Luo Guanzhong

This was one of the first books I've ever read, where I became so morally disgusted that I almost decided to not finish it. A certain vignette involving cannibalism brought to the fore just how dramatically different cultural mindsets can be. After a helpful exchange with an old school acquaintance from China I decided to keep going, and I'm glad I did. The rest of the book (both volumes/parts) was a fascinating and exciting read. So much of it reminded me other great classics of western show more literature (from the Illiad to the Gallic Wars) -- and yet there was so much different. And that similarity really provided a great basis to appreciate the differences. While the "orientalists" of the past certainly went to far in decrying the values of the "far east" -- reading this book helped me appreciate that the east and west are separated by a greater gulf than many modern folks want to admit.

(2024 Review #4) show less

I'm not sure if the term "epic fantasy" applies to this work, since the standard line is that it's "70% history, 30% fiction", but whether it's shelved in "epic fantasy", "historical fiction", or even "magical realism", it's undoubtedly one of the masterpieces of literature. It's almost overwhelming in how full of everything it is: the whirlwind of characters, the unyielding pace of the action, and the seamless integration of so many little human details and emotions that give the many show more side-plots and minor characters a resonance far out of proportion to their brief page time. Like with all great literature, even those diversions are pure pleasure thanks to clever storytelling. Every chapter ends on a cliffhanger, each analeptic or proleptic excursion adds valuable depth and context to the main narrative, and the consistent treatment of the ways that individual honor, personal loyalty, and political duty overlap and conflict continuously give each and every decision by the main characters a real weight. Luo's account of the struggle to build a new world out of the decay of the old is as powerful as any modern work I can think of.

My edition of the Moss Roberts translation is split into 4 volumes for ease of reading. This volume begins with the immortal incipit "Here begins our tale. The empire, long divided, must unite; long united, must divide. Thus it has ever been." and the oath in the peach orchard between Liu Bei, Guan Yu, and Zhang Fei, and ends with Cao Cao's defeat of Yuan Shao at the battle of Jizhou (chapter 32 out of 120). You could spend a long, long time exegizing every aspect of the novel - its elastic grounding in the historical record and subsequent authorial "improvements"; its biases of heroism and colorations of personality that turn these real people into Homeric archetypes; the slight supernatural touches like the summoning of convenient storms, fatal hauntings of vengeful ghosts, or complex portents and astrological divinations; the way the actions of individuals recapitulate the recurrent patterns of imperiogenesis and imperiopathosis in Chinese history - but a few specific observations came most readily to mind as I finished the first quarter of the tale.

First, imperial power is a fascinating contradiction here. As the saying goes, "civilizations die from suicide, not by murder", and the slow disintegration of the Han dynasty amid the famines and religious fervor of the Yellow Scarves movement (interestingly, this colored clothing rebellion will be echoed several times more at similarly turbulent junctures in Chinese history) is reminiscent of a hollow, gradually rotting tree. While the Emperor's authority is nominally unlimited and he commands (nearly) universal respect, in practice the various warlords, rogue generals, and aristocrats seem to rule with complete independence, and the actual personage of the Emperor is treated somewhat like the puppet Roman Emperors after the Crisis of the Third Century (which by historical happenstance took place only a few decades after the events here), meaning that control of the military is paramount, and to be a successful general is almost synonymous with being a potential imperial claimant yourself. Many years later during the Yuan dynasty, in fact just as Luo was writing the collection of plays that this novel was compiled out of, someone coined the saying that "the mountains are high and the emperor is far away" as a way of highlighting how notional autocracy and practical independence can coexist simultaneously in the vastness of the Chinese landscape when a failing dynasty surrenders power to the court bureaucracy and a succession of generals.

Military strategy is also pretty thought-provoking, both for its realism and for its more whimsical moments. Many novels, even ones that make real efforts at military realism, often skimp on mundane details, like the importance of supply line logistics, the need to post sentries at night, how important the disposition of your troops are in pitched battles, or the finer points of besieging cities. Often lazy authors will describe their heroes as strategic geniuses, but leave the actual demonstrations of their acuity up to the reader's imagination. Not here! All the ingredients of military prowess are on full display, with Cao Cao in particular shown as a true mastermind of deception and consistently able to turn seemingly any setback into an opportunity thanks to his cleverness and willingness to listen to sound advice. The sheer quantity of his cunning feints and countermoves would be truly impressive even if they weren't (mostly) based on real history; both his wit and his opponents' foolishness are very convincingly rendered, as Luo also faithfully depicts the many ways that superior forces can be defeated by a leader's ill-timed vacillation, inconvenient bouts of drunkenness, stubbornness and inflexibility, or by just plain better tactics and superior hustle.

