Qian Zhongshu’s continuation and expansion of Lessing’s Laokoon

Lessing’s reflections on poetry and painting: Methods and effects

In the preface to Laokoon, Lessing introduces three conventional interpretations of the connection between poetry and painting. He warns of the danger of intentionally ignoring or obfuscating the disparities between them, writing, ‘Sie (recent criticism) hat in der Poesie die Schilderungssucht, und in der Malerei die Allegoristerei erzeugt; indem man jene zu einem redenden Gemälde machen wollen, [ . . . ] und diese zu einem stummen Gedichte’ (Lessing, 2007 [1766]: 15). This clearly exposes how critics before Lessig, as well as his contemporaries, have misinterpreted the relative importance of poetry and painting by failing to acknowledge the differing mediums utilized by each. This, in turn, leads to disappointing products, such as speaking pictures and mute poems.

Lessing articulated one of his most pivotal interventions regarding the debate over the difference between poetry and painting in the 16th chapter of Laokoon, which is ‘the work’s dramatic turning point’ (Nisbet, 2013: 306). Painting (or the visual arts in general) and poetry use different Zeichen (signs): Painting uses ‘Figuren und Farben in dem Raum’, whereas poetry employs ‘articulierte Töne in der Zeit’ (Lessing, 2007 [1766]: 116). Lessing defines painting as an art of space in which visible bodies (subjects), or parts of those bodies, exist alongside one another in a static state, while poetry relates to the temporal development of sequential actions. As Lessing writes, ‘Es bleibt dabei: die Zeitfolge ist das Gebiete des Dichters, so wie der Raum das Gebiete des Malers’ (2007 [1766]: 130). Lessing further clarifies that (parts of) bodies not only exist in space but also develop in time and that their existence and development, as well as the connections between them, are consequences of previous processes of existence and development. Moreover, they are also the causes of subsequent processes of existence and development. Painting can only grasp a single moment of these processes of development and connection (Lessing, 2007 [1766]: 117). Therefore, Lessing concludes, ‘Folglich kann die Malerei auch Handlungen nachahmen, aber nur andeutungsweise durch Körper’ (2007 [1766]: 117). In contrast, the portrayal of plot relies upon ‘gewissen Wesen’, and if these mean bodies in particular or are looked upon as bodies, ‘schildert die Poesie auch Körper, aber nur andeutungsweise durch Handlungen’ (Lessing, 2007 [1766]: 117).

Homer did not illuminate Helena’s beauty by successively depicting different parts of her face or body, as Constantinus Manasses unfortunately did. Lessing acclaimed, ‘Aber nirgends läßt er [Homer] sich in die umständlichere Schilderung dieser Schönheit ein. [ . . . ] Wie sehr würde ein neuerer Dichter darüber luxuriert haben!’ (2007 [1766]: 145). The crucial lesson for young poets that can be drawn from Lessing is to pay closer attention to the effect, ‘die Wirkung, welche diese Kenntnisse, in Worte ausgedrückt, auf meine Einbildungskraft haben können’ (2007 [1766]: 150). That is, a straightforward and overly elaborate depiction of every part of an object, such as in the description of Helena, may restrict readers’ imaginations and thus diminish the aesthetic effects of a text. Instead, poets would benefit from focusing on the consequences or effects (die Wirkungen) generated by observing beauty, as this will stimulate the beholder’s (or reader’s) appreciation of beauty within their imagination. Indeed, as Lessing puts it, ‘Malet uns, Dichter, das Wohlgefallen, die Zuneigung, die Liebe, das Entzücken, welches die Schönheit verursachet, und ihr habt die Schönheit selbst gemalet’ (2007 [1766]: 154). This emphasis on optimizing the effects of beauty on viewers rather than depicting every component of beauty is reiterated again by Lessing: ‘Denn so wie der weise Dichter uns die Schönheit, die er nach ihren Bestandteilen nicht schildern zu können fühlte, bloß in ihrer Wirkung zeigte’ (2007 [1766]: 157). Another method poets can use to highlight beauty is to transform beauty into elegance or gracefulness (‘Schönheit in Reiz verwandelt’) because Reiz (elegance) implies movement (Lessing, 2007 [1766]: 155).

This presumption appears natural given Lessing’s emphasis on the distinct advantages of poetry as an art of time that depicts actions, or rather, successive moments (or events). This also reflects Lessing’s thoughts on how the visual and audial senses of beholders and readers are stimulated by different art forms, such as painting and poetry. It should be noted that in Laokoon, Lessing pays scant attention to hybrid forms of art, such as drama and opera. As Nisbet (2013: 321) explains, Lessing’s narrow field of observation in Laokoon and his occasional, incomplete rumination on painting and poetry are consequences of his objective to write the book:

not to provide a classification of the visual and poetic arts, but merely to refute the widespread fallacy that the two kinds of art in question can perform one another’s functions, as implied by the misunderstood injunction ut pictura poesis.

Indeed, in order to maintain this refutation, Lessing deliberately made a strict distinction between the visual arts (painting and sculpture) and audial arts (epic verses) in Laokoon at the cost of ignoring the resemblances between them and the applicability of both of their techniques, which he himself later acknowledged elsewhere.

