The Zhou Dynasty and the Early Textual Traditions

The received textual tradition in China dates, at least putatively, to the Western Zhou period (eleventh to eighth centuries bce). Violence is present already in that layer of text.

The earliest literature we have from China comes in the form of the Book of Songs, which is conventionally viewed as a collection of hymns and folk songs from the Western Zhou period. While its textual history is a matter of debate, the Book of Songs has an inarguably formative position in the Chinese canon and historians still sometimes draw upon it today. A number of its poems refer to violence in the form of warfare. The poem ‘Sixth Month' describes the course of war, from preparations to eventual celebration after victory. It begins with anticipation:

In the sixth month all is bustle, We put our war-chariots in order, Our four steeds are in good fettle, We load our bow-cases and quivers.^[846]

The subsequent stanzas follow this pattern to relate the course of events leading up to battle: the completion of farm work beforehand, obtaining the battlefield, the approach of forces. In typical fashion, however, the actual battle receives almost no attention, and it is passed over in just a few words: ‘We smote the Xian-yu / As far as the great plain' (p. 150).

There are many mentions of battle in the Book of Songs. But nowhere is there any delight in the shedding of blood or in heroic death.

My father is saying, ‘Alas my son is on service;

Day and night he knows no rest.

Grant that he is being careful of himself,

So that he may come back and not be left behind'. (p. 86)

‘They Beat Their Drums' expresses the grief of losing a beloved commander in battle:

We were led by Sun Zi-zhong To subdue Chen and Song. He does not bring us home;

My heart is sad within. (p. 28)

Not all is lamentation and dirge in the Book of Songs. ‘No Wraps' treats preparations for military mobilisation in a more personal tone, combining an expressed willingness to face war with the avowal of solidarity with a comrade:

The king is raising an army,

I have made ready both spear and axe;

You shall share them with me as my comrade. (p. 105)

Another poem, ‘Waves of the Pan', exults in its description of victory:

Our horn bows were springy,

Our sheaves of arrows whizzed;

Our war chariots were very steady, Foot soldiers and riders were untiring. We have quite conquered the tribes of Huai;

They are very quiet, they have ceased to exist. (p. 312)

Even here, violence remains implicit. The enemy have ‘ceased to exist'; that this cessation came about through force of arms is not significant in the context of the poem.

In ways like this, the Book of Songs eschews depicting violence, and it set the tone for high literature in later times. It is however only one part of the canon. The Book of Documents, another text putatively representing the ear­liest strata of the canon, also avoids the gore of the sword-storm. It contains prose writing and as such is primarily considered historical rather than literary, in the way the Book of Songs has been. The Book of Documents was nevertheless extremely influential in the development of fine writing.

The Zhou dynasty's overthrow of the Shang in the mid eleventh century bce is a primary topic of the collection, and many references to violence in the Book of Documents relate to it. Its contents are speeches and exhortations, including some that generals purportedly delivered to their troops before fighting. In addition to amorphous threats and oblique references to fighting, mentions of violence most often work to justify Zhou actions by painting the Shang as violent and abusive. One speech puts the following words into the mouth of the future King Wu, who is conventionally identified as leading the Zhou conquest of Shang:

[T]he king of Shang, with strength pursues his lawless way. He has cast away the time-worn sires, and cultivates intimacies with wicked men. Dissolute, intemperate, reckless, oppressive, his ministers have become assimilated to him; and they form parties, and contract animosities, and depend on the emperor's power to exterminate one another. The innocent cry to Heaven.^[847]

Here, as in the Book of Songs, violence is present by implication; details are absent. Later in the same speech, King Wu offers the most graphic descrip­tion of violence to be found in the writings of the period. Speaking still of the Shang king, King Wu says, ‘He cut through the leg-bones of those who were wading in the morning; he cut out the heart of the worthy man. By the use of his power killing and murdering, he has poisoned and sickened all within the four seas'.^[848] Violence is present, to be sure, but details are few, and the actor responsible is the opposite of heroic.

The speeches in the Book of Documents portray the Zhou revolt as carrying out the will of heaven to punish Shang for its criminal acts. Despite this justification, the taking of life in the course of the rebellion is generally only alluded to and not depicted at length. This reticence for at least one source extended to the exclusion of all possibility of armed combat.