The flip side is that all of the major characters are all invincible superheroes with plot armor that would make the most hack fanfiction writers blush. Take a drink every time one of the protagonists kills an opponent with a single mighty blow, or fights through a crowd of enemies miraculously unscathed, or gets out of a jam by the impossibly convenient arrival of reinforcements just in the nick of time, and in just a few chapters you will be drunker than Zhang Fei himself! It's one of the fictional scenes, but when Guan Yu slays a series of six generals on a single journey to reunite with Liu Bei, it feels like you're reading a novelization of the Dynasty Warriors video games, which are based on this material, and not the other way around. Even when a main character finally dies, it's invariably in a protracted, grandiose boss battle. And yet somehow the comic book-like action sequences, or the occasional appearances of magic, never feel out of place or untrue to the broader story, as malefactors like Dong Zhou appear and then are vanquished according to the inscrutable dictates of the heavens as well as the familiar laws of villainous peril and heroic resolution.

And thanks to Luo's consistent editorializing to let you know who's good and who's bad, the main characters are all memorable and sympathetic to the point where you can't help but get emotionally invested in their fates like the worst kind of nerd fanboy. Luo's obvious cheerleading for Liu Bei and his oath-brothers Guan Yu and Zhang Fei comes off as almost charming, even though I can't be the only person who got a bit sick over how exaggeratedly noble and virtuous Luo makes him appear at every opportunity. And by the same token, Cao Cao really doesn't seem like as bad a guy as Luo tries to paint him; not only is he the smartest guy around and sincerely reluctant to seize the throne illegitimately, he consistently tries to persuade his enemies over to his side and forgive their past enmities whenever possible. His occasional ruthlessness is of the "it's all in the game" variety, and his "big transgression" of honestly taking credit for killing the deer on the royal hunt when the Emperor missed it is so laughably petty that, when the rest of the imperial court flipped out, I wanted him to just take power right then and there. We're reminded that the Han dynasty is rotten and corrupt every single chapter; might as well let someone with some talent take the reins. I'm firmly on Team Cao Cao, for now at least.

I can't imagine anyone reading this far and not continuing to the next volume as quickly as humanly possible. show less

The Outlaws of the Marsh (Shui Hu Zhuan) is the third of the Six Classic Chinese novels I have read so far, and the earliest one: it was written in the 14th century, but like The Scholars and The Plum in the Golden Vase, it is set several centuries before that time, specifically in the 12th century during the Song dynasty – there does seem to be a distinct pattern here, with each of the three novels referring to their particular present only by way of writing about the ostensible past; show more which is all the more remarkable as the novels are otherwise quite different from each other. (Not in all respects, however, as one thing I have learned from this reading project is that the ancient Chinese liked their novels not only very long but also with lots and lots of characters – The Outlaws of the Marsh may not be quite as sprawling in that regard as The Scholars, but again we get a veritable host of protagonists which make War and Peace look like an intimate drama in comparison.)

There appears to still be a debate about the authorship of The Outlaws of the Marsh – while the author is not (like it was the case with The Plum in the Golden Vase) anonymous, there are several candidates to chose from. The most common ones are to ascribe it either to Shi Nai’an (ca. 1296–1372) or to Luo Guanzhong (ca. 1330–1400, who also wrote Romance of the Three Kingdoms, another once of the Big Six) or, in fact, to both of them, with Shi Nai’an responsible for most of the novel and Luo Guanzhong for its last twenty chapters or possibly just for editing it (which is the theory I’m going with, for no particular reason at all). Everyone agrees, however, that the novel is based on an earlier collection of stories, the written version of a series of oral tales around the bandits from Liangshang Marsh – a point which, I think, is of particular importance for understanding the novel (and to which I’ll return later). And to make textual matters even more complicated, there are three versions of the novel, a 70, 100 and 120 chapters version respectively. Because there is currently no Kindle version available in Germany (or rather, and somewhat bizarrely, only of the final two volumes) of what is the most complete (120 chapters) and apparently also best English translation by Alex and John Dent-Young, I went with the translation by Sidney Shapiro which is based on the 100 chapter version and supposedly also very good. It certainly read very fluently and without the pseudo-Oriental floweriness with which many translators like to garnish their efforts. In fact, I was surprised at quite how entertaining a read this was – one wouldn’t really expect a 14th-century novel to be a fun romp, but this is exactly what The Outlaws of the Marsh turned out to be.

