<i>Genre Networks and Empire: Rhetoric in Early Imperial China</i>, by Xiaoye You

Xiaoye You’s latest book is a welcome contribution to comparative rhetoric, for it promises to explain how multiple genres interacted in concrete rhetorical situations in ancient China, with particular emphasis on the Han dynasty. It will be challenging for people in rhetoric studies who are not familiar with historical, literary, and rhetoric scholarship on early imperial China. But those readers will be rewarded with an insightful analysis of what the ancient Chinese were doing—and thought they were doing—when they debated or tried to persuade rulers toward particular courses of action, political work involving multiple genres and multimodal presentations that sometimes included music, food, and wine as modes of communication. This suggests seeing rhetoric very broadly, including understanding what is typically considered context as, rather, an active participant in the rhetorical process—part of the “genre networks” of You’s title. You argues that studying genre networks provides insights into Chinese (and other) rhetorical practices that are not offered by studies of individual texts (170).You sees his study as part of the movement to decolonize comparative rhetoric studies. He argues in the introduction that Western(ers’) studies of ancient Chinese rhetoric have been based in liberal Western concerns that resulted in the “fetishi-z [ation]” of the “combative voices” of the Warring States period (Zhanguo shidai, 戰國時代) (7). Now, however, Chinese rhetoric is more often studied from indigenous perspectives (2). You contributes to this by introducing ancient Chinese conceptions of genre and genre networks through the work of Liu Xie (劉勰) and Sima Qian (司馬遷). The term wenti jingwei (文體經緯), which You translates as genre networks, indirectly comes from Liu’s The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons (Wenxin diaolong, 文心雕龍), although Liu did not use this exact term. In contrast to Liu’s discussion of genres, which You criticizes for an overly literary approach that tends to deprive “texts of much of their sociohistorical agency” (145), You seems to prefer the approach of the historian Sima Qian, which “emplaced discourses in unfolding events featuring genres as key actors mediating and shaping the events through genre networks” (15). In a move that foreshadows his later critique of complete delinking from the Western colonial matrix of power, he also connects these ancient conceptions of genres to Western studies of genre networks and genre in action, such as those of Carolyn Miller (1984), Carol Berkenkotter and Thomas Huckin (1993), and others. This he proposes as a “transnational approach to genre studies” (16).In chapter 1, You introduces the multimodal genre networks that constituted political discourse in the early imperial Chinese state. As he argues: “Early Chinese texts portrayed political suasion as ritualistic and theatrical” (25). By ritualistic, he means deeply embedded in understandings of proper behavior based on interpretations of classical texts like the Confucian Analects (Lunyu, 論語) and the Book of Odes (Shijing, 詩經) as well as the Discourses of the States (Guoyu, 國語). With theatrical, he points to the inclusion of the musicians and entertainers who participated in the process of advising the ruler. Poetry—specifically the Book of Odes—was used in rhetorical education and when advising the emperor regarding policy decisions. This suggests that it is important not to have a definition of rhetoric that automatically excludes genres before considering their uses in different cultures. Classics like the Odes were not just valued for their literary qualities; they were used to train speakers who would advise the ruler, who was himself trained to listen actively and “rhetorically” (31) and then speak “strategically” (32). Complicating Confucian notions of the ruler-adviser relationship, You also discusses The Master of the Ghost Valley (Guiguzi, 鬼谷子) and The Works of Master Han (Hanfeizi, 韓非子), two non-Confucian texts that introduced competing conceptions of loyalty. The Guiguzi posited a fluid yin-yang stance that appreciated the need for flexibility and even “adamantly promote[d] regime change if the state interests call[ed] for it” (37). The Hanfeizi viewed the ruler and the adviser as being in a competitive relationship characterized by mutual distrust. Returning to his focus on political discourse as a “multigenre activity system” (25), You ends this chapter with observations on the communication systems in which oral and written genres were embedded.In chapter 2, You analyzes the genres involved in the transformation of Han Confucian thought from a secular to a metaphysical