The large-scale aspect and political importance of warfare did not lead to the valorisation of military action for its own sake, even after the eleventh century bce. Bronze vessels from the Zhou period bear inscriptions that record honours of various sorts, including bestowals of land, privileges and material goods. References to battle waged to defend and extend Zhou territory appear on many of them. Archaeologist and historian Li Feng offers the following ninth century bce example, juxtaposing it with the poem ‘Sixth Month' that I quoted previously: ‘It was the fifth year, third month... the king for the first time approached and attacked... Xi Jia followed the king, cutting off heads and taking prisoners. Well done, no harm. The king awarded Xi Jia four horses and a colt chariot...'^{[850] [851]} This dispassionate presentation records violent actions without elaboration. For the creators of this inscription, the facts of loyalty and success were praiseworthy, not the skill in combat or bravery for its own sake.

In the eighth century bce some Zhou subjects allied with culturally distinct tribes to attack the Zhou. They destroyed the Zhou capital and killed the Zhou king, ending the Western Zhou period. The Zhou moved their capital east, giving the second half of their reign its name, the Eastern Zhou (eighth to third centuries bce). Historians divide the time from the end of the Western Zhou in the eighth century bce to the unification of the realm in 221 bce into three partly overlapping periods: the Eastern Zhou, which lasts until the end of the Zhou house in 256 bce; the Spring and Autumn period of 722-481 bce, named after a famous chronicle of the same name; and the Warring States period, which is variously dated but begins in the fifth century bce and ends in 221 BCE.

The time from the eighth to the third century bce was one of great and growing violence. Political divisions, ambitions and annexations as part of the slow drift towards unification in the region meant that causes for war were numerous. The expansion of armies and the development of military technology heralded killing on a larger scale than had existed previously. Infantry forces ranged up to as many as 100,000 troops around the fifth and fourth centuries bce. In the third century they expanded further, and later reports speak of 240,000 troops who suppo­sedly died at one battle, 150,000 at another, and 400,000 at a third. These numbers of course do not merit credence as exact counts; but they reflect the absolute impression of rapidly growing armed violence and violent death on a great scale.11 At the same time, the period saw an amazing intellectual fluorescence, even as centuries of war dragged on, giving rise to the greatest philosophers in Chinese history. Their teach­ings bear the mark of the continuing violence that was their historical backdrop.

Sunzi

The Art of War provides an entry point into the question of violence in intellectual history. It is the most important text ostensibly devoted to it. But as an example it is also complicated, and taken in its entirety it reflects the ambivalence of classical Chinese culture towards violence. Its putative author, Sun Wu or Sunzi (Master Sun, c. sixth to fifth centuries bce), is little known except for a brief narrative in the Grand Scribe's Records, from around 100 bce.^[852] This account relates how Sunzi demonstrated for the king his ability to create an army out of any group. The king challenged Sunzi to make a fighting force out of ladies in the royal harem and the general did so. The cost was the lives of two of the king's favourites, who giggled upon receiving commands rather than obeying: Sunzi had them executed to demonstrate the seriousness of obedience to the commander's order.

Sunzi's work enjoins the reader repeatedly and explicitly to avoid violence. It stresses the costs and the risks of war, and says, ‘to fight and conquer in all your battles is not supreme excellence; supreme excellence consists in break­ing the enemy's resistance without fighting'.^[854] In the Art of War, the best general achieves his goals without battle: ‘the skilful leader subdues the enemy's troops without any fighting' (pp. 15, 17). Presented is a military theorist's version of the same calculus the poems from the Book of Odes display: violence brings with it costs. It is considering the costs, rather than any glory that might accrue through fighting, that The Art of War recom­mends when deciding upon a course of action that might lead to war.

Most of the discussion in The Art of War is in abstract terms, including things like strategies and tactics, preparations for war, and the necessary frame of mind. Content that might otherwise be directly violent generally comes in the form of metaphor. Thus, when describing the force that an army should exhibit, The Art of War says, ‘the impact of your army [should] be like the grindstone dashed against an egg' (p. 27). The text repeatedly employs imagery from nature to make its point, forgoing the opportunity to delight in blood. It recommends, for instance: ‘The onset of troops is like the rush of a torrent which will even roll stones along its course. The quality of decision is like the well-timed swoop of a falcon which enables it to strike and destroy its victim' (p. 29). The Art of War in this way manages to talk at length about the topic of war without giving it an ounce of glory.