Book Reflections: 1587, a Year of No Significance by Ray Huang

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I don’t think this book should really be considered a rigorous academic work of history. It feels more like an exploration of a philosophy of history. In the book, the author presents a very original idea: the major events that directly lead to the fall of a dynasty often leave traces long before they actually happen, and those underlying signs are the true causes of the dynasty’s collapse. For example, in 1587, there were no major events that previous historians would have regarded as historically significant. The book portrays the depressed and passive emperor, Emperor Wanli; the Grand Secretary Shen Shixing, who mastered the art of political balance; the upright and incorruptible official Hai Rui; the talented yet socially astute general Qi Jiguang; and the unconventional thinker Li Zhi. Each of them acted according to their own ideals and believed they were contributing to society in meaningful ways. Yet sadly, none of them truly solved the crisis or rescued the country from decline. That was because the ultimate causes of the dynasty’s decay lay in the backwardness of its political, economic, and legal systems, such as the chaotic and inefficient tax structure and the governing philosophy of the scholar-official class, which relied on morality in place of rule of law. An individual’s failure is certainly unfortunate, but in this book I sensed an even greater tragedy: behind every simple line of text lay the widespread famine and unbearable suffering of ordinary people living under a backward system.

I also found myself relating, in a somewhat strange way, to the stories of two figures in the book. The first is Emperor Wanli. The way the scholar-officials lectured, pressured, and tried to discipline him felt very much like what we would now call “East Asian parenting.” Because he occupied the throne, he was never allowed to freely develop his own personality. The officials attempted to shape him according to their ideal image of what an emperor should be, and in the end, all it produced was resistance and apathy. The second is the philosopher Li Zhi, who became a monk in order to sever ties with his family. In traditional Chinese society, a scholar’s success was rarely achieved without the sacrifices and support of several generations of the family. Therefore, once that person became successful, it was implicitly understood that they owed responsibility to the family in return. Li Zhi, as an unconventional thinker, did not want to be bound by those obligations. Regardless of whether his choice was right or wrong, I can understand it, because my own opportunity to study abroad was also made possible through my family’s support, especially financially. My struggle is this: when the life one chooses for oneself does not align with the expectations of one’s family, how can both sides be fulfilled? Or perhaps, as the Chinese saying goes, one cannot have both the fish and the bear’s paw?