Basically, this is an adventure story describing the multiple and varied ways in which the protagonists find themselves outlawed after falling prey to the corruption of the Song dynasty empire and finally end up as part of a huge gang of bandits residing in Liangshang Marsh, their various deeds and misdeeds and how they finally seek and find pardon with the emperor and go to war for him. It is full of memorable characters, all of which are much larger than life – this being a marked difference to The Plum in the Golden Vase and The Scholars, both of which are realistic at heart, while The Outlaws of the Marsh reads like an odd mixture of the picaresque and the heroic and is also full of explicitly supernatural elements and occurrences.

One reason why the author of The Plum in the Golden Vase may have chosen to take a story from The Outlaws of the Marsh as the starting point of her novel is that we find a similar degree of total corruption here – with the difference however, that most characters here still feel the urge to justify their deeds. The novel is often considered as a kind of Chinese Robin Hood variant, and on the surface this seems certainly plausible; but one only needs to scratch lightly for the veneer of benevolence to come off. The outlaws keep insisting that they never harm civilians or people who did not deserve it – which is not keeping them, however, from slaughtering whole families of people who have opposed them, or killing a child for the sole purpose of persuading someone to join their band. Granted, ethics in 14th century China probably were not quite the same as in 21st century Europe, but I do doubt that the cold-blooded murder of a child was any more acceptable there and then than it is here and now. Another example of the prevailing hypocrisy is how the initial crime of one of the novel’s main protagonists, Song Jiang, (he killed his concubine) seems less and less grievous every time it is mentioned, until the original murder has transformed into nothing but a “judicial mishap.”

In the second half of the novel there is a marked shift from adventures of individual characters towards large-scale troop movements, a shift that is completed when the bandits give up their criminal careers and start to work in the service of the emperor – the rest of the novel then is taken up by the description of two military campaigns, one repelling invaders from the Liao empire and one putting down a revolt. There is no change in the behaviour of our heroes however who not only continue merrily to slaughter innocents, but also have no scruples to pretend to surrender to their opponents, only to then stab them in the back – again, I doubt there ever was a culture or a time when this would have been considered chivalrous, and yet both the former bandits and the narrative keep touting their presumed nobility of character.

Something, then, is decidedly off here – or is it? I mentioned before that The Outlaws of the Marsh is a retelling of an earlier collection of tales, and for my part, I am convinced that the author of the novel is giving his source material a subversive spin. When one looks closer one notices that the bandits’ leader, Song Jiang, is almost the only one that is interested in getting a pardon from the emperor and that he pulls it through only by circumventing or going against the outright opposition of his fellow chiefs. And things do start to go wrong for the Lianghsang Marsh bandits from the moment they change sides; during the first campaign it is merely lack of official acknowledgement and court intrigues Song Jiang and his men have to struggle with, but once they start fighting Fang La and his fellow rebels – who clearly is an image of what the outlaws of the marsh may have become had they not courted the emperor’s favour instead – the death toll rises, and I was getting a strong impression that the author felt a grim satisfaction in killing off his protagonists one after the other.

There seems to be second narrative running along the “official” one, or rather a second, alternative interpretation of events which sees the story of the outlawed bandits becoming a part of the established order not as a triumph and rise to glory, but rather as a decline and ultimately a tragic downfall. This is nowhere clearly stated, in fact it goes completely against what the narrative states explicitly, and yet there is such a large amounts of irritations, off-kilter moments and general inconsistencies between what is claimed and what the reader sees actually happening, that their cumulative effect is to topple the “official” interpretation in favour of a subversive one which strongly insinuates maybe lawlessness is the better state of things. Emblematic of this is the character of Li Kui, the Black Whirlwind who is almost the exact opposite of Song Jiang. He is loud, boisterous and extremely violent, almost a force of nature – and possibly the most likable character in the novel. As an embodiment of anarchy, he seems to stand against every virtue The Outlaws of the March claims to advocate, but ultimately it is not restrained, reasonable Song Jiang who represents this novel best, but it is Li Kui’s untamed, irresponsible utterly over-the-top nature which captures the true spirit of The Outlaws of the Marsh. show less

‘Outlaws of the Marsh’, or ‘Water Margin’, is a beast of a book, divided into 100 chapters and coming in at over 2,000 pages. Major portions of it were written as early as the 14th century, and contain a fictional account of real life outlaws from the 12th century Song dynasty. As such, it has its place with Boccaccio’s ‘Decameron’ and Chaucer’s ‘The Canterbury Tales’, and in some ways may remind the reader of those works or Homer’s ‘The Iliad’ with all of its show more warfare, but in many other ways, it’s unique onto itself, reflecting Chinese culture, and one of China’s ‘Four Classic Novels’.

