Awakening from the Dream of Fame: Individual Choice in the Torrent of History
- Cathy Shen
- Nov 29, 2025
- 7 min read
To understand the thorough rejection of fame and fortune expressed in the opening verses of The Scholars, we must first understand Wu Jingzi—the man and his times. Wu Jingzi was born into an official-scholar family in Quanjiao, Anhui Province. His great-grandfather was a tanhua (third-place finisher in the imperial examination), and both his grandfather and father held jinshi degrees. By all accounts, such a family background should have filled him with aspiration for the examination system. Yet reality proved precisely the opposite. His family fortunes declined in his youth; though brilliantly talented, he repeatedly failed the examinations. Eventually he abandoned the pursuit altogether, relocated to Nanjing, and eked out a living by selling his writing, dying in poverty. This life experience of plummeting from the clouds into the mud gave him a visceral understanding of the imperial examination system.
However, Wu Jingzi's personal misfortunes were merely surface phenomena; the deeper causes lay in the particular socio-political environment of the Ming and Qing dynasties. During this period, autocratic rule intensified to an unprecedented degree, with imperial power tightly controlling the scholar class through the examination system. The eight-legged essay format ossified intellectuals' thinking within narrow paradigms—what was tested was not genuine learning, but the ability to divine the emperor's intentions. Under the Qing dynasty, conditions grew even worse. As foreign rulers, the Manchus both needed to win over Han intellectuals and guard against them. On one hand, they provided paths for advancement through the examinations; on the other, they silenced scholars through literary inquisitions. During the Kangxi, Yongzheng, and Qianlong reigns, these inquisitions reached their peak—a single word or phrase could result in the execution of nine generations of one's family. Under such oppressive conditions, scholars either became appendages of power or chose silence; genuine independent thought was virtually impossible.
Even more ironic was that while the examination system theoretically offered commoners opportunities for advancement, the actual probability of success was infinitesimal. The nationwide quota for jinshi degrees was merely three hundred per year, while examination candidates numbered in the tens of thousands. Most people exhausted their entire lives and depleted their family fortunes only to end up as mere xiucai or juren—or without any degree at all. In The Scholars, Fan Jin goes insane after passing the provincial examination, and Zhou Jin weeps uncontrollably upon seeing the examination hall's cells—both are authentic portrayals of this distorted system. Wu Jingzi recognized this reality, which led him to lament, "Fame and fortune lack a solid foundation; after depleting all one's emotions, one has merely squandered the passing of time." This statement was not merely a personal awakening but an indictment of an entire era.
Wu Jingzi's insights reveal a more universal pattern: the socio-political context largely determines the mainstream values of an age, and these values in turn influence individuals' choices between worldly engagement and withdrawal. People often believe their choices express free will, not realizing that this "freedom" itself is framed by their times. A scholar living during the Warring States period was likely more restrained than the famous eccentrics of the Wei-Jin era; a poet living in the flourishing Tang dynasty was likely less melancholic and reclusive than the remnant loyalists of the Southern Song. Every era has its particular "space of possibilities," and individual choices can only unfold within that space.
Viewed objectively, both worldly engagement and withdrawal have their rationality and their limitations. Those who engage with the world believe life's meaning lies in accomplishment and benefiting all under heaven. Fan Zhongyan exemplifies the spirit of engagement. Generations have passed down his youthful dedication to study—the story of "cutting pickled vegetables and marking porridge" to ration his meals. After earning his jinshi degree, he served successively as a local official and in important court positions, promoting the Qingli Reforms. Though ultimately unsuccessful, his spirit of "being first to worry about the world's worries and last to enjoy its joys" influenced generation after generation of scholars. They were unhappy with personal comfort and tied their fates to the nation and its people. Yet the path of engagement is no smooth road. Excessive worldly involvement often leads to warped character and spiritual alienation. Weren't Yan Song and Qin Hui—those infamous treacherous ministers—also engaged with the world? They understood court rules better than anyone and were more adept at scheming than anyone, yet ultimately became criminals of history.
Those who withdraw choose another path. Tao Yuanming represents the spirit of withdrawal. "Refusing to bow for five pecks of rice," he resigned from office and returned to seclusion, living a pastoral life of "picking chrysanthemums by the eastern fence, leisurely gazing upon the southern mountains." His poetry and prose are fresh and natural, without a trace of vulgarity, becoming a spiritual homeland for later literati. In The Scholars, Wang Mian and Du Shaoqing both dared to rebel against the corrupt examination system. What makes such people admirable is their refusal to be co-opted by the system, maintaining independence of character and freedom of spirit. But withdrawal has its problems too. First is the economic question—hermits must also eat, and without a certain economic foundation, so-called seclusion is merely another form of poverty. In his later years, Tao Yuanming's "jar held no stored grain," and he often had to rely on friends' charity to get by. Second is spiritual loneliness—when a person is detached from society too long, they fall into self-enclosure. More importantly, if everyone chose withdrawal, who would maintain society's functioning? Who would advance civilization's progress? From this perspective, pure withdrawal is actually a privilege, one that can only exist because enough people remain engaged with the world.