One divergence between Lessing and Winckelmann is related to the effect that a picture or sculpture can have on a viewer. This disagreement is clearly reflected in their differing interpretations of Laokoon’s facial expression of pain. Winckelmann emphasized that Laokoon’s disciplined facial expression revealed him to be a noble and brave man with unusual strength in enduring pain, which, in turn, he interpreted as a sign of his moral loftiness. In other words, his nobleness and morality enable him to remain calm while confronting extreme agony and pain. However, Lessing refutes Winckelmann’s interpretation, arguing that Laokoon’s constrained facial expression has no relation to the traits of nobleness or morality because the purpose of the sculpture was not to give a moral lecture but rather to create beauty for aesthetic admiration. As Lessing (2007 [1766]: 19) stated, screaming is a natural expression of bodily pain; however, due to the development of (European) culture, screaming and tears were not allowed because of the imperative to maintain politeness and decency. Lessing (2007 [1766]: 21) questioned whether the depiction of a great man bearing pain would indeed ignite genuine and warm empathy, or das Mitleid. Instead, Lessing (2007 [1766]: 26) held that beauty was the highest law for painting in ancient times. Driven by this pursuit of beauty, the creator of the sculpture of Laokoon reduced screaming to sighing – not because screaming would degrade a great man and his lofty soul but rather because it would twist and distort his face into an ugly expression (Lessing, 2007 [1766]: 29). More crucially, a simultaneous depiction of beauty and pain will arouse empathy. As Lessing (2007 [1766]: 38, 42) further suggested, in order to effect the maximum aesthetic impact, such as stimulating the beholders’ imagination, emotions and, most crucially, their empathy, it is beneficial to combine physical pain with other miseries. Lessing stressed that this was the province of poetry and drama because ‘the audience’s sympathetic response [ . . . ] is dependent upon the kind of narrative understanding of action over time’ (Harloe, 2017: 172), thus again elevating the status of literature over other artistic forms.

Qian Zhongshu’s ‘Chinese poetry and Chinese painting’

Divided into six sections, Qian’s ‘Chinese Poetry and Chinese Painting’ reflects Lessing’s influence on Qian regarding his understanding of the disparities and affinities between poetry and painting. Following Lessing’s pioneering work in critically deconstructing the long-held concept that poetry and painting were sister art forms, a conception that forms ‘a cornerstone of Western literary and artistic theory’ (Qian, 2014a [1985]: 39), readers will soon realize that Qian’s main argument in this essay quite clearly diverges from Lessing’s central concern in Laokoon. Qian immerses himself in Chinese literary and aesthetic history and endeavours to answer a question specifically related to Chinese literature and art: Do ‘classical Chinese poetry and classical Chinese painting embody the same kind of style and realize the same type of artistic realm’ (2014a [1985]: 40)?

At first, ‘Chinese Poetry and Chinese Painting’ appears to be poorly structured. The first two sections may cause readers to mistakenly anticipate a direct continuation of Lessing’s aesthetic discussion from Laokoon. However, the third section completely puts aside Lessing and the Western discussion on painting and poetry; instead, it expounds on classical Chinese texts that address the categorization of painting. The fourth section advances the main argument of that text – that is, the argument that an artist who enjoys an authoritarian position in painting will not necessarily be acknowledged with equivalent social status or prestige, even if their poetry demonstrates the same qualities as their paintings. In the fifth section, Qian presents Wang Wei (王維; ca. 701–ca. 761), also named Wang Mojie (王摩詰), as the most convincing case for his argument. In the sixth section, Qian finally presents his conclusion. More importantly, in this section, he also presents two imperatives for readers: (1) to acknowledge the fact that different standards have been applied to critique ancient Chinese painting and poetry, and (2) to analyse and explain this aesthetic problem more critically, instead of haphazardly categorizing painters and poets with ambiguous labels or complimenting titles.

The essay ‘Chinese Poetry and Chinese Painting’ first explores how later intellectuals are inevitably influenced by tradition yet can still break from tradition and pursue new, innovative artistic conventions. A lack of knowledge about artistic tradition can occasionally lead to misconceptions about the relationship between diverse forms of art. One of these misunderstandings is that Chinese poetry and painting are integrated and regarded as complementary. In the second section, Qian traces how, since the eleventh century, Chinese intellectuals have understood poetry and painting to be sister art forms:

[T]he phrase ‘a painting with sound’ (yousheng hua 有聲畫) is a reference to the poems, whilst the phrase ‘soundless poem’ (wusheng shi 無聲詩) refers to scenery which, by means of an extension of the meaning of the word for landscape painting, signifies the actual hills and rivers deemed picturesque enough to be captured in a painting. (Qian, 2014a [1985]: 36–37).

