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Reading *Fengshi Wenjian Ji* with DeepSeek

     1468 words   7 minutes 

Cover image (generated by Gemini)

(Translated from the Chinese version with the help of ChatGPT.)

My surname is Feng—a pretty rare one. Outside of relatives, I don’t think I’ve ever met another Feng in real life1.

A few days ago I was watching a video that mentioned a Tang dynasty miscellany called Fengshi Wenjian Ji (“What the Feng Clan Saw and Heard”). That immediately caught my attention. Not only does it share my surname, it also sounds exactly like something I’d name this site.

According to Wikipedia, the book was written by Feng Yan, a Tang scholar. A later Qing dynasty bibliographer once commented: “Many Tang tales indulge in the bizarre; this one insists on verifiable facts.” That sounded promising enough—I had to check it out.

The book isn’t long: ten volumes, 101 entries. The topics are all over the place—basically a Tang dynasty version of a personal blog.

Unfortunately, my classical Chinese is… mostly returned to my teachers years ago. So I tried a few AI tools to help. DeepSeek did the best job—unsurprisingly, it “gets” Chinese better.

Here are some passages I found interesting.

The imperial examination was often described as “leaping through the Dragon Gate.” Once you passed, you were quickly placed into prestigious positions, and within a decade or so, you could find yourself at the center of power.

People at the time made snarky remarks like:

  • “Successful candidates look down on palace eunuchs.”
  • “Failed candidates are like reeds tossed by the roadside.”
  • “Newly minted scholars glow with a seven-foot aura above their heads.”

Enthusiasts even compiled lists of successful candidates—essentially honor rolls—to inspire future generations.

The author then casually mentions that when he passed the exam, students at the Imperial Academy added his name to such a list.

My take:
He clearly looks down on the hype—calling those people frivolous—yet somehow slips in “back when I passed the exam…”

A bit of a humblebrag, isn’t it.

An emperor once decreed that officials should not refer to him as a “sage” in memorials. Confucius himself had said he wouldn’t dare claim to be a sage or benevolent.

My take:
Classic lesson: don’t get high on your own reputation.

Wu Zetian wanted to stay informed about affairs across the empire. A clever official proposed setting up submission boxes to collect reports from all directions. She loved the idea and adopted it.

Later, however, that same official was implicated in a rebellion and executed.

My take:
Talk about getting hit by your own boomerang.

Officials of rank would receive posthumous titles after death, summarizing their character and achievements. These titles typically used two characters—one reflecting substance, the other refinement.

Interestingly, multiple people could share the same posthumous title if they were deemed worthy.

For example, several high-ranking Tang officials were all given the title “Wenzhen,” considered one of the highest honors.

My take:
I was confused here—I had always heard that “Wenzheng” was the top-tier title for civil officials (like Fan Zhongyan or Zeng Guofan).

Turns out (thanks again, AI): the name was later changed due to a naming taboo in the Song dynasty. “Wenzheng” eventually became the gold standard.

So yes—same prestige, just rebranded.

The term “official title” (guanxian) comes from the idea of continuity.

When appointing someone, the court would list their previous position first, followed by the new one—linking the two together like a chain.

The metaphor is surprisingly vivid:

  • Like something held in the mouth—continuous
  • Like a horse’s bit—guiding movement
  • Like a procession—one follows another without interruption

My take:
Did not expect such an abstract bureaucratic term to have this many metaphors behind it.

Officials once proposed erecting a monument praising the emperor for finding worthy ministers.

The emperor even edited the inscription himself, and the revised text was inlaid with gold.

Some critics quietly objected:

If the emperor is truly virtuous and the ministers truly capable, history will record it.
Since when do rulers build monuments for themselves?

A few years later, a major crisis erupted. The monument was eventually removed.

My take:
If you feel the need to praise yourself publicly, that’s usually not a great sign.

After a new emperor took the throne, high officials rushed to build lavish residences, draining resources.

