Ji Xianlin: Leaving My Heart in Dunhuang
By Ji Xianlin
Having just visited many Thousand-Buddha Caves across Xinjiang, on the road to the Mogao Caves in Dunhuang, I couldn't help but compare: there, as soon as you leave a town or city, you're faced with endless Gobi desert with not a blade of grass; here, after leaving Liuyuan, it's also a hundred li of flat wilderness where no crops grow—yet it is dotted with desert plants like camel thorn, lush and full of life against the yellow sand, making the scene less desolate and lonely.
We traveled hundreds of li across such plains, and finally saw a patch of lush green trees faintly appearing on the horizon, backed by a row of low hills, like a Chinese ink-wash landscape painting. I guessed to myself: Dunhuang must be near.
And indeed it was Dunhuang. I can truly say that I had long heard of Dunhuang's fame—"like thunder in the ears." I had read about Dunhuang in books, heard people talk about it, and seen countless paintings and photographs of it. What I had dreamed of for decades was now before my eyes, imprinted on my heart. "Meeting in person, I suspect it's a dream." I almost doubted whether it was real.
Dunhuang was real after all. Its appearance was much like the photos I had seen—all very familiar. There were no towering mountains or dense bamboo groves, only ancient elm trees too thick for several people to embrace, poplars soaring into the sky, splendidly decorated archways, and clusters of yellow and red flowers. Elsewhere, these might be nothing special; but here, they gave the impression of an oasis in the desert, a pearl on the Gobi, a patch of deep green in a sea of pale yellow, a veritable paradise.
As for the Caves of the Thousand Buddhas themselves, they were a dazzling array of beauty—multicolored, splendid, like clouds and mists rising. No matter how ornate and flowery the language, no matter how many words, they could never be described. The old saying applies: "It can only be experienced, not explained."
There were over four hundred caves, some as large as a palace, some as small as a shrine. Almost every cave was painted with images of a thousand Buddhas. No matter the size of the cave or the width of the wall, every inch was covered with murals. The artists seemed never to spare their energy or pigments, never to spare their time or lives, filling every tiny space and every inch of the walls, leaving no gap untouched.
Some murals were exposed to the open air, enduring wind, rain, sun, and sand for a thousand years, yet their colors remained as rich and bright as new. Thinking of these achievements of our ancestors, we later generations feel immensely excited, shocked, grateful, and awed—isn't that only natural?
Entering the caves, we felt as if we had stepped into an ancient world long gone, even an exotic ancient world; as if entering a world of myth and fairy tales. The figures were so numerous, the scenes so splendid, the colors so bright, the techniques so skilled, that we felt a lively excitement inside. We seemed to see the Buddha Sakyamuni descending from the Tushita Heaven on a six-tusked white elephant, bathed by nine dragons spitting water. As soon as he was born, he took seven steps and declared loudly: "In heaven and on earth, I alone am the honored one." We seemed to see him practicing asceticism, eating nothing for six years, until his eyes became as deep as ancient wells.
What interested us most and left the deepest impression were the many paintings of nirvana. Sakyamuni had passed away, lying on his right side with eyes closed. Behind him stood many monks and laypeople. Those in the front row, having attained enlightenment, remained impassive, indifferent to life and death. Those in the back—whether kings, commoners, monks, or nuns—had not yet transcended worldly desires and could not comprehend the way of life and death; they wailed loudly, some beating their chests, some hitting their heads, some clapping, some stamping their feet, some tearing their hair, some rending their clothes, and some even fainting. We seemed to hear the earth-shaking cries and see the tears streaming, and felt a deep shock. Most interesting were the six heterodox teachers, who, seeing their main opponent dead, rejoiced by playing music, dancing, and gesticulating. On walls a foot or a yard wide, it was a vivid picture of human joys and sorrows. Such religious paintings were actually true depictions of human society, bringing the social reality of a thousand years ago vividly before our eyes.
In many caves, we seemed to step into the Western Paradise, the so-called Pure Land. In this world, no one worried about lacking anything—food came when reached for, clothes came when needed. Moreover, these foods and garments required no human labor. Everywhere grew wish-fulfilling trees, their branches laden with all kinds of fine food and clothing; whatever you wanted was there, just a reach or a bite away, and all desires were satisfied. All these paintings of worldly pleasures were naturally used to promote a theme: no matter the circumstances, if one wholeheartedly recites the name of Amitabha, one can be reborn in the Pure Land and enjoy heavenly bliss. Of course, this was fantasy, even deception. But the artists were serious, their skills astonishing. They drew carefully and painted meticulously, making the illusory appear real, vividly and unambiguously displayed before us, giving us a sensory understanding of history and a strange and wonderful artistic enjoyment.
