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Lu Chi's Wen Fu  

The Art of Writing     (circa A.D. 300)
Based on a translation by Shih-Hsiang Chen, 1952, 
modified after consulting a translation by Sam Hamill,
1991.

Preface

I have often studied the works of talented men of letters and

thought to myself that I obtained some insight into their minds
at work. The ways of employing words and forming expressions
are indeed infinitely varied. But, accordingly, the various
degrees of beauty and excellence can be distinguished from
what is common and weak. When by composing my own works,
I become aware of the ordeal. Constantly present is the feeling
of regret that the meaning falls short of the objects observed.
The fact is, it is not so hard to know as it is to do.

I am therefore writing this essay on literature to tell of the

glorious accomplishments of past men of letters, and to
comment on the causes of failure and success in writing.
Perhaps some day the secret of this most intricate art may be
entirely mastered. In making an axe handle by cutting wood
with an axe, the model is indeed near at hand. But the
adaptability of the hand to the ever-changing circumstances
and impulses in the process of creation is such as words can
hardly explain. What follows is only what can be said in words.

1. The Motive

Standing erect in the center of all, the poet views the expanse of
the whole universe, and in ancient masterpieces his spirit
rejoices and finds nurture.

His lament for fleeting life is in observance of the four seasons

as they pass, his regard for the myriad growing things inspires
in him thoughts innumerable.

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As with the fallen leaves in autumn's rigor his heart sinks in

grief, so is each tender twig in sweet spring a source of joy.

In frost he finds sympathy at moments when his heart is all

frigid purity, or far, far, into the highest clouds he makes his
mind's abode.

The shining, magnanimous deeds of the world's most virtuous

are substance of his song, as also the pure fragrance which the
most accomplished goodness of the past yields. The flowering
forest of letters and treasuries of classics are his favorite
haunts, where he delights in nothing less than perfection of
beauty's form and matter.

Thus moved, he will spread his paper and poise his brush
To express what he can in writing.

2. Meditation Before Writing

In the beginning,
All external vision and sound are suspended,
Perpetual thought itself gropes in time and space;

Then, the spirit at full gallop reaches the eight limits of the
cosmos, and the mind, self-buoyant, will ever soar to new
insurmountable heights. 

When the search succeeds, feeling, at first but a glimmer, will

gradually gather into full luminosity, when all objects thus lit
up glow as if each the other's light reflects.

Drip-drops are distilled afresh from a sea of words since time

out of mind, as quintessence that savors of all the aroma of the
Six Arts.

Now one feels blithe as a swimmer calmly borne by celestial

waters, and then, as a diver into a secret world, lost in
subterranean currents.

Arduously sought expressions, hitherto evasive, hidden, will be

like stray fishes out of the ocean bottom to emerge on the
angler's hook;

And quick-winged metaphors like birds are brought down from

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the curl-clouds by the fowler's bow.

Thus the poet will have mustered what for a hundred

generations awaited his brush, creating music that has waited
unheard for a thousand ages.

Let the full-blown garden flowers of the ancients in their own

morning glory stand; to breathe life into late blossoms that have
yet to bud will be his sole endeavor.

Eternity he sees in a twinkling,

And the whole world he views in one glance.

3. The Working Process

To obtain choice ideas in close observation of things in

categories, and elect expressions that will fall in happy order,

All objects visible under the sun or moon will the poet bring into
the light, all that can give out a sound he will ring to test their
resonance.

He makes barren twigs put forth luxuriant foliage as they sway,

or by endless waves he traces to the remote fountainhead.

He may either work from the obscure to the obvious,

Or follow an easy course to what is hard to obtain.

Bu illuminating a tiger, the shapes of tame animals are

illuminated, or frightens the surf-tossed gulls with the vision of
a dragon.

Sometimes with sure touches and smooth rhythm his ideas in

utmost ease flow on. At other moments, they are beset by
mountainous obstacles.

But not until the heart attains calm transparency does thought
crystallize into such words as no man before fancied or
pronounced.

Then, both heaven and earth find new embodiment in the shape
desired, and all things become visible under the tip of his brush,
which after all parching anxiety and hesitations
is saturated and sweeps forth in a moist wave.

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When the substance of a composition, trunk of a tree, is by

truth sustained, style aids it to branch into leafy boughs and
bear fruit.

Indeed, feeling and expression should never fail to correspond,

as each emotional change wears a new complexion on a
sensitive face.

Thought that swells with joy bursts into laughter;

When grief is spoken, words reverberate with endless sighs,
No matter if the work be accomplished in one flash on the page,
or is the result of the most deliberate brush.

4. The Joy of Writing

Writing is in itself a joy,

Yet saints and sages have long since held it in awe.

For it is being, created from a void;

It is sound rung out of profound silence.
In a sheet of paper is contained the infinite,
And, evolved from an inch-sized heart, an endless panorama.