He points out that this aesthetic criterion has also been advanced by several Western intellectuals, such as Simonides of Ceos, Cicero and Leonardo da Vinci (Qian, 2014a [1985]: 38). However, Lessing is one of the rare exceptions who insisted that ‘both poetry and painting embodied their own particular aspects and outward features – they were ‘un-jealous sisters’ (keine eifersüchtige Schwestern)’ (Qian, 2014a [1985]: 39). The third section begins with Qian’s disagreement with the traditional method of distinguishing between classical Chinese painting by ‘the geographical provenance of the artists’ (2014a [1985]: 43). However, this mechanism of categorization is widely seen in literary and artistic criticism as ‘a phenomenon common to language usage’ whereby ‘geographically specific names extend their reference and become general terms for certain properties’ (Qian, 2014a [1985]: 43). This critique constitutes Qian’s (2014a [1985]: 56) initial effort to establish a foundation for his subsequent argument in the fourth section: ‘On this issue of ‘canonicity’ and ‘orthodoxy’, ancient Chinese ‘poetry and painting’ certainly do not embody ‘the same rules’’. The fifth section goes further, arguing, in a tentative tone, that for painting what is most crucial is the quality of xu (虛; emptiness), whereas for poetry, it is the quality of shi (實; substantiality, or substance) that assumes the pivotal position (Qian, 2014a [1985]: 69–70). Emptiness and substantiality/substance, which are opposite yet complementary, are used across diverse fields of the Chinese arts, from painting and calligraphy to garden design and literature. They

often refer to the ways in which the artist deals with those things in a poem or painting that are real and present to the reader or viewer (shi) and those things that are absent and left to the imagination (xu). (Kuo, 2016: 329)

However, Qian does not provide definitions for these two terms; instead, definitions are merely hinted at in his analyses of Wang Wei and Du Fu (杜甫; 712–770).

Qian contends that ancient Chinese painting is best represented by the style of the Southern School, which has dominated ancient Chinese painting. One of the most important painters of this school was Wang Wei, who was also a poet. Qian quotes Dong Qichang’s (董其昌; 1555–1636) text to explain the features of Wang Wei’s paintings, commenting on their ‘elegant thinness (in ink monochrome paintings)’, which has the effect of ‘completely transforming the outline and [color] wash technique’ (Qian, 2014a [1985]: 41). Bracketed annotations were added by the translator, Duncan M. Campbell. Wang Wei’s innovations in painting during the eighth century were passed down to his followers all the way down to the thirteenth century. Naturally, painters of the Southern School share common traits. They adhere to ‘the principle of simplicity’, adopt ‘the method of reduction’ and prefer incompleteness (Qian, 2014a [1985]: 53). These seem to be the essential features of emptiness – the most crucial criterion when evaluating ancient Chinese paintings. The features of the Southern School of painting in premodern China – primarily emptiness, simplicity, concealment and reduction – were transplanted to a corresponding school of poetry referred to as Shenyun pai (神韻派; the Spiritual Resonance School), which mainly features the qualities of qing (清; clarity) and yuan (遠; profundity), as Qian explains (Xia, 2022). Wang Shizhen (王士禎; 1634–1711), a master of the Spiritual School, achieved an aesthetic synthesis uniting Wang Wei’s poetry and painting via their shared characteristic of emptiness and simplicity (Qian, 2014a [1985]: 59). Profound meanings are implied beneath Wang Wei’s simple metaphors and minimal expressionist language. As Stephen Owen comments, ‘Wang Wei’s style achieved an austere simplicity that became the touchstone of his individual poetic voice’ (1981: 31). However, poems of this school, such as those by Wang Wei, did not enjoy the same status or authority as Wang Wei’s paintings. Opposed to the poetry of the Spiritual School stands those ‘finely detailed nature poems, fluent narrative poems, or straightforwardly expressed poems’ (Qian, 2014a [1985]: 65).

Qian intentionally chooses Wang Wei as an example because of Wang Wei’s dual identity as a painter and poet. Wang Wei’s poems and paintings reveal disparate ‘outward manifestations’ yet resemble each other ‘in terms of their purpose’ (Qian, 2014a [1985]: 67). Qian then highlights a remarkable phenomenon: Wang Wei the painter occupies an authoritative position in the painting world and is admired and imitated by painters of later generations; however, why is Wang Wei the poet considered inferior to Du Fu? Du Fu’s poetry is rooted in his real life and the political turmoil he and his contemporaries endured. His poetry describes his personal suffering and unshattered humanity. Indeed, as Stephen Owen states, ‘Du Fu poetically constructed his life, and the poems eventually transformed a political failure and minor poet into the most famous poet and personality in the Chinese literary tradition’ (2010: 324). Du Fu, as Qian (2014a [1985]) comments, can represent both the canon and the orthodoxy of ancient Chinese poetry. Again, Qian does not explicate how substantiality, as the central criterion for first-class poetry, is to be demonstrated or conceived. Therefore, the criteria or requirements for achieving substantiality in ancient poetry can only be deduced from his praise of the poetic practices of Du Fu, who is considered to be the ‘Sage of Poetry’.