understanding of the relationship of the dao (道) and heaven’s role in the affairs of people. He describes how the Confucian scholar Dong Zhongshu (董仲舒) anthropomorphized heaven and tied the successes or failures of imperial actions to the Mandate of Heaven, as revealed in natural anomalies and disasters. This extended communication in the Han court to include the heavenly realm, involving the need for sacrifices to heaven and exegetical genres to explain both Confucian texts and events in the natural world. This new emphasis on heaven resulted in an expansion of texts to be interpreted, including the Book of Changes (Yijing, 易經) and newly translated Buddhist texts that were reinterpreted to be consistent with the official Confucian ideology. You outlines and illustrates the patterns of some of the genres, such as the edicts (zhao, 詔) and answers to court examination questions (64). While these genres are identifiable as text types, they were also embedded in and varied with the sociopolitical situations in which they were used. For instance, You describes the general form and tone of the commentaries submitted to the emperor but then introduces a particular commentary quoted in the Book of Han (Han shu, 漢書) that both conformed to and flouted generic expectations. The author, Gu Yong (谷永), follows the “rules” by couching his criticisms of the current ruler in “historical anecdotes and the Confucian classics” (65), but he then “offers scathing criticisms” of the emperor with a “candidness [that] was almost unmatched among his peers.” Then, like his peers, he ends with a typified conclusion: “I said what I am not supposed to say in my counsel, so I should be put to death ten thousand times” (66). In this case, however, Gu’s use of this set phrase was much closer to the truth: he was demoted and barely avoided execution (66–67).Chapter 3 examines the rhetorics of gender and the gendered rhetorics of the period, particularly in the Inner Court, which is where “the imperial consorts and their support staff” lived (76). As You writes, men tried to control women in the Inner Court with a two-pronged approach: by “framing gender relations with the yin-yang theory” and by blaming women in the royal family for “natural anomalies, disasters, and social woes” (75). Because court histories of the period were written by men, women’s perspectives are underrepresented, but You points out how elite women like the empress dowagers Ma (馬皇太后) and Deng (登皇太后) used their literacy to rule the Inner Court and govern relations between the royal family and the state. He also shows how, after the death of one of her brothers, Ban Gu (班固), Ban Zhao (班昭) finished the Book of Han and wrote Lessons for Women (Nüjie, 女誡). He argues that, although she seemed to conform “to elite men’s expectations of women, Ban was subversive”: “She argued for women’s education, took the instruction of women from the hands of men, and conceptualized a rhetorically savvy woman” (93).In chapter 4, You investigates the genre networks involved in making government decisions about various issues, most importantly concerning how rulers should govern the people and interact with others. He introduces the Kingly Way (wangdao, 王道) and the Despotic Way (badao, 霸道) as frames that grounded the debate over these decisions. The Kingly Way reflected Confucianist beliefs, whereas the Despotic Way was tied to the more authoritarian philosophy of Legalism. You highlights the debates between Confucian literati and Legalist officials, showing how both positions were actually hybrid at the time, borrowing from each other and, in the case of the literati, also borrowing from the wuwei (無為) stance of Daoism. One important area for debate concerned self-other relations with the Xiongnu (匈奴), a nomadic society with which the Han frequently warred. The literati proposed that the Han ruler use humane approaches and Confucian ritual to “civilize” the Xiongnu, but the Legalist officials argued that the Xiongnu were animal-like and needed to be fought. On the basis of an examination of texts such as Huan Kuan’s (桓寬) Discourses on Salt and Iron (Yantielun, 鹽鐵論), You shows how debate used both written and oral genres and was also an embodied practice. “Through genre networks,” he writes, “the debates mobilized bodies, dialects, and customs from afar and placed them in physical proximity” (117).Chapter 5 explores the rising rhetorical power of the Confucian classics as the basis for arguments about statecraft. Other rhetorical approaches still had some influence. You shows, for example, how some advisers framed their arguments in terms of the tactics used by the Vertical-Horizontal school (Zongheng jia, 縱橫家), the rhetorical practices of which are discussed in the Guiguzi