Using bronze as a mirror, one can straighten one’s clothing; using people as a mirror, one can understand gains and losses; using history as a mirror, one can know the rise and fall of dynasties.
When Tang Taizong Li Shimin spoke these eternally famous words, he meant to illustrate that even he, as the supreme emperor, must be well-versed in historical texts.
Yet it was precisely Li Shimin, this emperor for the ages, who set the precedent for interfering with contemporary court historians. No previous ruler, no matter how dissolute or tyrannical, had dared to do such a thing.
Although ancient emperors wielded absolute power, court historians maintained a certain independence when recording palace affairs by imperial command. Particularly the daily records kept by historians—to maintain their objectivity and impartiality, by custom even the reigning emperor was not permitted to view them, which also served to discourage imperial misconduct. But Li Shimin stubbornly persisted. Troubled by his role in forcing his father to abdicate and killing his brothers, in his later years he repeatedly requested to see the daily records. Initially, ministers like Chu Suiliang could refuse him, but eventually they couldn’t resist and showed him edited versions of the records.
Therefore, when Zhenguan historians wrote the “Gaozu Records” and “Taizong Records,” they extensively chronicled Li Shimin’s achievements during the Wude period while striving to erase Crown Prince Jiancheng’s accomplishments and diminish Emperor Gaozu’s role. They portrayed the Jinyang uprising conspiracy as Taizong’s careful planning, with Gaozu in a completely passive position, and wrote the Xuanwu Gate Incident as an unavoidable necessity.
Yes, Li Shimin was indeed a rare good emperor who humbly accepted advice, knew how to employ talent, and created the prosperous Tang Dynasty. But no one knows whether Crown Prince Li Jiancheng might have done better had he inherited the throne.
“The victor becomes king, the defeated becomes bandit”—this is the unchanging law throughout centuries of history.
Li Jiancheng died beneath Xuanwu Gate, becoming a blemish in early Tang history that anyone could easily cover with thick rouge to whitewash the peace.
History is like a young lady—in everyone’s eyes, her beauty or ugliness differs, and she can even be dressed according to one’s preferences.
Revising the previous dynasty’s historical records was a major undertaking for new emperors. Like a woman captured from another family, she could be ravaged at will. Say she’s beautiful and she’s beautiful; say she’s ugly and she’s ugly.
After early Tang, when even emperors could arbitrarily interfere with contemporary historians, what history—this young lady—should actually look like became even more unclear.
One cannot say historical records are untrustworthy, but neither can they be completely trusted.
Therefore, countless literati began their own magnificent endeavors of applying makeup to this historical young lady.
Thus we have “Romance of the Three Kingdoms” which praises Liu Bei while suppressing Cao Cao, “Water Margin” with its 108 heroes of Liangshan Marsh, “Journey to the West” with Tang Monk and his three disciples traveling west to obtain scriptures and fight monsters, and “Dream of the Red Chamber” depicting the Grand View Garden.
Among these four great classical novels, most people should know that the latter three contain fictional and exaggerated elements, but many treat “Romance of the Three Kingdoms” as authentic history.
However, in reality, Lü Bu’s weapon was not a heaven-piercing halberd, nor was Guan Yu’s weapon the Green Dragon Crescent Blade—both used long spears that were popular during the Three Kingdoms period. There was no “Three Heroes Battle Lü Bu,” the feat of “beheading Hua Xiong while wine was still warm” was accomplished by Sun Jian, releasing Cao Cao at Huarong Road was Liu Bei’s responsibility, and the truth is he didn’t magnanimously spare Cao Cao—he arrived too late and Cao Cao had already escaped. History says Zhuge Liang was not a military genius but excelled at domestic governance, with warfare not being his specialty. “Thrice Angering Zhou Yu” was complete fabrication; when Governor Zhou Yu died of illness, Zhuge Liang was doing logistics work in the Lingling area and had never even crossed paths with Zhou Yu. The supposedly narrow-minded Governor Zhou Yu was actually praised by Liu Bei for his broad-mindedness…
Not only “Romance of the Three Kingdoms”—nearly all 108 heroes in “Water Margin” were fictional, though Song Jiang actually existed. Tang Xuanzang in “Journey to the West” was a real person, and “Dream of the Red Chamber” was written by its author from personal experience and feelings.
