anC i e n t-s t y l e Sh i P oe t ry : C on t i nuat ion anD C Hang e s 231Line 3 plays on these thwarted visual expectations. The “heaven and earth”
named here are, at least in part, spatial entities that one can behold from a point
on high. The spatial aspect of youyou, a reduplicative descriptive that connotes
both a great expanse and a deep, ineffable sadness, can also be seen. But whatever
visible attributes this scene might have, they are negated by the realization that,
for the particular eyes beholding it here, the essence of this “mournful breadth”
lies in its emptiness. The heaven-and-earth that stretches out before him is bare of
companions and, for that matter, of anything one can truly behold. And the poet
has, in fact, indicated as much in the very first word of this line. He does not gaze
at the terrain or even behold it. Rather, this vast expanse is something that exists in
his inner world; it is something he is reminded of or “thinks of ” (nian), something
he knows and can contemplate.
As in the previous poem, Chen Zi’ang uses vision to negate the importance of
mere sight. Having sketched out this portrait of his all-encompassing solitude,
and erased the boundary between the seer and the seen, he allows himself, in
the last line, to notice and record his own emotions, in the same unadorned lan-
guage that he has been using throughout. He plainly names his feeling of grief
(chuangran) and notes that his “tears fall.” This closing image of falling tears is
already well worn by his time, and it is hard to tell whether its poignancy in this
context results from—or despite—its nostalgic familiarity. The abrupt shift from
unnameable immensity to unnameable intimacy, not unusual in Chinese poetic
practice, still seems to bestow a certain power on this age-old gesture, placing both
unnameables on an equal footing within the scheme of things to be beheld but not
seen.
Another poet whose name is associated with ancient-style poetry is Li Bai, often
referred to as the “banished immortal.” Traditionally paired with Du Fu as one of
China’s two greatest poets, his outsize legend has long since overshadowed his
biography as a context for understanding his contribution to Chinese poetry. Un-
like Chen Zi’ang, who arrived at court by way of the official path of the examination
system, Li Bai acquired his post in the Hanlin Academy thanks to the favor of the
prominent minister He Zhizhang (659–744), a poet in his own right who was im-
pressed by the verve and originality of Li Bai’s poetry. As legend has it, Li Bai soon
lost his position, not because of his outspoken political ideas but because of what
might be called bad behavior; amusing anecdotal tales of his arrogance abound.
He spent much of his life on the road, now as a supporter of one of the revolts as-
sociated with the An Lushan Rebellion (755–763), now as a Daoist adept living in
reclusion. Although his fame as a poet was already secured during his lifetime, his
penchant for fantasy and playing with the rules ensured that the question of his
merit would be raised by critics throughout the ensuing centuries.
Writing at the apex of the period known as the High Tang, Li Bai, like Chen
Zi’ang, strove to write in a language of ancient authenticity, although his version
of ancientness stands at the far end of the spectrum in relation to Chen Zi’ang. In
the opinion of many traditional critics, who placed him on a par with Du Fu, he