In many caves, besides mythological stories, there are many secular paintings. The cave donors often painted themselves and their families on the walls. Sometimes a procession of male officials is depicted, the first few being bald-headed monks; a procession of noble ladies led by a few bald-headed nuns. These were the family members who had renounced the world, a source of honor and pride, so they were placed in front. These noble figures, male and female, formed a procession as if walking toward the Buddha. Why did they paint their own images in these caves? For religious merit? Or for immortality? Perhaps a bit of both!
In many caves, we also saw numerous sutra illustrations, such as the Illustration of the Lotus Sutra, the Lankavatara Sutra, the Golden Light Sutra, and so on. In one cave, we saw a huge map of Mount Wutai. In other caves, we saw murals of monks traveling westward to seek the Dharma. Connected to these eminent monks were merchants...
The Mogao Caves number over four hundred, with murals covering more than forty thousand square meters, spanning over a thousand years of painting. Their content includes heavens, pure lands, the human world, hells, China, foreign lands, monks, nuns, officials, landlords, peasants, workers, merchants, peddlers, scholars, magicians, prostitutes, actors—men and women, old and young—everything. In just a few days, I seemed to have roamed through heavens and pure lands, through the underworld and hells, through the ancient world and the world of myth. I traversed the three thousand great thousand worlds, climbed the divine Mount Sumeru, met Brahma and Indra, dealt with the Four Heavenly Kings, encountered Ox-Head and Horse-Face, trekked along the endless Silk Road, sailed across vast misty seas, saw the compassionate faces of Buddhas and bodhisattvas, heard Vimalakirti's unimpeded eloquence. My mind was filled with a riot of colorful sentient beings, overlapping and towering, and I could not sort them out.
In those few short days, I felt as if I had lived for decades. What had been very abstract to me over the past decades now became very concrete. This included literature, art, customs, habits, ethnic groups, religion, language, history, and other fields.
We lived for six days in this oasis in the desert, seemingly far from the mundane world, filled with an ancient and exotic atmosphere. Every day we were busy visiting the caves. Every day our minds were stuffed with colorful and varied impressions, so full that there seemed no room to breathe. Though confined to a tiny room, my spirit roamed ten thousand miles; though limited to the present moment, I felt as if I had returned a thousand years. Thoughts surged, phantoms came thick and fast—those were the most active days of my life in terms of imagination.
I thought of the artists of those days, painting in such dim caves—what immense effort they must have expended! I don't know what force sustained them, enabling them to leave us such exquisite masterpieces and astonishing artistic treasures under such harsh conditions.
I thought of the various ethnic groups within China's borders who once labored and lived together in this region. Some drove flocks of sheep, cattle, and horses, moving with water and grass, roaming across thousands of miles of desert; others toiled on small patches of watered land in the desert, working hard. Human existence is temporary, but the friendship between ethnic groups is enduring. This simple truth is proven by the history of China.
I also thought that in the murals of these caves, we can see not only the people of various ethnic groups within China but also people from countries along the Silk Road, and even from countries far from the Silk Road. Imagining the heyday of the Silk Road, on the road stretching tens of thousands of li, there must have been a constant stream of travelers and camels and horses. Religious devotees, diplomatic envoys, profit-seeking merchants, knowledge-seeking students—each pursuing their own goals, traveling back and forth, crossing vast deserts, traversing shifting sands, risking their lives to cross the Cong River, valuing a promise to reach the Nai Garden. Though it might not have been shoulder-to-shoulder, we can imagine the splendor. I could not help but feel a nostalgic mood, thinking that both past and present are good, feeling proud of the past and hoping for inheritance by future generations. My heart surged with emotion.
In Dunhuang, in the Caves of the Thousand Buddhas, I could never get enough even after a thousand or ten thousand visits. There was such a paradise-like scenery, such marvelous murals, such admirable people. From the bottom of my heart, I truly wanted to stay here for a long time, forever. It seemed as if I had wandered in the vast human world for over sixty years and finally found a home.
But I could not stay in one place. Ahead of me, there might be deep forests, great marshes, lofty mountains, secluded valleys, broad highways, and single-log bridges. I must go forward and pass through them all. So now let me take my body away, but leave my heart in Dunhuang.
Drafted on October 9, 1979
Finalized on March 3, 1980
(Excerpted with abridgments)