The words, as they expand, become all-evocative,

The thought, still further pursued, will run the deeper,

Till flowers in full blossom exhale all-pervading fragrance,

and tender boughs, their saps running, grow to a whole jungle
of splendor.

Bright winds spread luminous wings, quick breezes soar from

the earth, and clouds arise from the writing brushes.

5. On Form

The forms of things differ in a myriad ways,

For them there is no common measure.
Jumbled and jostled in a ceaseless flux,
Living shapes to all their imitations bid defiance.

Words, each with inherent limitations, do only partial service.

Meaning harmonizes and integrates them. 

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The poet's mind toils between substance and the void.

Every detail in high and low relief he seeks to perfect, so
that the form, although it may transcend the dictates of
compasses and ruler, shall be the paragon of resemblance to all
shapes and features imitated.

To ravish the eye, rich ornaments may be prized,

so that it appeals to the heart as true.

Words may in time be exhausted, but not so that their sense is

buried. A far-reaching thought attains its object only in the
realm of the infinite.

The lyric, born of pure emotion, is gossamer fiber woven into the
finest fabric;

The exhibitory essay, being true to the objects, is vividness

incarnate;

In monumental inscriptions rhetoric must be a foil to facts;

The elegy tenderly spins out ceaseless heartfelt grief.

The mnemonic is a smooth flow of genial phrases, succinct but

pregnant;

The staccato cadences of the epigram are all transparent force.

While the eulogy enjoys the full abandon of grand style,

The expository must in exactitude and clarity excel.

The memorial, balanced and lucid, must be worthy of the

dignity of its royal audience,

Rhetoric with glowing words and cunning parables persuades.

These classifications are meticulous,

Lest passion and thought, given free rein, may wantonly go
astray. The maxim: Let truth be expressed in the most
appropriate terms, while of verbiage beware.

6. The Making of a Composition

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A composition comes into being as the incarnation of many

living gestures. It is the embodiment of endless change.

To attain meaning, it depends on a grasp of the subtle,

While such words are employed as best serve beauty's sake.

The interactions of sounds and tones are like

The five colors that enhance each others:
Although they dwell and vanish by no common rule,
And their tortuous, intricate ways permit no liberty,
Yet if a poet masters the secret of change and order,
He will channel them like directing streams to obtain a fountain;
but once a false move leads to reckless indulgence, The end and
the beginning are thrown into confusion, Celestial blue and
earthy yellow confounded,
Dull mud and dregs to chaos return. All light fails.

A composition is ruined
When a later passage swells to engulf its forerunners,
Or encroaches on all that follows.

To redeem virtues in words too ill expressed, pleasing but trivial

phrases must be set apart from the company they keep.

For art and merit are by grains and scruples measured; success
and failure are separated no wider than a hair's breadth.

After the choice is made on the most accurate balance,

The master carpenter's tape it must also fit.
Lavish expressions may contain abundant truth,
But fail to direct and drive the meaning home.

What is fully expressed will exclude duality,

And what is worth continuing must not be cut off.

A pithy saying at a crucial point

May whip all parts into a whole.

Though all the words are in nice order arrayed,

Such a "rallying whip" is needed to make them serve.
The utmost is achieved at slightest cost,

When the kernel, unequivocal, suffices.

Sometimes inspired thoughts weave themselves into the finest

fabrics and grow ever fresher and more comely as they expand,
glistening with colors of the most exquisite embroidery and

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tuned to the poignant music of a thousand strings.

But the accomplished piece of imitation must be so perfected

That it is in the ancient tradition, yet remains unique.

Even though all the warp and woof are of my own heart's tissue,
in constant fear must I be lest others before me have spun the
same. When honor and integrity are menaced,
I sacrifice even my most cherished gems.

Or a thought may, like a lone plant, burst and burgeon with a

life all its own, so individual that on this earth it seems to have
no species, until it becomes mirage-like, forever a fugitive from
form, or a phantom voice that no sound audible can echo, a
being isolated from all contexts, that no common words can
express.

The heart then feels like a forlorn lover, doomed to desolation,

Yet haunted by a meaning evasive, intangible, but never to be
shaken off.

Let it, then, be contained like jade in rocks, that a mountain

loom in radiance, or cast it like a pearl in water that a whole
river gleam with splendor.

For even thorn bushes, when allowed to flourish,

Will by their opulent disarray claim a share of beauty.
In humble tunes that may mingle with the most exalted strains,
I find resources, too, for beauty.

7. Five Shortcomings

  [Music]
A verse limps and falls short when it is a single train of thought,
its vision hampered by lack of tradition.

It's then like one in mourning around whom the world is mute,
The heaven above, out of reach, empty and vast:

A weak string plucked alone, without resonance, its sound into

thin air vanishes.

  [Harmony]
Or a composition is so marred by languid tones
That its words may flash but never rise to glory.