Novels are novels, history is history. Though no one can know what the real historical young lady looks like beneath the thick makeup everyone has applied, I still hope everyone can appreciate her.
Whether everyone prefers to continue applying things to her face or insists on using clear water to wash away her thick rouge and powder is up to individual preference.
I love antiques, so there is “Dumb House,” but fundamentally, it’s because I love this historical young lady.
I enjoy both helping her continue with makeup and attempting to use makeup remover to eliminate some of the heavy rouge.
So in “Dumb House” there’s Qin Shihuang who wasn’t a tyrant, Xiang Yu the homebody who loved farming, and the Prince of Lanling who actually couldn’t fight… Though some makeup is applied rather extremely, I try to work with the historical young lady’s features, and most speculations have some basis. Regarding judgments about Qin Shihuang, everyone can refer to Mr. Cheng Bu’s “The Real Qin Shihuang.” Regarding whether the author of “Dream of the Red Chamber” was Cao Xueqin or Hong Sheng, this controversy was raised by Tumote Red Studies. More plots questioning history will occur later—everyone can wait and see.
What the historical young lady’s natural face actually looks like, no one can possibly know.
Even the shopkeeper who lived over two thousand years has only partial and subjective observations. After all, he alone cannot debate with everyone under heaven—he only has a small antique shop.
Therefore, for relatively correct history, one should read the “Twenty-Four Histories.” This is the collective name for twenty-four historical books written by various ancient Chinese dynasties, considered orthodox histories by later dynasties, hence also called “Official History.” Our school history textbooks are simplified and summarized from these “Twenty-Four Histories.”
Actually, this is merely the official historical young lady depicted through the hands of numerous historians. Some might find her displeasing, but if most people think she’s beautiful, then her makeup becomes the officially recognized appearance. Many people only know this one look of the historical young lady—change her face and it won’t work.
After saying all this, what I mainly want to convey is that everyone should distinguish between romanticized history and exam-appropriate history. Don’t use the historical young lady painted by the shopkeeper to tease your respective history teachers… they’ll resent me…
During exams, don’t fill in answers according to Dumb House’s version of history—teachers don’t recognize that version of the historical young lady; they only recognize the official makeup.
I emphasize again: students who want high scores must remember the historical young lady’s official appearance.
“Dumb House” Volume Two is finally finished—still twelve stories, twelve antiques.
In the blink of an eye, Dumb House has accompanied me for two years.
Looking at that row of neat articles in my documents, I can’t help but stare in amazement—how did time pass so quickly? Two years gone just like that.
Never before has there been a book that I could write for such a long time while investing so much energy. Each story requires consulting many reference books—I was never this studious even when I was in school.
And it seems this effort must continue.
A friend once asked me: exactly how many stories will “Dumb House” contain?
I hesitated, not knowing how to answer.
There are many types of antiques and many stories. I don’t know to what extent I can write “Dumb House,” but I really want to try writing the history of Dumb House.
Yes, my ambition is great.
I want to write down all the traces of the shopkeeper’s life, using his perspective to present a history different from textbooks—a history unique to Dumb House.
In Dumb House’s history, Qin Shihuang is not a tyrant, Governor Zhou Yu was a woman, the author of “Dream of the Red Chamber” was not Cao Xueqin…
Maybe it’s true, maybe it’s not—no one can prove anything, no one can verify.
I put tremendous effort into “Dumb House” Volume Two. Unlike the lighthearted elegance of Volume One, I added much historical knowledge and philosophical principles, rich with history’s weight and gravity.
I hope what I write can be helpful to everyone, not limited to romantic entanglements and fleeting heroic deeds.
“Dumb House” Volume Three begins challenging imperial antiques, with Fu Su becoming the biggest boss—this was actually expected. He spent his entire life being groomed as the imperial successor. Now, in just the blink of an eye, stars have shifted and day and night have changed—no one could accept such circumstances.
Volume Three will be even more exciting. I also hope to challenge myself and write Dumb House’s stories with greater depth.
I hope everyone will continue accompanying me—accompanying me in recollecting the years the shopkeeper once lived through, accompanying me in witnessing the stories of those antiques, accompanying me in observing the joys and sorrows of those historical figures.
Every antique in Dumb House has its own story, carrying many years with no one to listen.
Because they cannot speak…
Xuanse, March 29, 2012