One decisive factor ensuring Du Fu’s prominent position within the poetry world lies in his widely acknowledged ability to meet the demands of ancient Chinese aesthetics and spirits. That is, Du Fu’s poetry reveals the literary merits of Shijing (詩經; Book of Odes), an anthology of approximately 300 short lyrics, most of which are unauthored, that dates back to the 10th to the 6th centuries B.C. The multiple themes of these short odes include ‘every aspect of contemporary life’, ‘the life of the nobility’, ‘memorable deeds of the great Zhou (ca. B.C.1046–B.C.265) rulers’, ‘important matters of state’, ‘political satire’ and ‘political statements’ (Idema and Haft, 1997: 94–95). Furthermore, Du Fu inherits and adheres to the lofty morality of Confucius. Du Fu himself mentions the influence of Confucian on him in his text Ou’ti (偶題; Occasional Verse): ‘Writing is a matter of antiquity, / One judges it in one’s own heart. / . . . / The methods began with the Confucian masters, / I have exhausted my heart with them since youth’ (Qian, 2014a [1985]: 68). Confucius stresses humanity, a moral concept that ‘includes all the virtues – being honest, sincere, wise, courageous, practicing filial piety, and sympathy toward others’ (Rainey, 2010: 34). To possess humanity, individuals must prioritize the public good and ‘overcome the greed and egocentricity of the self’ (Rainey, 2010: 35). All individuals must consciously and proactively cultivate themselves in the pursuit of becoming a junzi (君子; roughly translated as ‘gentleman’) – a term that had existed long before Confucius redefined it as a ‘morally superior person who, by according with the ritual code of the tradition, treats others with respect and dignity, and pursues virtues like humility, sincerity, trustworthiness, righteousness, and compassion’ (Gardner, 2014: 18). With regard to the relationship between the individual and society, the disciples of Confucius endeavoured to actively participate in civil undertakings with the objective of building a better society where the basic livelihoods of the common people would be guaranteed; this society would also be led by a righteous ruler, who, supported by a group of cultivated and virtuous ministers, would run his country and care for his subjects ‘as a father [ . . . ] toward his children, guiding, caring, and disciplining’ (Rainey, 2010: 49).

In 755, Du Fu experienced the rebellion of An Lushan (安祿山; 703–757), a military insurrection that sought to seize the throne. Following this rebellion, the destiny of the once glorious and inclusive Tang dynasty (唐; 618–907) became bleaker. Subsequently, Du Fu expressed great concern in his poems regarding the devastating aftermath of this unrest on the survival of the state, decrying ‘the suffering of his countrymen’, the ‘injustice done to the people’ and the effect of the unbearable tax laws on the people, which facilitated the establishment of ‘Tu Fu’s moral authority as a poet’ (Chou, 1995: 62). Out of feelings of compassion, Du Fu sought to deal with such subjects as the grand affairs of the state as well as the difficulties of everyday life in his works. In this way, he adopted a realist poetics that conveyed his moral concern (Chou, 1995: 67). Due to his decision to write poetry describing common people’s ordeals and his own tortuous and miserable life, Du Fu became the subject of academic interest and emerged as a political icon during the so-called ‘17 year period’ (1949–1966) in China. This period lasted from the founding of the People’s Republic of China in 1949 to the beginning of the Cultural Revolution (1966–1976), a historical period during which political pursuits dominated literariness (Tang, 2023). Du Fu passed down the essential features of the Book of Odes and Confucianism, particularly their shared emphasis on the livelihoods of the common people and the public good. This empathy and genuine concern for the lives of the common people form the core of Qian Zhongshu’s substantiality. That is, this substantiality originates from a Confucian anxiety about real-world social problems. Its poetic glamor is, therefore, based on its straightforward portrayal of social problems, such as poverty and corruption, and its political ideal that those problems would be tackled by an honourable ruler under the consultation of capable and virtuous gentlemen (officials).

However, an imbalance can be observed in Qian’s respective evaluations of Wang Wei and Du Fu. Whereas Qian stressed Du Fu’s realist writing style and morality, his discussion on Wang Wei concentrates on his painting, as well as his writing styles and techniques, without mentioning the moral aspects of this painter and poet. However, as Karl-Heinz Pohl points out in his analysis of the aesthetic foundations of painting in ancient China, a painter’s personality matters more than their artistic ability: ‘In art, it is less the artistry that is important, but rather the personality shaped by naturalness and spontaneity’ (2007: 130). Artistic and formal configuration seizes on moral integrity as its vital foundation and essential substance (Pohl, 2007: 131). However, in Qian’s discussion on the classical Chinese criticism of painting, the issue of painters’ morality has been neglected. Presumably, a painter’s morality or personality was not seen as an important criterion for assessing their paintings; nevertheless, such concerns assume a central position when judging works of poetry.

At this stage, readers of Qian’s ‘Chinese Poetry and Chinese Painting’ will likely have realized that the essential task of this essay has diverged quite dramatically from that of Lessing’s Laokoon. Strictly speaking, this essay is not a direct continuation of Lessing’s artistic concern or discussion. Rather, Qian takes up Lessing’s question but poses another question directed specifically towards a Chinese context. Whereas Lessing deals mainly with how painting and poetry differ in how they present their subjects, Qian is largely concerned with the different criteria applied when evaluating paintings and poems. Therefore, Qian unlocks a new realm for exploring Lessing’s aesthetic concerns. That is, Qian opens up not only another national and cultural context but also another direction of artistic exploration.