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Fair is confounded with foul,

And qualities are drowned in blemishes:

It's as if flutes down the hall pipe hurried notes at random,

Resonant but out of tune, that only throw the hymn into
discord.

  [Emotion]
Or, to attain something unique at truth's expense,
The poet is so bent on a search for the obscure and the trivial
That his words, lacking true emotion,
Will drift, homeless, nowhere to return:

It’s like a lute, too high-strung and hard pressed by rapid

fingers;  although the melody is played in tune, it fails to move
us.

  [Restraint]
Or, a work may swing itself into such a symphony
That it rings and clangs with many bewitching colors.

It may thus please the eye and win popular acclaim,

While its lowly tunes are exalted by loud performance.

Beware of resemblance to familiar tunes,

Which, though emotional, are an offense to grace.

  [Refinement]
Or  simplicity is so cultivated that the work is rid of all 
trimmings and ornaments, becoming a feast without the relish
of seasoned gravy.

A concert of wrought-silk strings that twang with too pure a

tone, although it trills on with endless reverberations,
For all its grace, is without appeal.

8. The Secret of Artistry

Luxuriance and terseness of style,

And the different aspects of form,
Vary according to laws of propriety,
Whose intricacies hinge upon a feeling so subtle:

Once grasped, uncouth language may divulge clever parables,

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A truism by light verbal touches is turned into epigram,

The older the model, the fresher the imitation,

The duller the beginning, the more brilliant the final

illumination.

Whether this superb artistry becomes apparent at first sight

Or is comprehended only after arduous toils of wit,

It is like the dancer's, whose each whirl of the sleeve is borne by

a rhythm,

Or the singer's voice, whose each note responds to the twang of

the string,

Guided by a force which even the master wheelwright Pien could

not express in words;

Therefore its secret lies beyond smoothest speech.

9. The Source of Literature and Discipline

To the all-pervasive law of grammar and literary discipline

I have devoutly dedicated myself.

In its light I have seen much of the ills in vogue today

And perceived the merits of masters of the past,

Although untrained eyes ridicule an art truly wrought from a

master's subtle mind.

Coral gems and jade filigree, however, are in their origins none
too rare, but common as wild beans of the Central Plain that all
can gather:

Thus the source of poetry is like the air from the bellows of the
eternally generative void, and it will forever breed with heaven
and earth.

But be it soever bounteous and ubiquitous in this world,

Alas, how much of it can my fingers mould?

Dismayed as the holder of a bucket that is too often empty,

I feel harassed by the thought that Great Eloquence is hard to

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achieve. 

Hence limping verses, born dwarfed, are let live,

And perfunctory notes are fiddled to round out a vapid tune.

Often have I finished my work with pangs of remorse;

When has my heart rejoiced with self-content?

I always fear that my work is earthenware, dust-muffled and

jarring, coarsely mocked by tinkling jade bells.

10. The Terror

Such moments when mind and matter hold perfect communion,

And wide vistas open to regions hitherto entirely barred,

will come with irresistible force and then go, their departure
none can hinder.

Hiding, they vanish like a flash of light;

Manifest, they are like sounds arising in mid-air.

So acute is the mind in such instants of divine comprehension,

what chaos is there that it cannot marshal in miraculous order?

While winged thoughts, like quick breezes, soar from depths of

the heart, eloquent words, like a gushing spring, flow between
lips and teeth.

No flower, or plant, or animal is too prodigal of splendor

To be recreated under the writer's brush,
Hence the most wondrous spectacle that ever whelmed the eye,
and notes of the loftiest music that rejoiced the ear.

11. Of Inspiration

But there are other moments as though the six senses were
stranded, 

When the heart seems lost, and the spirit stagnant.

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One stays motionless like a petrified log,

Dried up like an exhausted river bed.

The soul is indrawn to search the hidden labyrinth;

Within oneself is sought where inner light may be stored.

Behind a trembling veil truth seems to shimmer, yet ever more

evasive,

And thought twists and twirls like silk spun on a clogged wheel.

Therefore, all one's vital force may be dispersed in rueful failure;

Yet again, a free play of impulses may achieve a feat without

pitfall.

While the secret may be held within oneself,

It is none the less beyond one's power to sway.

Often I lay my hand on my empty chest,

Despairing to know how the barrier could be removed.

12.  The Use of Literature

The use of literature

Lies in its conveyance of every truth.

It expands the horizon to make space infinite,

And serves as a bridge that spans a myriad years.

It maps all roads and paths for posterity,

And mirrors the models of worthy ancients, that the tottering

edifices of the sage kings of antiquity may be reared again, and
their admonishing voices, wind-borne since past times, may
resume full expression.

No regions are too remote but it pervades,

No truth too subtle to be woven into its vast web.

Like mist and rain, it permeates and nourishes,

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And manifests all the powers of transformation in which gods

and spirits share. 

Virtue it makes endure and radiate on brass and stone. It

resounds in an eternal stream of melodies ever renewed on
flutes and strings.

END

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