As with other ancient works before the advent of the modern novel, there aren’t a lot of psychological insight or deep observations made here, but it’s entertaining nonetheless. It’s an action story, filled with a large number of characters, with one subplot told over several chapters leading to the next. There are instances of martial arts exploits, such as ‘The Jade-Circle Steps with Duck and Drake Feet’ maneuver, which is flourishing one’s fists in the opponent’s face, turning and walking away, and then catching them with a backward leg kick. There are super-human feats of strength, e.g. uprooting a willow tree, picking up an entire pagoda and moving it, or killing a tiger, all single-handedly. There are characters that may remind you of other super-heroes from the comics of our times, such as Dai Zong with his “magic travel method” resembling The Flash, Zhang Shun, the skilled swimmer dubbed the “White Streak in the Waves” resembling Aquaman (and then some, since he who can stay underwater for seven days and seven nights), and Hua Rong the expert archer resembling Green Arrow or Hawkeye. There are occasional physical abnormalities, such as Huangfu Duan, the veterinarian who has blue eyes with two pupils in each, and Ren Yuan (“Sky-Supporting Pillar”), the wrestler who is ten feet tall. There are also some supernatural aspects, with ghosts talking to the living, or evil spirits inhabiting a place. Lastly, there are Taoist wizards like Gongsun Sheng, who can summon earthquakes, black mists, and sandstorms; they can also pour forth monstrous animals and poisonous serpents in battle, and one wonders why their powers aren’t used more. Of course, the other side sometimes has these wizards as well, including Bao Daoyi, who has a sword called Occult Universe which can fly a hundred paces and kill a man, and late in the novel, a battle takes place in the sky between two supernatural warriors summoned by Taoists, one astride a supernatural dragon.

If violence turns you off, skip this book. There are many double-crosses, instances of false imprisonment, and thievery, followed by brutal vengeance and killing. There are lots and lots of instances of decapitations, bodies being carved up “like hacking melons and slicing vegetables,” and innocent women and children being killed because they’re the family of an enemy. Hearts are cut out, and still dripping blood, offered in sacrifices to the gods. Horse’s legs are hacked with swords to bring their riders to the ground. Rivers flow red with blood. As one character (Wu Song) reasons, “I might as well do this thoroughly; even if I kill a hundred, I can only be executed once.” As another (Li Kui) says, “So I don’t get any credit. But all that killing was a real pleasure.” There are several instances of cannibalism, and by mainline characters. In one, Zhang Qing and his wife ‘Sun the Witch’ use human meat in their dumplings. In another, Li Kui is hungry and realizes “there’s good meat right before me” before cutting off some of the flesh from Li Gui’s leg and roasting it for himself. If that is too much for you, don’t read this book.

There are also a few really nice scenes, such as the glowing lanterns along a hill during a festival with dancers in comic masks in chapter 33. There are references to places such as the Pipa Pavilion in Jiujiang and Xunyang Pavilion in Jiangzhou which still exist (albeit sometimes in rebuilt form), and it was nice to look these up while reading. There is an instance of a classical Song poem quoted (see below), which was a lovely touch. I also liked the half-dream, half-real scene which a character (Song Jiang) has when meeting the ‘Mystic Queen of Ninth Heaven’, as is was so unexpected, and had her dressed in “filmy golden silks, holding a scepter of white jade”, with lovely eyes and a divine countenance. Later she’ll return to him in a dream, giving him advice on how to defeat the powerful Mongol army.

Throughout the book there is also a lot of polite behavior to guests, false modesty, and feasts, along with the drinking of copious bowls of wine. There is also the more utilitarian bribery of officials and guards, which is never described in a cynical way, but instead as an essential tool to get things done. This is a little window into the culture and time period, as are the instances of little sayings, such as “Though you see a friend off a thousand li [a unit of distance], sooner or later you must part”, and “Lust engenders boundless audacity.” There are also little things like armies making night marches wearing ‘stick gags’ to ensure silence, tattooing the face of those convicted of crimes, and medical practices such as green bean powder protecting the heart from poisons, using poultices of powdered gold and ground jade to remove scars, and ‘golden spear ointment’ for an arrow wound.

