The strange thing, for me, about these classic Chinese tales of the weird and the supernatural is how familiar they feel. All people in all cultures round the world wonder about the connections between life and death, about a world beyond our own; and in his book Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio, the 17th-century Chinese writer brings together the familiar and the bizarre in a manner that the modern Western reader is likely to find uniquely compelling.
Pu Songling came from the northern Chinese province of Shandong, and lived from 1640 to 1715 – or, to put it another way, at about the same time that Louis XIV was king of France. He never rose as high as he might have liked in the imperial bureaucracy – evidently, he had trouble passing the exams that were a prerequisite for anyone who wanted to move up in the hierarchy – but he was a diligent collector of tales of the weird and uncanny, and his collection is written in a manner that causes it to be considered one of the finest examples of modern writing in classical as opposed to vernacular Chinese.
Part of the interest of Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio inheres in the way the tales provide insight into the 17th-century Chinese culture of the Qing dynasty. As translator John Minford of the Australian National University explains in a series of detailed and helpful essays and footnotes, this time in Chinese history was characterized by three religious traditions – Confucianism, Taoism, and Buddhism – that influenced, and sometimes clashed with, one another.
Tale #25, “Past Lives,” seems quite Buddhist in the way it emphasizes karmic concepts of how one’s conduct in one’s life dictates the next life that one is born into. This tale describes how one Mr. Liu, a scholar-gentleman who had lived “a somewhat dissolute life” (p. 98), is brought before the King of Hell who determines what a deceased person’s next life should be. Mr. Liu is given the Soup of Oblivion that, like the waters of Lethe in Greek mythology, blots out a person’s memory of their past life, but Mr. Liu pours it out while only pretending to drink it. Therefore, for his two next lives, as a horse and a dog, he goes through the painful and unpleasant experience of having human awareness while living as an animal! Here, I thought of the unhappy situation of the hunter Actaeon from Ovid’s Metamorphoses; transformed into a stag by the goddess Diana, Actaeon experiences, with his human consciousness, the horrors of being chased down and torn to pieces by his own hounds!
Having not properly used his reincarnations as horse or dog to expiate the misdeeds of his human life, Mr. Liu is punished further by the King of Hell, and is then reincarnated as a snake. By the time of this third reincarnation, Mr. Liu has learned his lessons, and knows what he needs to do before he can hope to move forward rather than backward in karmic terms:
He took an oath not to harm a living thing, and to assuage his hunger with a diet of nothing but plants and fruits. A year went by, and many a time he thought of taking his own life, but knew he could not. Nor could he deliberately harm someone else in order to get himself killed. He had already suffered the consequences of these two stratagems. He spent his days longing for a good way to die, but nothing presented itself. (p. 101)
How does the repentant Mr. Liu resolve his karmic dilemma? You’ll have to read the story to find out.
In contrast with the Buddhist emphasis of “Past Lives,” Tale #71, “The Stone Bowl,” has more of a Taoist focus. This story shows how Yin Tu’Nan, a gentleman of Wuchang, befriends a young scholar, Yu, to whom he rents a villa. When Yu, who has demonstrated some mystical abilities of his own, departs, he leaves behind a white stone bowl, and Yin takes it home to keep goldfish in.
A year later, he was surprised to see that the water in the bowl was still as clear as it had been on the very first day. Then, one day, a servant was moving a rock and accidentally broke a piece out of the rim of the bowl. But somehow, despite the break, the water stayed intact within the bowl, and when Yin examined it, it seemed to all intents and purposes whole. He passed his hand along the edge of the break, which felt strangely soft. When he put his hand inside the bowl, water came trickling out along the crack, but when he withdrew his hand, water filled the bowl as before. (p. 308)
The bowl breaks at the next winter solstice, and it is left to a visiting Taoist adept to explain to Yin the reasons for the mysterious powers that the bowl once held. The Taoist explains that “This…was once a water vessel from the Dragon King’s Underwater Palace,” and that “the spirit of the bowl” gave the bowl its mysterious powers. The Taoist asks Yin for a piece of the bowl, explaining that “By pounding such a fragment into a powder…I can make a drug that will give everlasting life” (p. 310). Yin gives the Taoist the requested fragment, and doesn’t even request any of the everlasting-life drug for himself!
The spirit of Taoism also influences Tale #96, “Waiting Room for Death.” In this story, “A gentleman named Li of Shang River County” who is “a devotee of the Tao” has built a small hermitage where Buddhist and Taoist monks will sometimes stop to talk with Li, and to pray. When one old monk, whose philosophical insights have particularly impressed Li, is preparing to leave after a visit of a few days, Li goes to visit, and finds that “The old monk was packing his bag. He had a skinny ass with him in the room, tethered to the lampstand. On closer inspection, it was not a real beast but one of the effigies buried with the dead. Its ears and its tail twitched from time to time, however, and it was quite visibly breathing” (p. 405). This tale, like so many of the others, blurs the lines between the living and the dead, the organic and the inorganic.
Li never gets to make a proper farewell to his monkish friend, but the experience of meeting him seems to have been an important milestone along his spiritual path. Pu Songling concludes this story by writing that a friend of Li’s “had once visited his little hermitage and seen a horizontal scroll hanging in the entrance hall, inscribed: Waiting Room for Death. The wording testified to the unusually deep nature of the man” (p. 407).
I like how, throughout Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio, the bizarre and uncanny is treated as part of normal life. There are no expressions of hyperbolic horror, the way one might see in a Western narrative; rather, the feeling is somewhat like what one experiences in magical-realist literature from Latin America: strange things just happen in the course of an ordinary day.
Tale #49, “The Little Mandarin,” chronicles the experiences of a Hanlin academician, who is dozing in his study when suddenly he sees “a little procession filing through the room. There were horses the size of frogs, men less than finger-high, a retinue of several dozen insignia-bearers, and then a mandarin in a palanquin…who was carried out through the doorway with great pomp.” A member of the mandarin’s retinue speaks briefly with the academician and then leaves, “And the shame of it was that the Academician had been too timid to ask him who they all were” (p. 200). That lack of closure, of a final and conclusive explanation for the appearance of mysterious phenomena, is also quite characteristic of these tales.
If you read this Penguin Classics edition of Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio, then I would strongly encourage you to read the supplementary and explanatory notes that translator Minford includes after the tales. In the notes for Tale #5 (“Talking Pupils”), for instance, Minford notes that this tale is the first one where, in its conclusion, Pu Songling provides concluding commentary, giving himself “the mock-grandiose title ‘Chronicler of the Strange’”, in a manner that “alludes to, and gently spoofs…the great Chinese historian Sima Qian (c. 145 - c. 85 B.C.)”, who was fond of “calling himself the Grand Chronicler or Historian” (p. 502). I appreciated the opportunity to learn more, through Minford’s notes, about the rich cultural and historical background out of which these tales came.
Some of the tales are shocking. Many are humorous. Quite a few are romantic, even erotic. Truly, Pu Songling’s Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio provides for a compelling journey into odd and surprising new worlds.