and, significantly, divorced questions of morality from statecraft. And he quotes from one adviser who cites Laozi (老子), the purported author of the Daodejing (道德經), as part of his argument against going to war (136). However, he also argues: “Tactics favored by other intellectual schools were . . . increasingly couched in Confucian ideology” (121). Prominent in the discourse discussed in this chapter is the Confucian Spring and Autumn Annals (Chunqiu, 春秋), which was used to debate relations both with the other Han states and with non-Han kingdoms. Despite (or because of) the rhetorical power of the Confucian classics, You points out that, at the time, the classics were malleable as tools for making arguments: “[A]nyone versed in the classics would recruit history to shore up his arguments” (140).Chapter 6 examines what, following Liu Xie, have traditionally been viewed as literary genres, like the odes, the verses of Chu (楚辭, Chu ci), and the fu (賦) rhapsodies. You places these genres in their political contexts to show how they combined “entertainment and persuasion” (148). Because of the risks of directly admonishing the ruler, the “trivial talks” (xiaoshuo, 小說), the odes, and the fu used a variety of techniques, such as “open-ended plots” (in the trivial talks [147]), “historical precedents” (in the odes [149]), and a qi cheng zhuan jie (起承轉接) structure (in the fu) to present criticism in a “nuanced, sugarcoated” manner (159). These genres and their networks, You argues, “helped to establish aesthetic and linguistic hierarchies in the Han” (145).As mentioned earlier, readers without a great deal of knowledge of Chinese history might have some difficulty with the level of detail. You’s book is quite dense—each chapter could easily be developed into a whole book. For readers literate in Chinese (particularly classical and literary Chinese), however, You provides quotations in the original for many of the translations he includes. He also cites some contemporary Chinese scholarship on Qin and Han dynasty history and culture. That is, the use of Chinese-language sources is not relegated to ancient texts that are analyzed only with reference to English-language research, though You does situate his study primarily in relation to English-language scholarship on comparative rhetoric.You’s conclusions about the limitations of decolonizing comparative rhetoric represent an attempt to show how his study speaks to current concerns regarding concepts like epistemic delinking. As You argues, it is important not to ignore the fact that decentering Western epistemologies by exploring “indigenous modes of representation” needs to take into consideration the possibility that “these ways may have been employed to establish ethnic, racial, gendered, colonial, and aesthetic hierarchies in a specific society or culture” (172). He implies that, while “not all empires are identical, and all colonial impulses cannot be conflated” (171), decolonizing comparative rhetoric necessitates that we not ignore those colonial impulses simply because they are non-Western. Finally, he concludes: “[A] full epistemic delinking is not only impossible but also unproductive for actuating a more equal and just academic and social future. Complete delinking is impossible because of the interlocking nature of cultures, of rhetorical traditions, and of academic discourses, which developed historically by engaging and learning from one another. It is unproductive because an aggressive version of epistemic delinking could encourage nationalism, isolationism, racism, and xenophobia, as seen in the foreign policy debates in the Han dynasty, during the Cold War era, and now in the struggles of de-Westernization” (172). I think this conclusion should be taken as a call for further research in the field that complicates the notion of epistemic delinking by recognizing the multiple and uneven connections between cultures that sometimes predate Western imperialism. In the context of Chinese rhetoric, for instance, more work could be done on imperial China’s expansion across the Asian continent and the rhetoric of its relations with the cultures it colonized. And, as Yameng Liu reminded us back in 1996, “China’s complex and heterogenous linguistic and cultural makeup”—including “the fact that for roughly five centuries between 1100 and 1900, China was ruled by Inner Asian, non-Chinese regimes”—calls for more exploration of the rhetorical implications of that heterogeneity (322–23). In its focus on genre networks in early imperial China and their implications for decolonizing comparative rhetoric, You’s book opens up the field both to broadening the scope of what counts as rhetoric and to enlarging our understanding of rhetorics and imperialisms.