at Sanshan Gui Hall, at the age of seventy-one. (Collected Works of Weinan, Volume 28)

In Fangweng’s work from his sixty-ninth year titled *Reading Tao Poetry*, the opening stated: “My poetry admires Yuanming, yet I regret not having reached his subtlety.” Furthermore, in his eighty-three-year-old composition titled *Self-Encouragement*, the beginning read: “When studying poetry, one should study Tao; when studying calligraphy, one should study Yan.”
This sufficed to understand how profoundly he had been devoted to Tao Yuanming.

(13)

Mr. Chasan states:
Xu Shichuan, imitating Wang Jinggong’s lines *"Counting fallen petals in detail, thus sitting long; / Slowly seeking fragrant grass, finding return delayed,"* composed: *"Finely fallen plum blossoms—how can they be counted? / Casually walking through fragrant grass, steps thus slow."*
At first he did not comprehend its meaning; only after a long time did he finally grasp it.
Indeed, Shichuan was one who took Tao Yuanming exclusively as his teacher.
Tao Yuanming’s poems all naturally contain allegorical meanings and do not linger on mere objects.
as in "Leisurely, I see the Southern Mountain."
This is why Dongpo knew that he was by no means gazing at the Southern Mountain.
Now, if one speaks of "counting fallen petals in detail" and "slowly seeking fragrant grass," [these phrases] show excessive deliberation; therefore, he altered them. He also states...
Jinggong often used Yuanming’s phrases, yet their meanings differ.
Even though a wicker gate is installed, it must often be closed; clouds, though without intent, can emerge from mountain caves—the characters "must" and "can" both diverge from Yuanming’s original intent.
(*Notes from the Old Study*, Volume 4)

This was all merely citing others' theories—though of course these citations were made with agreement in mind.
The Jinggong mentioned in the text refers to Wang Anshi.
The poem was a seven-character quatrain titled *North Mountain*; if we were to transcribe its full text, it would read as follows:
North Mountain pours its green, swelling the lateral ponds;
Straight moats and winding pools shimmer in their time;
Counting fallen petals leads to lingering seated;
Slowly seeking fragrant grass brings belated return.

Furthermore, when the text mentions “Dongpo states…”, it refers to Dongpo’s following argument:
“Plucking chrysanthemums beneath the eastern fence; serenely glimpsing southern mountains.”
This describes plucking chrysanthemums and then incidentally noticing mountains.
When one refrains from applying deliberate intent from the outset—when scene and mind spontaneously converge—it becomes truly worthy of delight.
“Were one instead to write ‘gaze at southern mountains,’ all poetic charm would instantly vanish.”

(14)

(Colophon to the Collected Works of Wang Youcheng) When I was seventeen or eighteen, I read Mojie's poems with utmost intensity. Afterwards, I set them aside for nearly sixty years. This year at seventy-seven, during long days with nothing to occupy me, I took them up again and read them. It felt like reuniting with old teachers and friends; I lamented how long we had been separated. (Collected Works of Weinan, Volume 29)

Wang Youcheng and Mojie both denote Wang Wei. This colophon sufficiently reveals Fangweng's connection to Wang Wei.

(15)

(Colophon to the Huajian Ji) The Huajian Ji consists entirely of works by people from the late Tang and Five Dynasties periods.
At such a time, when the realm stood on precarious footing and the common people had no respite from struggling against death, the scholar-officials drifted aimlessly in this manner.
How lamentable!
Could this have arisen from sheer desolation?
(Collected Works of Weinan, Volume 30)

(16)

(Colophon to the Poetry Manuscript) This constitutes one-twentieth of my poems composed before Bingxu. When I reached Yanzhou, I recompiled them and again excised nine-tenths. Yet I ultimately felt lingering attachment to these remaining drafts, and thus entrusted them to Ziyu. Written on the Start of Summer day during the inaugural year of Shaoxi. (Collected Works of Weinan, Volume 27)

Bingxu corresponded to the second year of the Qiandao era, when Fangweng was forty-two years old. The recompilation in Yanzhou belonged to the fourteenth year of Chunxi, cyclical year Dingwei, when Fangweng was sixty-three years old. That year marked the first time he had his poems engraved. The first year of the Shaoxi era, Gengxu, aligned with when he turned sixty-six. Thereafter, while residing at home, that same year saw him revise his poetry manuscript once more.

