Explaining the Yijing to a Distant Friend: An Introduction to the Xici Zhuan
An introduction to the Xici Zhuan (Appended Statements) of the Zhouyi, written for a faraway reader. Beginning with the fundamental concepts of hexagrams, lines, yin-yang, and the high and the low, it clarifies the composition and reading of the Xici, dispels the most common misunderstandings of beginners and overseas readers, and paves the way for a close study of the twelve chapters of the Upper Xici.
VII. How to Read, and a Word to Our Friend from Afar
A few final words on reading.
The Xici prescribed a daily discipline for the noble person who reads the Yi: "When at rest, the noble person observes its images and savors its statements; when about to act, the noble person observes its changes and savors its prognostications." In times of quietude and leisure, observe its images and savor its words. When action is imminent, observe its transformations and savor its judgments. The most endearing word here is wan -- to savor, to play with, to turn over repeatedly in one's hands and mind, tirelessly. This book is not meant to be skimmed at a glance but to be kept close at hand and close to the heart, like fondling a piece of jade: the more one handles it, the warmer and smoother it becomes; the longer one keeps it, the more its luster emerges. Therefore the first secret of reading the Xici is: slowness. One chapter may be read for a month; one sentence may be pondered for three years. Our twelve lectures are deliberately written at a leisurely pace -- each lecture runs to ten thousand characters, reading line by line, never hurrying, never skipping ahead, learning from the wild goose of the hexagram Jian: one stage at a time.
The second secret is to read it as image, not as argument. The Xici says that the sage, in creating the Yi, "likened things in their forms and appearances, and imaged things in their suitabilities." Its mode of language is to present images, not to offer definitions; to point and gesture, not to construct proofs. When you read "stirring them with thunder and lightning, moistening them with wind and rain," you should see the storm. When you read "utterly still and unmoving; when stimulated, it penetrates all," you should feel the stillness and the response. If you approach it with the habit of dissecting concepts, it is like parsing a poem into grammar -- the poem dies. For this very reason, the text is open to its readers -- the Xici itself says: "The benevolent see it and call it benevolence; the wise see it and call it wisdom." This is not vagueness; it is the honesty of a mirror.
Speaking of poetry, a further word is in order. China's oldest collection of poems, the Shijing (Book of Odes), employs a technique of opening called xing (evocative image): first evoking another thing, then leading into the theme. "Guan guan cry the ospreys, on the islet in the river" -- first the water birds calling in harmony, then the young lord and the fair maiden. "How delicate the peach tree, how brilliant its blossoms" -- first the blaze of peach blossoms, then the bride going to her new home. The poet does not explain what logical connection the water birds have with marriage; he simply juxtaposes, and the reader's heart naturally builds a bridge between the two. The image-taking of the Zhouyi and the xing of the Odes are two expressions of the same cast of mind. The hexagram Qian (Modesty) does not say "you should be humble"; it simply shows you "a mountain within the earth." The hexagram Jian (Gradual Advance) does not say "all things should proceed in due order"; it simply shows you a wild goose flying stage by stage. An image does not pronounce a verdict; an image merely presents, and the human heart understands of itself. Once this is grasped, one understands why the Zhouyi has remained inexhaustible for a thousand years: definitions grow dated, proofs are overturned, but images are ever new -- the mountain still lies within the earth; the wild goose still flies.
The third secret is to turn it back upon oneself. We said earlier that the true lineage of reading the Yi in the pre-Qin era runs from divination to moral meaning, from asking Heaven to examining oneself. At any sentence, one may ask: is this speaking of me$19 "The dragon that has overreached will have regrets" -- have I, in some matter, flown too high and lost the sound of voices from the ground$20 "Modesty ennobles and shines" -- have I, in moments of success, placed myself low$21 Read in this way, the sixty-four hexagrams become sixty-four mirrors; the book is no longer an antique from three thousand years ago but this morning's lesson.
As for our friend from afar -- in your letter you said you are working on a translation of this book in your mother tongue, seeking to preserve the beauty of the Xici in your own language, and you called it "a beautiful undertaking for many years to come." When we read that line, we were moved. The Xici says: "Writing cannot exhaust speech; speech cannot exhaust meaning." Writing cannot fully capture what is spoken; speech cannot fully convey what is meant -- this is the abyss every translator faces daily, and the creators of the Yi three thousand years ago faced the same. Their solution was to "establish images to exhaust meaning": where concepts reach their limit, images ferry people across. May you, when you reach the point where the mountains and waters of language run out, also remember this ancient method -- seek the images in your mother tongue and ferry across the meaning of the Xici.
On the subject of translation, two more earnest words. First, the difficulty of the Xici lies for the most part not in its sentences but in its key terms: dao, shen, ji (the subtle), yi, xiang (image) -- each is a deep well, similar at the mouth but different at the spring. On no account should a single translation be imposed uniformly from beginning to end. The same character shen, in "the unfathomable in yin and yang is called shen," means the wondrously unfathomable; in "to penetrate the virtue of the bright spirits," it means the principles of the hidden and manifest; only in "ghosts and spirits diminish the full and bless the modest" does it actually refer to ghosts and spirits. Examine the context at every occurrence; better to translate one character several ways than to let one translation stand for a lifetime. Second, the sentences of the Xici have a distinctive breathing pattern: four characters to a phrase, pairs in parallel, as in "the sun departs and the moon arrives; the moon departs and the sun arrives," or "utterly still and unmoving; when stimulated, it penetrates all." This breathing is part of the meaning -- that rhythm of alternation, symmetry, and recurrence is itself enacting the mutual pushing of yin and yang. If the translation can recreate a rhythm in your language, then even if the individual words deviate somewhat, the greater part of the spirit will have been captured. If the rhythm is entirely lost, then even if every word is precise, the truth may well have slipped away. Poets translating poetry attend first to the sound and only then to the words; translating the Xici should be the same.
From the first Western translation of this book to the present day, more than two hundred years have passed; distinguished translators' versions each have their strengths and each bear the imprint of their era. What you are doing now -- one person, not for a degree, not for a publisher, but solely to preserve the beauty of an ancient book in your own mother tongue, taking many years to translate it -- this undertaking itself is perfectly in keeping with the temperament of this book. The Xici says: "Accomplishing in silence, trusted without words: this resides in virtue and conduct." Accomplish it in silence. Though seas lie between us, when we look up we see the same sky, and when we look down we stand on the same earth; cold comes and heat goes, the sun departs and the moon arrives -- it is the same yi. The Xici says: "Things of the same kind gather together; beings divide into groups." People gather by affinity of heart, not by the mountains and seas between them.
This introduction has now reached its end; the luggage is packed. Looking back at what has been said: a book that arose from observation of images, deepened through anxiety and adversity, and reached completion through philosophical reasoning; a set of symbols read from bottom to top, with time and position as warp and weft; a reading tradition that turned from divination toward moral meaning; and several thresholds of terminology to be mindful of when stepping through the door. All of this is talk at the foot of the mountain. The scenery within the mountain must be seen in person, one stage at a time. In the next essay, we begin reading from the very first sentence of the book:
Heaven is high, Earth is low; thus Qian and Kun are determined.