‘On Reading Laokoon’: Qian Zhongshu’s additional extension of Lessing’s concern

Almost two decades after the initial publication of ‘Chinese Poetry and Chinese Painting’, Qian returned to Lessing and wrote another essay on Laokoon titled ‘On Reading Laokoon’ (讀拉奧孔; ‘Du La’ao’kong’) in 1962. In this essay, Qian expresses his conviction in Lessing’s distinction between poetry and painting as two separate artistic forms – the former primarily featuring temporality or nacheinander (in a sequential manner) and the latter featuring spatiality or nebeneinander (side by side, or in a contiguous manner). Next, Qian expands on Lessing’s conclusion and adds his own commentary, stating that although Lessing’s distinction between poetry and painting is correct, it is not ‘thoroughgoing enough’ (Qian, 2014b [1985]: 87). By employing several ancient Chinese poems as examples and ruminating over the difficulty – if not impossibility – of translating these poetic scenes and emotions into pictures, Qian adds that ‘[p]oetry can frequently achieve effects that painting has no means of matching’ (2014b [1985]: 90). For example, poetry is unique for how it conveys sensations of smell, touch and hearing, as well as ‘states of mind (such as “dreaming of home” 思鄉) that unlike sorrow, joy, anger and anxiety [which] do not have obvious external manifestations’ (Qian, 2014b [1985]: 88). Therefore, the distinction between poetry and painting is not ‘simply a question of time and space’ (Qian, 2014b [1985]: 88). Ultimately, the reinterpretation of Lessing’s Laokoon in Qian’s ‘On Reading Laokoon’ further expands the gap between poetry and painting. Specifically, Qian expertly elucidates two aspects (or two difficulties) that support his argument that painting may not be as efficient as poetry in achieving certain effects.

The first category is colour words. Material objects and scenic spaces in poetry are described ‘as if they were of two or three colours, either harmoniously complementing each other or in conflict with each other thus stimulating the mind’s eye of the reader’ (Qian, 2014b [1985]: 90). However, after closer scrutiny of these ‘color words’, readers may realize that the harmonious or contrasting combination of these colours is not possible in the real-world (Qian, 2014b [1985]: 90). By employing the rhetorical terms shishu (實數; meaning ‘real numerals’) and xushu (虛數; meaning ‘nominal numerals’), Qian creates the neologisms shise (實色; meaning ‘real colours’) and xuese (虛色; meaning ‘nominal colours’) and asserts that poets use words to denote real and nominal colours but that such nominal colours have no ‘substantial meaning’ (Qian, 2014b [1985]: 91). Instead, they ‘serve the function of complementing the real colors’ (Qian, 2014b [1985]: 91–92). In addition to excerpts from classical Chinese poetry, Qian also quotes one of Goethe’s famous lines as a Western example. However, Qian neither specifies the source for this line nor quotes the full sentence. The line is from a lecture by Mephistopheles to a student in Goethe’s Faust I (1808): ‘Grau, teurer Freund, ist alle Theorie, / Und grün des Lebens goldner Baum’ (Goethe, 2018 [1808]: 83). Here, the colour gold is nominal and is used for rhetorical purposes to persuasively illustrate the prime and precious age of life. This rhetorical device of integrating diverse colours (words) for their contrastive and complementary effects has another derivative in Chinese and Western literature – that is, to ‘reconcile the actual contradiction between darkness and light, thus producing entirely novel scenes’ (Qian, 2014b [1985]: 93). Lessing states that it is sometimes impossible to translate a poetic picture (ein poetisches Gemälde; namely, poetry) into the physical language of painting (ein materielles Gemälde). That is, some of the actions and events (or successive actions and events) depicted in poems cannot be drawn as pictures (Lessing, 2007 [1766]: 113). Qian expands on this assertion, arguing that in certain situations, painters cannot even recreate the static scenes described in poetry on their canvases. The reconciliation of darkness and light in poetry is a typical trope. For instance, in the works of Li He (李賀; 790–816), ‘the lacquer-black light of ghostly lamps illuminates the pine tree seeds’ (Qian, 2014b [1985]: 93), and Milton describes hell in Paradise Lost as a place with ‘no light but rather darkness visible’ (Qian, 2014b [1985]: 94). Even if such descriptions that combine light and darkness were to be drawn as pictures, they would not be ‘as soul stirring’ as the descriptive words of poetry or other literary works (Qian, 2014b [1985]: 95).

The second difficulty that painters may encounter is drawing metaphors that ‘are precisely the distinguishing characteristic of literary language’ (Qian, 2014b [1985]: 95). Qian addresses concepts such as simile, metaphor, allegory and comparison as synonyms ‘without applying to them any strict terminological demarcations’ (Vetrov, 2018: 327). In Qian’s view, Lessing’s exploration of this subject is insufficient. First, Qian explicates the basic mechanism of metaphors that ‘embody the principle of being both opposite and complementary’ by stating that the things compared ‘must have aspects in common’ while also demonstrating ‘aspects of dissimilarity’ (Qian, 2014b [1985]: 96). He then points out how a metaphor can achieve a highly unanticipated effect: ‘The more and greater these aspects of dissimilarity, the more sharply set off are those aspects of similarity; the greater the difference between two things, the more unexpected is their conjoining, and the more novel the resulting metaphor’ (Qian, 2014b [1985]: 96). Qian offers diverse examples of metaphors, including simple metaphors, such as ‘She is simply a fresh blossom’ (Qian, 2014b [1985]: 95), and complex metaphors, such as ‘You wish to ask the length of my longing. / The ends of the earth themselves seem too short’, which comes from the work of Yan Jidao (晏幾道; ca. 1030–ca. 1106) (Qian, 2014b [1985]: 98). These are presented as evidence of ‘the inability of painting to reproduce literary effects’ (Qian, 2014b [1985]: 98). Metaphor, in the broadest sense of Qian’s undelineated application, is a device ‘for affective expression’ that is not suitable for philosophical writing or logical reasoning yet is ‘apt for the art of poetry’ (Vetrov, 2018: 334). Even if a painter does their utmost to translate such metaphoric scenes into pictures, they will likely be misrepresented (Qian, 2014b [1985]: 102) and will surely fail to achieve an effect that is equivalent to that of poetic description.