Before long, many of those houses had new owners.

One famous general had an enormous estate where people could travel between courtyards by carriage. Servants and guests used the same entrance and didn’t even recognize each other.

One day, he told a worker building a wall: “Make it sturdy.”

The worker replied:

I’ve built walls for powerful families in the capital for decades.
The owners always change—but the walls remain.

The general was deeply moved and soon requested retirement.

My take:
Wealth comes fast—and goes just as fast.

When a prince died, his staff wanted to erect a commemorative stele.

The emperor refused:

If you want a reputation, one volume in the history books is enough.
Otherwise, it’s just a stone for future generations to sit on.

My take:
Brutal. And accurate.

An official visited Confucius’s hometown and hired a local guide.

At first, the guide impressed him—pointing out famous historical sites with confidence.

Then things went off the rails.

At a pond, the guide said:

“This is where a man named Lingguang used to fish.”

The official immediately realized something was wrong. “Lingguang” wasn’t a person—it was the name of a palace mentioned earlier.

Later, they saw an old stele. No one knew whose it was. A minor official ran over, read the title (“Stele of Lord Li’s Virtuous Governance”), and came back repeating exactly that—without adding any real information.

The official laughed:

How is this any different from your ‘man named Lingguang’?

My take:
Perfect example of memorizing without understanding.

An official was selling a house. Right before closing the deal, he told the buyer:

“It’s a good house—but it has poor drainage.”

The buyer immediately backed out.

His family thought he was being ridiculous. He replied:

How can you deceive someone just for money?

My take:
Imagine doing real estate like this today.

One governor revitalized a devastated region through humane policies. Refugees returned, commerce flourished, and the area prospered.

When he was transferred, the locals followed him—literally. Some even left before he did.

At the ferry crossing, he saw boats full of people.

“Where are you going?”

“From Yuan Prefecture—we’re following you to your new post.”

My take:
Good officials were so rare that people migrated with them. That says a lot.

A newly appointed official deliberately delayed his arrival so that his predecessor could retain a valuable grain income tied to the position.

People praised him for it.

My take:
What a weird system.

One magistrate didn’t use corporal punishment.

Instead, offenders had to wear a green headscarf as public humiliation. The duration depended on the severity of the offense.

In that region, this was considered deeply shameful. As a result, crime dropped—and he never had to physically punish anyone.

My take:
Low-tech, high-efficiency social control.

An official was known for never speaking ill of others.

When someone criticized a colleague, he would wait until they finished, then calmly say:

“That’s just rumor—it’s not really like that.”

And then he’d point out the person’s strengths.

Even when publicly insulted, he showed no anger:

“He’s drunk. Not worth arguing with.”

My take:
That level of composure is… unreal.

Two southern officials joked about regional discrimination.

At the time, northerners often used a derogatory term for southerners. One official remarked that while his powerful friend was in office, no one dared insult him—but after his friend fell from power, the insults quietly returned.

My take:
Polite on the surface. Savage underneath.

An envoy was about to travel to Tibet with an assistant whose surname sounded like the word “dog”—a taboo there.

The emperor ordered the name changed for the trip.

After returning, the assistant just… kept the new surname.

My take:
Imagine changing your last name for a business trip—and never switching back.

At a gathering, a magistrate’s wife asked other women their surnames.

One said “Lu,” another said “Qi.”

She became furious and stormed off, thinking they were mocking her surname “Wu” (which sounds like “five,” implying a numerical sequence: six, seven, five…).

Her husband had to explain:

“People just have different surnames…”

My take:
And that’s how we end—with a completely absurd misunderstanding.

  1. I actually went down a Wikipedia rabbit hole looking for notable people with the surname Feng. Turns out there were imperial officials, generals, even empresses—and in modern times, athletes, actors, and scientists. Still, not exactly a common name. ↩︎

Updated on 2026-04-25
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 Feng, Feng Clan, Fengshi Wenjian Ji, DeepSeek, AI
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