In Zhao Yi’s *Oubei Shihua*, the following was written:
"Since ancient times, none have surpassed Fangweng in the number of poems created.
Now, if we tally those eighty-five volumes compiled by his son Kyo [※: '虚/八' variant, read as 'kyo', ref. 498-15], they already amount to nine thousand two hundred and twenty poems."
Yet when Fangweng was sixty-three years old in Yanzhou and had his poems engraved, he took his old drafts and subjected them to severe pruning.
At sixty-six, while living at home, he again revised his poetry manuscript.
In his own colophon, he stated: "These are one-tenth of my poems from before Bingxu; when in Yanzhou, I recompiled them and again removed nine-tenths."
"Therefore," Zhao Yi concluded, "only one-hundredth of the poems from before Bingxu survive."
In the *Collected Works of Weinan* that I examined, what was recorded as one-twentieth of the poems from before Bingxu appeared as one-tenth in Zhao Yi’s citation.
I could not then determine which was correct.

(17)

In a poem composed during his service at the Xi'an Military Headquarters, Cen Shen states: "How could I know the moon of my old garden also reaches west of Iron Pass?"
When Wei Yingwu was governing a commandery, he also composed a poem that states: "Would that I knew the moon of my old garden—tonight it shines on the western tower."
The wording and meaning are entirely identical, yet the essence of boldness and tranquil simplicity differs naturally.

(*Notes from the Old Study*, Volume 3)

(18)

Liu Changqing’s poem stated: “A thousand peaks share the setting sun.”
This was an excellent line.
Recently, Monk Raika had employed this to write: “Tangled mountains vie for the sinking sun.”
Though skillful, it felt constrained.
It did not attain the original line.
(*Notes from the Old Study*, Volume 4)

In a poem written when Fangweng was sixty years old, there was a line that read: “Alone I stand beyond the firewood gate, a decrepit bald old man; / Tangled mountains swallow the setting sun, wild waters overturn the cold sky.”

(19)

Lü Juren's poem states: "Wax ashes piled on a tray, wine flows past flowers."
The world regarded it as innovative.
Sima Wengong had a five-character line that reads: "Smoke curls as incense traces seal-script; deep cups see wine surpass flowers."
Lü Juren likely adopted this.
(Notes from the Old Study, Volume 4)

(20)

The poem by Han Hong of the Tang dynasty states: "Outside the gate, an emerald pool where horses are washed in spring; Before the tower, red candles welcome guests at night."
In recent times, Yan Shuyuan’s yuefu lyrics state: "Outside the gate, green willows tether horses in spring; before the bed, red candles illuminate nighttime dice games."
Its spirit and style surpass the original line; one may not call this plagiarism.

(*Notes from the Old Study*, Volume 5)

The term "hulu" refers to gambling. Yan Shuyuan, style name Jidao, was a Song dynasty figure.
The full text of the lyric is as follows.

Home near the wine shop where wine flows easily;
Outside the door, green willows tether horses in spring; by the bed, red candles illuminate nighttime dice games. Can our meeting still fathom love’s presence?
(In Fangweng’s citation, "outside the door" becomes "outside the gate," and "bedside" becomes "before the bed.")

In Xue Liruo's *General Discussion of Song Ci Poetry*, regarding Yan Shuyuan's ci poetry, it is stated as follows:
"His ci poetry most skillfully integrates poetic lines.
They precisely resonate distantly with the later Zhou Meicheng.
For example, his two lines in *Huanxisha*—'Outside the door, green willows tether horses in spring; by the bed, red candles illuminate nighttime dice games'—completely adopt the poetic lines of Han Hong of the Tang dynasty, merely substituting the original poem’s character 前 (*qian*, 'before') in 牀前 (*chuang qian*, 'before the bed') with a single character 頭 (*tou*, 'head/side').
'Merely substituting [the character] and yet when employed, it appears as seamless as heavenly garments,' and so on."

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Bai Juyi states: "A slender moon on the third night, the first cry of new cicadas."
Yan Yuanyian states: "Green trees, new cicadas' first cry."
Wang Jinggong states: "Last year on this day along the path of green pines, I seem to recall hearing the first cry of cicadas."
Used three times, it grew ever more skillful.
I believe in poetry's inexhaustibility.
(*Notes from the Old Study*, Volume 10)

As already discussed, Wang Jinggong refers to Wang Anshi.