The pregnant moment: From painting to poetry

Lessing proposes that the rules and techniques of painting apply to drama because drama, in the eyes of the audience, is composed of a series of moving pictures. As Lessing writes, ‘Das Drama, welches für die lebendige Malerei des Schauspielers bestimmt ist, dürfte vielleicht eben deswegen sich an die Gesetze der materiellen Malerei strenger halten müssen’ (2007 [1766]: 36). Building on the foundation laid down by Lessing regarding drama and the ‘emotional and ethical effects’ of drama in Laokoon (Harloe, 2017: 158), Qian suggests to apply Lessing’s advice, that is, to draw the most pregnant moment in a picture, into writing narratives.

According to Lessing, painting can only portray a single, static moment. Therefore, painters must carefully select one instant from a chronological chain of moments. Lessing disagreed with the view of his contemporaries that art’s imitation of nature expanded ‘auf die ganze sichtbare Natur’ (2007 [1766]: 31). Lessing (2007 [1766]: 31) did not directly attack this view; instead, he considered the artistic and emotional effects of an artist focusing on portraying a distinctive and brief moment or instant, which was striking enough to stimulate the beholder’s unbinding curiosity, imagination and association. This brief moment is transitionary and transient. Holding up the statue of Laokoon as an example, Lessing (2007 [1766]: 32–33) expounds on an unexpected effect of this statue being portrayed as a transient moment of Laokoon’s sighing rather than as an extended period of unstoppable screaming: The effect is to allow and encourage the expansion of the power of the beholder’s imagination (Einbildungskraft). Lessing then proposes that painters should choose the most pregnant moment of an action. Indeed, as Schneider writes, ‘The pregnant moment is the first configuration of what Lessing conceives as the most fundamental distinction between painting and poetry presented in Laokoon’ (1999: 280). This single moment is sufficient for signifying its previous and following moments: ‘[D]en prägnantesten wählen, aus welchem das Vorhergehende und Folgende am begreiflichsten wird’ (Lessing, 2007 [1766]: 117). Poets can choose one particular characteristic of the body from the developing action, and this feature can arouse ‘das sinnlichste Bild des Körpers von der Seite erwecket, von welcher sie [poetry] ihn braucht’ (Lessing, 2007 [1766]: 117).

On this point, Qian admired Lessing, stating that the ‘concept of the most richly pregnant moment was a very useful one’, and he further proposed that ‘this principle of the “heavily pregnant moment” can find full application within the literary arts as well’ (2014b [1985]: 103–105). Regarding Lessing’s focus on the effect of such a transient and pregnant moment, which bears implications both for the past and the future, Qian pointed out that Lessing’s perspective was presumably an aesthetic expansion of Leibniz’s philosophical elucidation regarding the causal relationship between the past, present and future: ‘[N]o single moment in time is not heavily laden with the past, while also bearing within itself an embryo of the future’ (Qian, 2014b [1985]: 102). It is the artist’s ability and responsibility to ‘choose the scene of the most appropriate moment’ (Qian, 2014b [1985]: 103). Here, Qian does not mention specific criteria or propose any guidelines for making a choice. However, close scrutiny of Qian’s examples reveals that he encourages novelists to select a moment that can successfully invite readers to engage in ‘conjecture’ based on their understanding of the plot and characters (Qian, 2014b [1985]: 107) and ‘maintain the interest of the reader in the story being told and to prevent their attention wandering’ (Qian, 2014b [1985]: 108). Qian provides examples from different literary genres, including poetry, prose and narratives, including short stories by Chekhov. A short story interrupted abruptly by its writer will encourage readers to imagine and speculate about what may happen. In Lessing’s words, this is designed to leave room for the operation of the beholder’s (or reader’s) imagination. Here, it becomes evident that Qian agrees with Lessing regarding the purpose and effect of depicting a moment that is transient yet highly pregnant with meaning.

Furthermore, to validate his expanded application of Lessing’s perspective on writing novels, Qian quotes Jin Shengtan (金聖歎; ca. 1610–ca. 1661), an important Chinese critic who wrote numerous commentaries regarding plot development in stories and plays. Jin Shengtan noticed that playwrights and novelists often stop abruptly at the most intense moment in the plot. In premodern Chinese novels, such as Honglou meng (紅樓夢; Dream of the Red Chamber) by Cao Xueqin (曹雪芹; ca. 1710–ca. 1765) and Shuihu zhuan (水滸傳; Outlaws of the Marsh) by Shi Nai’an (施耐庵; ca. 1296–ca. 1370), chapters frequently end abruptly when readers are anticipating to encounter the climax of the story. Indeed, the novelist instead forgoes a climax and invites the reader with a formulaic yet slightly different sentence: ‘To find out what happens next, please wait for the next chapter’ (欲知後事如何, 且聽下回分解). Qian asserts that the aim of novelists who adopt this narrative technique is the same as Lessing’s intention when he advocates for selecting and painting the most pregnant moment – that is, the aim is to ignite readers’ curiosity and make them more eager to continue reading.