The book is peppered with salty and ribald language, and there are fantastic nicknames, which I could fill pages with (“Dried Pecker Head”, “Recklessly Rash”, “Devil Incarnate”, “Three Inches of Mulberry Bark”, “River Churning Clam”, “Sick Tiger”, “Magic Calculator”, “Elfin Flutist”, “Nine-Tailed Tortoise”, “Fiery-Eyed Lion”, “Ironclad Virtue”, “Kick a Sheep to Death”, “Flea on a Drum”, “Demon King Who Roils the World”, “Jade Unicorn”, “Ugly Son-in-Law”, “Oily Mudfish”, “God of Death”, “Cut Your Heart Out”, “Drop of Oil”, “Thin-Faced Bear”, etc). One man is known as “Wild Dog” Hao, because “his mother dreamed she was entered by the spirit of a wild dog shortly before she became pregnant with Hao,” and another is “Dragon Dream” Liu for the same reason.

My favorite character early on was the irascible “Sagacious Lu”, a hothead “who gets in hot water and is forced to hide out as a monk in a monastery. It’s with disastrous results, as he has no intentions of renouncing his earthly ways. Another was “Golden Lotus”, the wife of a short and ugly little man who first tries to tempt her brother-in-law Wu Song, and then has an adulterous tryst with a man named Ximen, arranged for by her crafty neighbor Mistress Wang. As Mistress Wang explains it to Ximen, for a successful seduction, he must satisfy five requirements: be handsome, well-endowed (ok, she says he “needs a tool as big as a donkey’s”), rich, forbearing, and attentive. It works, and each day she “returns with a rosy face”.

There are other little bits of sex, you know, to go with all of the violence in the book, for example, “Clever Cloud” in volume two, a young woman who carries on an affair with a monk named Hai the Preceptor. I love the steamy way their desire gradually builds, and how the act itself is described: “He picked her up and carried her to the bed. Then he disrobed her and had his heart’s desire. Only after a long time did the clouds expend their rain.” Later the lovers are described “as close as glue and turpentine, sugar and honey, marrow and bone juice, fish and water, indulging merrily in licentious pleasure.” Of course, the two are eventually discovered, and then executed (which is mentioned as legal at the time, if they’re caught in the act).

One of my favorite characters in volume two was Wu Song, aka “Constable Wu”, who after getting vengeance for his brother, is falsely imprisoned, breaks out, commits various acts of carnage, and then uses clothing from one of the dead men and blood, to boldly write ‘The slayer is Wu Song the tiger-killer’ on the wall. Another was Wang Ying, the so-called “Stumpy Tiger”, a lecherous fellow who attempts to carry off one woman or another until finally given a bride. Lastly, Li Kui, “Black Whirlwind”, who I mention above. He’s an ill-mannered warrior who wields two battle-axes, often fights stark naked, and is impossible to control in his mania to attack, is memorable. The battle he has with Zhang Shun, the “White Streak in the Waves”, first on land and then in the sea, is entertaining.

Li Kui remains a prominent figure throughout volume three, constantly getting into trouble because of his impulsiveness and violent ways. His adventure trying to recruit Gongsun Sheng, getting toyed with by the Taoist wizard and his master, and later befouled with filth by jailors, is a good one. He reminds me of an extreme form of Toshiro Mifune’s character in ‘Seven Samurai’, with the bloodlust dialed up. In one scene he’s asked by a squire to help with what seems to be a supernatural disturbance in his daughter’s room at night, discovers she has a secret lover, and beheads both of them. He then strips to the waist and “flails the two bodies with his axes as if he was drumming”, before reporting back to the squire, who goes into his daughter’s room to see “dismembered parts of the headless bodies scattered all over the floor.” At one point his tendency to get into trouble is so bad that he’s threatened with execution by Song Jiang, but his loyalty and strength always seem to have enough of a perceived virtue in them that he’s valued.

