In 1991, one year after my stepmother Niang’s death, I received permission from my brother James, executor of Niang’s will, to fly to Hong Kong and inspect her empty flat. ‘Everyone else’, James told me, ‘has chosen and taken what he or she wanted from Niang’s flat. All of her personal letters have been burnt because they are private. The rest is yours, including her flat, as soon as the probate is completed. I am a man of my word.’
At that time, I was still practising medicine full time in California but, at the back of my mind, I harboured vague thoughts about writing the book I had always meant to write, ever since I was a child. The day after my arrival in Hong Kong, I visited a bookshop in the hope of finding some Chinese proverbs to use as possible chapter headings. I did actually buy a volume but was not entirely satisfied with its contents.
Later that afternoon, I secured the keys of my stepmother’s flat from my brother and went to the familiar building. In Niang’s empty apartment smelling of mildew, mothballs, stale cigarette smoke and neglect, I came across two dusty books lying in the corner of a closet amidst a few discarded photographs. The first book I picked up was in English and entitled Selected Chinese Sayings by a writer named T.C. Lai. The second was a paperback copy of Shiji in Chinese.
I flipped open the cover of Selected Chinese Sayings and, with a pang, saw my father’s familiar signature at the top of the page. On the next page was printed the author’s dedication which read, ‘In memory of my father’.
Quickly, I perused the contents and saw that Selected Chinese Sayings consisted of a collection of the author’s favourite Chinese proverbs. I read that the book was first published in 1960 but reprinted in 1973, three years before Alzheimer’s disease took hold of my father’s mind. As I perused the proverbs, I could not help wondering whether this was a message from my father to give up medicine and begin my writing career. For once, Niang was not there to interrupt our communication.
Next, I took Father’s copy of Shiji and randomly turned the pages. This was where I first came across the letter written by Sima Qian to his friend.
In one passage, I read:
All these ancient writers had pain in their hearts, for they were not able to achieve in life what they had set out to accomplish … and so they felt compelled to write about their past, in order to pass on their thoughts to posterity…
I, too, have dared to venture forth and commit myself to writing. I have collected all the ancient customs that were dispersed or discarded. I have investigated the affairs of the past and probed the reasons for their buoyancy or decay. I would like to discern the patterns leading from the past to the present, proffering my views as one method of interpretation.
When I read these words, it almost seemed as if Sima Qian himself had stepped out of the pages of his book and was speaking to me personally, urging me to be strong and not falter in my resolve to become a full-time writer. Although we were separated by more than two thousand years, at that moment I understood him completely. He was telling me that there were many who had suffered unjustly in the past. A few, like himself, were able to transcend their hurt through literature. Was I prepared to follow in his footsteps and do the same?
As I turned eagerly to the next page, I came across these lines:
The reason I have borne this anguish and refused to die, living in shame without protest, is because I cannot bear the thought of leaving my work unfinished. I am still burdened with things in my heart that I have not had a chance to express…
I placed my father’s two books with the old photographs in the large bag I had brought and prepared to leave. There appeared to be no other items worth taking. Niang’s flat was scheduled to be refurbished and everything was to be thrown away. Looking through her closets for the very last time I suddenly saw another item abandoned by my siblings. Quickly, I retrieved it from a pile of yellowed newspaper cuttings. It was a large, framed photo of our grandfather Ye Ye, taken a few months before his death at the age of seventy-four.
Precious Treasure Worth Cherishing
ALTHOUGH MY GRANDFATHER used to be a businessman before his retirement, he was always more interested in books than money. When the Communists were taking over China in 1949, my family fled from Shanghai to Hong Kong. My stepmother Niang placed me in a boarding school where I stayed for the next three years. On the rare occasions when I was allowed to go home during the holidays, Niang told me to sleep on a cot in Ye Ye’s room.
Ye Ye and I never discussed it, but I knew in my heart that we were both happy about this arrangement. Although I was young and he was old, we shared a special rapport and I loved being with him. He would ask me to read the Chinese newspapers aloud to teach me new characters, or show me the proper way of writing calligraphy with a brush. Sometimes we played Chinese chess but what I liked best of all were the stories he told about legendary figures from Chinese history.
Once 1 asked him what sort of businesses my father was involved with.
‘Your father is very talented,’ Ye Ye answered. ‘He has import/export, manufacturing and real estate businesses.’
‘What is the most profitable business, Ye Ye?’
‘It all depends on your definition of “profit”,’ he answered. ‘If your chief consideration is money, then the best investment is probably real estate. Houses and apartments in good locations will always go up in value if they are well managed. Keep that in mind.’
‘Is there any other consideration more important than money?’
‘Of course!’ Ye Ye answered. ‘Relationships, morality and education are all much more important than money. Many people make the mistake of thinking that cash, material goods and real estate are the only precious things in life. They forget about education and knowledge. To me, a sharp, ethical and cultivated mind is a much worthier asset than anything else, and is truly a qi huo ke ju (precious treasure worth cherishing). Let the proverbs I’ve taught you and the stories behind these proverbs be your most precious commodity. Treasure them and carry them with you wherever you go.’
Because of their influence on Chinese history, many Chinese regard Confucius, the First Emperor of China, and Mao Zedong to have been the three most influential figures who ever lived. Confucius moulded Chinese thinking and his teachings still affect Chinese life on every level. The First Emperor unified China, abolished feudalism and established a form of government that remained virtually unchanged until the twentieth century. Mao Zedong ended the civil war, unleashed the Cultural Revolution, and radically altered China’s political system and ideology. Whereas the lives of Confucius and Mao Zedong have both been very well documented, that of the First Emperor remains relatively unknown to western readers.
In Shiji, Sima Qian wrote extensively about that period of history when a divided China was united by the First Emperor, as well as the tumultuous years immediately following his death. Many of the phrases used by the Grand Historian to describe the intrigues and conflicts of that time have come down to us as proverbs. They have survived for over two thousand years and are still frequently quoted in everyday conversation.
During that restless era of strife and constant warfare, the population of China already numbered over 40 million. However, battlefield casualties were enormous. According to Shiji, 1,500,000 soldiers were slaughtered in fifteen major military campaigns waged by the state of Qin between 363–234 BC. The average peasant led a life of misery and uncertainty. Armed soldiers would arbitrarily march across his fields, appropriate his crops, draft his sons or rape his women while the seven states fought for supremacy. Between wars, there were diplomatic manoeuvres,