Qian Zhongshu’s mechanism of connection

Qian’s lifelong undertaking was to construct Chinese and Western literature as mirrors reflecting each other’s image for the purpose of achieving broader and more profound reflection. He immersed himself in an exploration of the universal truths shared between China and the West, explicating similar philosophical and philological perspectives (i.e. the case of expanding Lessing’s aesthetic view) on common emotions, which, in turn, enabled his analysis to transcend geographical and historical boundaries. In January 1937, he wrote a Chinese prose entitled ‘Tan jiaoyou’ (談交友; ‘On Making Friends’). The concluding paragraph depicts British and Chinese writers’ shared melancholy over the inevitable departure and death of friends – a feeling that is amplified by the gloomy weather of winter:

想一百年前的穆爾（Thomas Moore）定也在同樣蕭瑟的氣候裡，感覺到 ‘故友如冬葉，蕭蕭四落稀’的淒涼（When I remember all the friends so link’d together, I’ve seen around me fall like leaves in wintry weather）。對於秋冬肅殺的氣息，感覺頂敏銳的中國詩人自盧照鄰、高蟾，直到沈欽圻、陳嘉淑，早有一般用意的名句。金冬心的 ‘故人笑比庭中樹，一日秋風一日疏’，更覺染深了冬夜的孤寂。(Qian, 2015 [1937]: 81)

My translation: Presumably, 100 years ago, Thomas Moore must have felt forlorn and desolate when experiencing the same bleak weather: ‘When I remember all the friends so link’d together, I’ve seen around me fall like leaves in wintry weather’. For this bleak and depressive atmosphere in autumn and winter, hyper-sensitive Chinese poets, from Lu Zhaolin and Gao Chan to Shen Qinqi and Chen Jiashu, wrote impressive sentences with similar sentiments much earlier. Jin Dongxin’s (1687–1764) statement that ‘Old friends, as one of them joked, were like trees in the courtyard, / they become scarcer as the autumn wind blows day by day’ renders us more sensitive to the seclusion and loneliness of winter nights.

In addition to ‘On Making Friends’, Qian’s effort to highlight the emotional, literary, philosophical and aesthetic similarities between China and the West is also reflected in the majority of his other collections of essays on literary criticism, such as Tanyi lu (談藝錄; On the Art of Poetry) and Guanzhui bian (管錐編; Limited Views: Essays on Ideas and Letters). ³ His many comparisons between China and the West motivate readers to reach the conclusion that, given these astonishing resemblances, Chinese literature and civilization can stand on an equal footing with the West. This was of particular philological – or even political – significance for the Chinese public because, at this time, China was threatened by constant foreign aggression and was steeped in domestic turmoil. Indeed, it was confronting fatal threats in the twentieth century.

In one of his letters to Zheng Chaozong (鄭朝宗; 1910–1998) in 1979, Qian clarified that his method of study did not involve comparing literature in the usual and strict sense. Rather, it focused on datong (打通; to strike a connection), which involved creating a connection or bridge between Chinese literature and foreign literature, as well as between Chinese poetry, prose, lyrical works and narratives (Zheng, 2000: 285). This explains why Qian seldom touched upon the subject of literary reception and influence across national and linguistic borders. Monika Motsch, a German sinologist who translated with Jerome Shih Qian’s novel Wei cheng (圍城; Fortress Besieged, 1946/1947) into German in the 1980s, summarizes Qian’s academic methodology as the work of establishing Berührungen (contacts) between China and the West: ‘The comparisons are often surprising. Quotes from different eras and moods follow each other in an abrupt manner. However, it is never a question of comparison, but rather of contacts’ (1988: 212). As one of the earliest German sinologists to write extensively about Qian, Monika Motsch had a close friendship with him and his wife Yang Jiang (楊絳; 1911–2016). Moreover, Motsch’s own academic approach has been partly influenced by Qian, as she has expressed her interest in identifying contacts between China and the West, but from a Westerner’s perspective, thus complementing Qian’s Chinese perspective. A close, comprehensive observation of the history of (world) literature reveals that there are many contact points between Chinese and Western literature (Motsch, 2003: 293). Therefore, conducting research on Chinese literature through a Western lens can afford several advantages: It enables the scholar to identify universals between Chinese and Western literature, observe common human traits across ethnic groups and highlight cultural differences more clearly (Motsch, 2003: 293). Similar to Qian, she pays less attention to the mutual literary influence between China and the West.