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In Wang Jian’s peony poem from the Tang dynasty, it states: “Pitiful are the scattered stamens; gather them to make incense.” Though skillful in execution, it lacked dignity. Dongpo adopted its essence and wrote: “Unwilling to let them stain the mud, I fry fallen stamens in clarified butter.” This transcends while differing entirely. (*Notes from the Old Study*, Volume 10)

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Waters flow beyond heaven and earth; mountain hues linger between presence and absence.
It was Wang Wei’s poem.
Quan Deyu’s poem *Evening Crossing of the Yangtze River* stated: “Distant peaks linger between presence and absence; a lone sail floats upon misty waters.”
This already employed Wei’s phrasing.
Ouyang Gong’s long-and-short verse declared: “Pingshan’s railings lean against clear skies; mountain hues linger between presence and absence.”
By this point, poets had indeed employed it three times.
Dongpo then remarked: “Remember the Drunken Old Man’s words—mountain hues linger between presence and absence.”
Why then does it seem as though Ouyang Gong originated this line?
(*Notes from the Old Study*, Volume 6)

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When Ouyang Gong was exiled to Yiling, he wrote in a poem: "A solitary peak by the river cloaked in green vines; the county tower gazes all day at towering crags."
The county seat of Yiling faced the Xiajiang River below and was named Lüluo Stream.
Ascending upstream from there led to Shanglao and Xialao Passes—both places where the mountains and waters were of pristine beauty.
The solitary peak referred to Ganquan Temple Mountain, where Xiaonü Spring and its shrine stood amidst myriad bamboos; its secluded tranquility was truly delightful.
The gorge people's seasonal excursions and sightseeing flourished remarkably.

When I entered Shu, all travelers passed through this place.
Han Zicang of the Secretariat states in his poem composed on the road through Taixing County: "County walls adjoin green bamboos; households are veiled by green vines."
It seems to draw from Ouyang Gong’s line yet fails to capture it.
This poem is likely one of Zicang’s youthful compositions; hence its expressions lack precision.
(*Notes from the Old Study*, Volume 7)

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Jinggong’s poem states: “He closes the door seeking to push sorrow away, but sorrow ultimately refuses to depart.”
Liu Bin Ke’s poem states: “With old age I made no prior pact; how leisurely it arrives.”
Han Zicang of the Secretariat took these lines and composed a couplet: “Pushing sorrow away only to have it seek me again; with old age unsummoned, it gradually encroaches.”
Compared to ancient lines, this has indeed grown ever more skillful.
(*Notes from the Old Study*, Volume 8)

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Du Fu’s poem stated: “In the deep night, again we hold candles,” referring to how late the night had grown. Though one ought to sleep, they took up candles once more—thereby demonstrating their joy at welcoming home a long-absent guest. Monk Dehong Wang erroneously claimed: “The character geng should be read with a level tone.” What manner of reasoning was this?
(*Notes from the Old Study*, Volume 6)

Du Fu's poem, titled *Qiang Village* (the name of the village where his wife and children resided at the time), reads in full as follows:

Towering crimson clouds in the west;

Brushwood gate—birds and sparrows clamor;

Wife and children marveled that I survived; once shock subsided, they still wiped away tears.

In a world in chaos, I was tossed about; by chance alone, I achieved survival.

Neighbors filled the wall’s crest; sighing deeply, they also sobbed.

In the deep night, again we held candles; facing each other as if in a dream.

It seemed that Dehong Wang attempted to read the character geng not in the sense of "furthermore" but rather as "alternately."

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Lao Du states in *Ai Jiangtou* (Lament by the River): "At dusk, barbarian cavalry stir dust that fills the city; wishing to flee southward through the city, [he] forgets northward." The intended meaning conveys that amid confusion while fleeing death, [he] wished to head south through the city yet could not discern north from south. However, both pieces in Jinggong’s collected lines read: "Wishing to go south of the city, [one] gazes north of the city." Some regarded this as an error; others considered it an emendation—all were mistaken. Fundamentally, the transmitted texts happened to differ, yet their meaning remained unified. Northern people referred to direction as mou. To say "[He] wished to go to the southern city yet faced the northern part" equally expressed the meaning of bewildered flight from death and inability to distinguish directions. (*Notes from the Old Study*, Volume 7)

The line in question was the concluding verse of a seven-character ancient poem by Shaoling that begins: *The old rustic swallows his sobs and weeps; in spring daylight, I steal to the bends of Qujiang.* The Iwanami Bunko edition rendered this as “欲往城南忘南北” (“Wishing to go south of the city yet forgetting south and north”), with a footnote stating “Some texts write ‘north city’ instead of ‘south-north’.” However, I found it completely untenable to interpret “north city” as meaning “south-north.”