Song Jiang’s story is interesting because despite his character, and his unimposing appearance (he’s described as swarthy, ugly, short, and fat), he’ll eventually become the leader of the outlaws of Liangshang Marsh when Chao Gai takes an arrow to the face and dies in chapter 60. (Chao Gai will reappear as an apparition to provide Song Jian with advice, not unlike Obi-Wan Kenobi in ‘Star Wars’). He resists leadership, trying to give it to Lu Junyi (“Jade Qilin”, translated here as “Jade Unicorn”, though this seems a little westernized, as the two beasts seem different). Song Jiang is a reasonable, generous, and well regarded man, but becomes an outlaw after killing his adulterous wife Poxi in a fit of anger towards the end of volume one. His reputation as “Timely Rain” often precedes and protects him from harm. He can flash anger and is a man of the world, but there is a bit of the Buddha in him when he wisely says of the uncouth and out of control Li Kui, “That’s his nature. No one can change it. But I respect his honesty.” As the book evolves, it’s stated that he’s only leading this band because the emperor’s officials in China are corrupt, and a burden to the people. He seeks amnesty for them, at which point he will give up his lawlessness. However, we do see his cruelty, such as killing a prefect’s son in volume three to ‘help compel him to join their stronghold’, only to have it said shortly later he only does what is morally right. On other occasions, his men will kill entire families, big fractions of a town’s populace, or bind batches of prisoners with big rocks and throw them in the lake to drown them, so it’s hard to truly see them as honorable bandits, but that’s the book’s intention. As for his own men, Song Jiang weeps when they die, and gets depressed when battles don’t go his way. He’s an emotional man who is often consoled by Wu Yong, his military advisor, who tells him “You mustn’t let your distress over your brothers ruin your health.”

Unfortunately, if you’re looking for more positive female characters, you’ve got to go quite a ways before finding one, but eventually, in chapter 47 after 991 pages, you’ll come across “Ten Feet of Steel”, a “courageous girl … who wields two long gleaming swords, and is an excellent horseman.” She’s followed shortly afterwards by Mistress Gu, the Tigress, who is also a powerful fighter. Oh, how I enjoyed “Ten Feet of Steel’s” battle scene and victory over “Stumpy Tiger”, though it is telling that she is unable to refuse when she’s given to him as a bride later.

There is a fair bit of repetition in the themes in the book, one being the drugging of travelers with poisoned wine to rob them, which we first see in volume one. More prevalently, the pattern is that a fierce opponent battles the outlaws, but once captured, is treated with respect (or blackmailed) and cajoled into joining them, which he almost always happily does, and sometimes in a comically short turnaround. The little variations therefore end up being pretty interesting, such as Zhang Qin (the “Featherless Arrow”), who uses his “ape-like arms” to hurl rocks at the outlaws who challenge him, somewhat humorously knocking them down until 15 have been seriously wounded.

One bit of advice I would proffer is to not be intimidated by the sheer number of characters that begin to accumulate over the telling of the story. It gets a little crazy in the last five chapters of volume two, during the siege of the Zhu Family Manor, when large numbers of leaders and armies go at one another in battle after battle. This continues to build as various leaders join the bandits in Liangshan marsh until the end of chapter 70 in volume three, when all 108 are present. At its worst, details for leaders of various regiments are rattled off in large battle scenes, and at its best, the individual stories are told. Just remember that even in those big battle scenes, you don’t need to recall the backstory behind each to enjoy the action, and often if a character is reintroduced for a longer subplot, we’re often reminded of who they are, or you can look them up.

After the 108 outlaws have assembled, they seek amnesty from the emperor, and after a few attempts are scuttled by corrupt imperial ministers, they succeed. In volume four they’re then sent by the emperor to battle the Mongols to the north, who under the Liao Dynasty were a real threat to China. The Tartars often carry black flags and banners, and it’s interesting to hear one general described as having a fair complexion, red lips, golden hair, and green eyes. In one battle, different contingents of their army wear different colors (e.g. “In conical hats of ochre red and robes dyed the color of orangutan blood, over which was chain and fish-scale armor of peach pink”). Included is a contingent of women cavalry dressed in fabulous silver and white. However, I have to say, some of these chapters lag, as battles are on a large scale, and there is less originality.