As Ronald Egan explains, the essence of Qian’s method – or rather, the intention behind identifying connections – is ‘to juxtapose statements that belong to different fields or traditions, thereby casting each in a new light’ (1998: 15). Qian’s expansion of Lessing’s perspective is representative of his distinct approach to scholarly work. He extracts certain statements from Laokoon that have inspired him and, more importantly, given him a new perspective. From this Western perspective, he reconsiders Chinese tradition and raises new questions about Chinese literary, philosophical and artistic heritage. This reconsideration is a process developed ‘with the help of new pieces of evidence, of new constellations of quotations’ (Vetrov, 2018: 333). As Zhang Longxi comments, Qian ‘always begins with a particular quotation from a Chinese classic and proceeds by bringing in quotations from other texts, both Chinese and Western’ (2023: 49). To a certain extent, Qian’s methodology of literary criticism, which starts from a moment of inspiration ignited by a preceding author’s writing and then proceeds to issuing his own arguments replete with quotations (or examples) – resembles that of Lessing’s approach in Laokoon, which is summarized by Joachim Jacob as follows: ‘Lessing’s investigation, guided but not enriched by examples, expands the contemporary theory of aesthetic knowledge to integrate an experience- and work-based exploration of the representational achievements of the artistic object’ (2013: 295). Regarding Qian’s reception of Lessing, it is reasonable to assert that Lessing’s Laokoon is ‘an analytical instrument’ for Qian, who uses it to reevaluate his own subject matter, namely, Chinese literature and aesthetics (Giuliani, 2017: 137).

However, Qian’s method of inquiry invites both admiration and controversy. On the one hand, in an age when it was not even possible to conceive of using electronic devices for academic purposes, his ability to collect and organize quotations from diverse lingual and cultural sources is highly admirable. On the other hand, this method also causes scepticism and disapproval because his texts often seem fragmentary and unsystematic, lacking a clear central idea and conclusion. In addition, his quotations are generally short epigrams and aphorisms, which risks de-contextualizing the quoted material, a criticism further explored by Vetrov (2015) in his study of the over 200 volumes of Qian’s notebooks, most of which contain handwritten manuscripts. Vetrov warns that Qian’s method of identifying connections and constructing bridges between China and the West leads to ‘significant abridgements, cuttings, and omissions’ (2018: 343). In effect, Qian’s ‘On Reading Laokoon’ is not only a manifestation of his literary concerns and methodology but also a manifesto meant to counter possible reprimands of his fragmentary texts and obsession with quotations.

Aside from the final paragraph, which is just one short sentence, the first section of ‘On Reading Laokoon’, which is two long paragraphs and one short concluding paragraph, has nothing to do with Lessing. Instead, its main purpose is to argue for the value and necessity of unsystematic reading and writing. For Qian, under some circumstances, what matters most – or rather, what is most enlightening – is not theoretical monographs but rather short fragments ‘in poetry and lyric verse, in occasional writings, novels and drama, even in popular ballads and proverbs or critical exegesis’ (Qian, 2014b [1985]: 79). While these seemingly ‘isolated and occasional’ fragments are often discarded as valueless because they ‘cannot pass muster as systematic and self-conscious theory’, Qian contends that the insights hidden within these fragments are worthy of amplification and interpretation because they function as the foundation for thorough and systematic thinking and theory (Qian, 2014b [1985]: 79). Many monographs that contain systematic and comprehensive theory do not survive the test of time and history; however, some of the views contained within them continue to inspire and worthwhile for further analysis. Qian uses his own writing to prove the validity of this claim. Understandably, it is impossible to identify any systematic thoughts among his piles of quotations from Chinese classics and Western sources. However, this does not negate the claim that his commentaries, which are inserted among a frightening number of quotations, are still enlightening and profound, especially when extracted as short aphorisms. For instance, the first sections of his ‘Chinese Poetry and Chinese Painting’ and his ‘On Reading Laokoon’, which discuss the inevitable impact of tradition and the value of short fragments, respectively, have enjoyed more popularity than his expansion of Lessing’s perspective in the rest of these two essays among the twenty-first-century critics in China.

Conclusion

Lessing, as well as other Western intellectuals from Germany, France, Italy, Spain and the United Kingdom, functions as an analytical instrument that enables Qian to accomplish his exceptional undertaking of establishing connections and contact points between China and the West, a subject to be comprehensively and profoundly analysed on the condition of being multilingual. However, it should be noted that Qian uses Western theories and ways of thinking merely as inspiration; that is, they serve as examples that enable him to initiate and substantiate his arguments. His reading of Lessing’s Laokoon is emblematic of this distinctive approach to scholarly work. Lessing’s book simply provides Qian with clues and a direction; however, it does not accompany him throughout the whole process of discussing Chinese literary and aesthetic problems, which are Qian’s core concerns. This facilitates Qian’s expansion of Lessing’s perspective after his analysis of Chinese poetry, painting and narratives. Supplementing examples from ancient Chinese literature to support and enrich Lessing’s view functions to convince Qian’s readers that Chinese intellectuals, before and after Lessing, have, rather astonishingly, expressed similar opinions to Westerners despite not having been impacted by their literary influence. Therefore, readers are encouraged to conclude that China, an ancient country that was in peril at the beginning of the twentieth century, has a history of intellectual heritage that is as brilliant and broad as that of the so-called ‘advanced’ Western countries. In essence, both Lessing and Qian shouldered the weighty responsibility of challenging and re-establishing the artistic order. However, while Lessing strove to resurrect the prestige of poetry and release it from its artistic domination by painting, Qian made unremitting efforts to prove that Chinese literature, philosophy and art are equal to those of the West. Moreover, Qian supports his opinion with extensive reading and analysis – a daunting task nobody had previously bothered to attempt with such determination.