Is "Jinggong's collected lines" referring to Wang Jinggong's *Tang Hundred Poets Anthology*?

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When contemporary people interpreted Du Fu’s poetry, they merely traced textual origins without realizing that Shaoling’s original intent had never been thus.
Take for example the poem on Yueyang Tower: “Long ago I heard of Dongting Lake; now I ascend Yueyang Tower. Wu and Chu split southeast; heaven and earth float day and night. From family and friends, not a single word; in old age and sickness, I have a lone boat. Warhorses at the northern frontier; leaning on the balcony, tears flow.” How could they possibly have sought to grasp this through textual origins alone?
Even if one could have traced the origins of every character, this would only have taken them further from Shaoling’s true intent.
Fundamentally, later scholars never understood where lay the essence of Du Fu’s poetry that made it transcendently excellent across past and present; though they considered even a single character having textual origins as skillful craftsmanship, how could poems like those in the *Xikun Chou Chang Collection*—which had never contained a single character without origins—ever be deemed worthy to stand alongside Shaoling?
Moreover, when contemporary people composed poetry, there had never been a work without textual origins—they themselves were simply unaware of it. If one were to annotate these works, each character would likewise have had its origin, yet this did nothing to prevent them from being bad poetry.
(*Notes from the Old Study*, Volume 7)

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In his poem addressed to Xue San Langzhong, Lao Du wrote: "When mounting his horse, he needs no assistance; each time someone tries to help, he inevitably glares in anger."
Dongpo’s poem seeing off Qiao Tong states: "When ascending the mountain as if flying, he glares at those who try to assist him."
Both describe old men.
This stems precisely from elders' aversion to acknowledging their aged state.
Had they been young men, whether receiving assistance or not would have been equally acceptable—what cause would there have been for anger?
(*Notes from the Old Study*, Volume 8)

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The collected works of Ouyang Gong, Mei Wanling, and Wang Wengong all contained poems about small peaches.
Ouyang Gong’s poem read: "Amidst snow, flowers bloomed unknown to people; plucking them, we gazed at each other in shared surprise and doubt. Then we had to seek wine to get drunk before the blossoms—the first branches witnessed this year."
It had initially been thought there was merely one type of peach blossom that bloomed early.
When he visited Chengdu, Lu You finally recognized what were called small peaches—which put forth flowers around the Shangyuan Festival—and saw that their form resembled weeping crabapple blossoms.
Zeng Zigu’s *Miscellaneous Records* stated: "On the twentieth day of the first month, they bloomed; Tianzhang Pavilion admired small peaches."
This was precisely what it referred to.
(*Notes from the Old Study*, Volume 4)

The Shangyuan Festival falls on the fifteenth day of the first lunar month.
In other words, what are called small peaches are flowers that resemble crabapple blossoms, blooming hastily in the first month ahead of all other flowers.
In a poem titled *Answering Chen Shugu*, Dongpo writes:

Small peach buds split open, not yet conquering spring;
Amidst silken crowds stands the foremost figure.
Upon hearing that the governor had departed,
Dance robes and song fans all turned to dust.
There was [a poem] that went thus,
but through Fangweng’s explanation,
the meaning of the opening and developing couplets became clear.

Now, when examining the Su Dongpo Poetry Collection from the Zoku Kokuyaku Kanbun Taisei, Continued National Translation of Chinese Literary Masterpieces, Mr. Iwatari Norinori had provided the following interpretation of this:
"The spring wind blows through willows, their green like threads; on clear days they say red warmth coaxes forth small peaches. Yet when these small peaches burst into crimson calyxes, there remains a charm that cannot surpass spring itself."
"And among silken brocades and damasks dwells the foremost understanding voice."
Indeed, through this one comes to realize ever more keenly how difficult it becomes to savor Chinese poetry when relying on commentaries of this sort.

○ In Fangweng’s own poetry, we find the following example.
By appending a preface, I concluded this manuscript.

West Village—a wisp of smoke;
Willows tender, small peaches bloomed fair.

To know where spring winds dwell,
Before the master’s staff they flare.

After entering August, I repeatedly developed high fevers, and even after September began, I had not yet recovered.
I completed this manuscript during a lull in my illness.

September 9, 1941 (Shōwa 16) Heiko Kanjin