Throughout the long course of history, different eras have produced varying tendencies in decision-making. During the Wei-Jin and Northern-Southern Dynasties, for example, aristocratic clans monopolized court politics, leaving virtually no room for advancement for those of humble birth. Political struggles were extraordinarily brutal—the slightest misstep could result in the execution of one's entire household. In such an environment, withdrawal became a wisdom of self-preservation. The wild abandon of the Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove was less a matter of personality than passive resistance against terroristic politics. "Bamboo grove" itself was a metaphor, representing distance from the court and alienation from power.
By the flourishing eras of Han and Tang, the nation was unified, the economy prosperous, and culture thriving. Worldly engagement was not just an ideal but a realistic choice. After Emperor Wu of Han "dismissed the hundred schools and honored only Confucianism," Confucian scholars entered officialdom through the recommendation system and later the examination system, realizing the idea that "excelling in study leads to officialdom." The Tang dynasty was even more of a golden age for scholars—"a rustic lad in the morning, ascending to the emperor's hall by evening" was not fantasy but possibility. Though Li Bai was wild and unrestrained, his greatest wish was still to gain the ruler's appreciation. His heroic sentiment that "there will come a time when I cleave the waves with the wind and hoist my cloud-like sail to cross the vast sea" perfectly captures the spirit of Tang dynasty scholars.
By the Ming and Qing periods of The Scholars, autocracy had reached its zenith, and scholars' space for choice was extremely compressed. The withdrawal that emerged in this environment was more helplessness than transcendence.
The debate between worldly engagement and withdrawal in Chinese culture often reflects the differences between two philosophical traditions: Confucianism and Taoism. The core of Confucianism is ren (benevolence), emphasizing human sociality and moral responsibility. Confucius said, "Do not do unto others what you would not have them do unto you"; Mencius said, "Treat the elderly of others as you would your own, and the young of others as you would your own"—both demanding that individuals bear social responsibility. The Confucian ideal of character is "inner sage, outer king"—both cultivating one's own virtue and governing the state to benefit the people. Such thinking inevitably leads toward engagement, because only in society, in interaction with others, can morality be realized.
Taoism is entirely different. Its core is the Dao, emphasizing following nature and governing through non-action. Laozi said, "The Dao models itself on nature"; Zhuangzi spoke of "free and easy wandering"—both requiring that people cast off social constraints and return to a natural state. Taoism holds that social norms and moral preaching distort human nature. True freedom is "no self, no achievement, no fame"—freedom from the bonds of ego, utility, and reputation. Such thinking naturally leads toward withdrawal, because only by distancing oneself from society can one obtain true freedom.
These two seemingly opposing philosophies coexist in Chinese culture, even complementing each other. Many scholars were "Confucian on the outside, Taoist on the inside," or "both Confucian and Taoist." In youth, they embraced Confucianism and actively engaged with the world; after encountering setbacks, they turned to Taoism for spiritual solace. Su Shi is a classic example: his political ideals were Confucian, but his life attitude was deeply influenced by Taoism. "Life is but a dream; let me pour one more cup to the moon over the river"—this realm of transcendence perfectly embodies the Taoist spirit. This tradition of Confucian-Taoist complementarity allowed Chinese literati to attain a balance between ideal and reality.
This struggle between ideal and reality, individual and society, is not unique to China. The ancient Greek Stoics advocated active participation in public affairs, seeing it as the path to virtue; the Epicureans advocated retreating to private life in pursuit of spiritual tranquility. In contemporary society, this ancient question appears in new forms. Globalization brings unprecedented opportunities but also intensifies the brutality of competition. The internet makes it possible for anyone to become famous but also traps people in endless comparison and anxiety. "Involution," or "lying flat," and "striving," or "Buddhist-style acceptance"—behind these internet buzzwords lies the real predicament facing the younger generation. On one hand, society demands success and constant progress; on the other hand, class stratification leaves many seeing no hope of advancement.
Returning to the opening verses of The Scholars, their value lies not in giving us a clear answer but in reminding us to remain clearheaded. Fame and fortune are indeed "without foundation," but this doesn't mean we should abandon all pursuits. The key is understanding what is meant by "means" and "ends," as well as what constitutes "process" and "result." When we treat fame as a tool for realizing ideals rather than the entirety of life, when we treat wealth as a means for improving living conditions rather than a standard for measuring value, perhaps then we can find our place in this complex world.
Whether choosing engagement or withdrawal, whether pursuing fame or remaining indifferent to it, what matters most is maintaining the capacity for independent thought and the courage to face oneself honestly. Ultimately, life is a journey that we alone can complete. Others' experiences can be referenced but not replicated; the times may influence us but cannot determine us. Keeping our composure amidst the tumultuous history and making decisions based on our hearts may be the most optimal decision we can make.
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