After defeating the Liaos, they’re then sent south to defeat a group of bandits who have formed under a chieftain named Fang La, another real historical figure who was fictionalized. I loved this description of his clothing: “He wore a high hood of bright gold with turned-up corners and a robe embroidered with nine dragons amid sun, moon, and clouds. A jade belt embossed with gold and precious stones bound his waist. His feet were shod in a pair of royal boots stitched in gold thread with soles of cloud design.” And it’s in battle with Fang La and his armies that the novel finishes strong. To its credit, it shows that many of the bandits suffer the fate that so many who wage war suffer: they are killed in battle. Others die of sickness or retire, and even though the group is ultimately successful, they slowly disband, which of course is the fate of all things. One Buddhist abbot perhaps foreshadows this in Chapter 90 by saying “Alas, all living things afloat in this world futilely howl in mire and sand.” When Gongsun Sheng decides to leave to go back to being a Taoist monk in the mountains, Song Jiang tells him “Our days together were like opening flowers. Our parting is like flowers that fall.” Often when they die, the narrator comments on the tragedy of it all; for example, when ‘Ten Feet of Steel’ is killed by a brick to the forehead, he says “Poor beautiful female warrior, her life was gone like a dream of spring!” There is a wonderful sense of poignancy in these moments, coming after all of the bravado and camaraderie.

In one of the better sequences in volume four, Zhang Shun swims underwater across West Lake in the attempt of breaking through the gate into Hangzhou. After a couple of attempts of quietly scaling its walls from the water, he’s discovered, and dies under a deluge of arrows, javelins, and stones. He appears to Song Jiang in ghost form in a dream, and then exacts his revenge on the bandits in battle by temporarily possessing his comrade Zhang Heng’s body, and then, buff naked, killing their king’s son, one of his generals. In another, Sagacious Lu just sits calmly and wills himself to die to finish a prophecy, writing in his farewell note that “today I know myself at last.”

The novel saves one of the most interesting and surprising moments for the end. Song Jiang discovers he’s dying from slow-acting poison sent in wine by corrupt ministers of the Emperor who are jealous of him. His thoughts are not to bemoan his fate or to seek revenge, instead, he realizes that it’s the pre-ordained time to die, and simply fears that once Li Kui hears of it, he will re-form an outlaw group and rebel, ruining the reputation his group had. So what does he do? He sends Li Kui the same poison, killing him as well. It was a moment which shocked me, though the two talk as ghosts and Li Kui seems to hold no grudges. In a sign of solidarity, Wu Yong and Hua Rong weep over their brothers, and then hang themselves from a tree. Happily, the emperor is told the truth about what happens in a dream, clearing their name, and allowing him to set up the proper memorials to the brave chieftains.

One of the points the book makes amidst all of the action is how fate can be random, how certain events can have all sorts of far-reaching implications to a person and to hundreds of others, of course rippling from there. There are also overtones of it all being a part of a divine plan, for example, as chapter 32 ends, “Truly, the bumpy roads we travel are all part of Heaven’s plan. Can the gales and storms we encounter be sheer accident, then?” There are evil people, of course, but there are also people who end up on the wrong side of the law because of unfairness or misunderstanding. And of course, with the events in the late chapters seeing the outlaws killed or disbanded, we see in it the arc of all life. Perhaps this is why Pearl Buck dubbed her translation of the 70-chapter version “All Men Are Brothers”, though I think it’s quite a stretch especially given all of the violence. A lot of the time it’s people behaving badly – robbing others, bribing officials, and murdering their enemies. In makes for an interesting read though, and that’s pretty impressive for stories that are 500-700 years old. I was thinking that it would be fantastic if selected parts of it were made into a Quentin Tarantino movie, though perhaps I should check out the adaptations that came out of Hong Kong in the 1970’s and 80’s.

Quotes:
On chaos:
“He rode pell-mell northeast, his army in ruins, his men scattered like raindrops and stars.”

On women:
“Good reader, observe: Nine out of ten women, no matter how clever they may be, invariably are taken in by small attentions and flattery.”

On being apart, this poem by Su Dongpo, also known as Su Shi (1037-1101), who I found was also a vegetarian:
“When is there a bright moon?
Ask the sky, cup in hand.
Who knows what year it is
In the palaces of heaven.
I long to go there, riding the wind,
But the cold I cannot stand
In that lofty jade firmament;
I dance alone with my shadow,
As if in another world.

With the beaded curtains rolled high,
The moonlight, streaming through the open window,
Drives away sleep.
I should not be resentful, but why
Is the moon always roundest at parting?
As people have their sorrows and joys, separating and reuniting,
So has the moon its bright and dark, waxing and waning.
Since ancient times, it has always been thus!
If we cannot for long be heart to heart,
Let us enjoy the same moon, far apart!” show less