A Silk Road Oasis: Life in Ancient Dunhuang @ the British Library

Want to see the oldest printed book which contains its own date of publication (868 AD)? The earliest known atlas of the night sky produce by any civilisation? See a copy of the Diamond Sutra written in the scribe’s own blood? Read an angry letter written by a wife abandoned by her husband 1,400 years ago? Learn about the life of a 10-year-old Buddhist nun?

If all this pulls your daisy, then come to this small but beautifully designed and fascinating exhibition at the British Library.

Scroll in Sanskrit and Khotanese embellished with an opulent silk painting of birds facing each other (943 AD) © British Library

Background history

The Silk Road was a term invented by German explorer Ferdinand von Richthofen in the 1870s to describe the tangle of trade routes stretching across central Asia from China in the East to the Mediterranean in the west. The silk roads went past the Gobi desert, split up to skirt the Taklamakan desert to the north and south, continued on through the Pamir mountains to Kashgar, then on to Samarkand in modern Uzbekistan, through Persia, Iraq and Syria to the Mediterranean in the West. At several points offshoots went south into Tibet or India.

The heyday

The network of silk roads began with the expansion of the Han dynasty (202 BC to 220 AD) into Central Asia around 100 BC, and grew and thrived until the tenth century AD. The blockbuster exhibition about them currently on at the British Museum takes its golden age to have been around 500 to 1000 AD.

Silk roads, plural

These days, modern archaeologists and historians refer to the silk roadS very much in the plural 1) in order to take in subsidiary routes, 2) to extend its length eastwards to the coast of China and Korea and westwards to take in Europe, 3) to include the contemporaneous sea routes from China to the Persian Gulf. All this is explained in some length at the British Museum show. However, this exhibition at the British Library focuses more narrowly on the roads’ core zone, from Chang’an in the East to Samarkand in the West.

Map of the silk roads © the British Library

The significance of Dunhuang

As you can see from this map, if you were heading west from China one of the major splits in the route occurred at a place called Dunhuang, where the route split into two roads skirting to the north and south of the uncrossable, huge and ever-shifting Taklamakan Desert.

The way stations along the northern and southern routes consisted of oases created by water in streams and rivers flowing down from the high mountains of the Tien Shan in the north and the Kunlun Shan in the south. According to Peter Hopkirk in his book ‘Foreign Devils on the Silk Road, one of the reasons the silk roads fell into disuse – apart from political turmoil in China and widespread banditry – was because many of these watersources dried up or moved or were filled with sand and silt. As they were abandoned, sand from the great Taklamakan blew over the ruined settlements and buried them for centuries.

Back to Dunhuang, it also was an oasis town, the last one in China (if you were heading west) the first one in China (if you were arriving from the east) and the place where the two major routes round the Taklamakan divided (or rejoined). It was established in 111 BC as a military outpost, fortified with defensive walls and watchtowers.

Buried treasure

Unlike the oasis settlements lining the desert Dunhuang was never abandoned when the roads fell into disuse, but continued to be a populated settlement up to the present day. But over the troubled centuries much of its silk road heritage was lost, forgotten, covered in sand. It was only at the end of the nineteenth century that a stream of explorer-archaeologists realised that there was buried treasure waiting to be dug up in this vast and remote part of central Asia. The story of the scramble for loot between representatives of Western colonial powers who identified and excavated sites right across the region is told in Hopkirk’s book.

Confessional book of the Manichean Uyghurs (ninth to tenth century) © British Library Board

This is one of the most important and complete manuscripts among the Old Uyghur Manichaean texts, the Xuastuanift, a confessional book of Manichaean Uyghurs, on display for the first time. It is a repentance prayer known as the Xuastwanift, which is widely used by the followers of Mani (216 to 277), a Persian prophet. It is around 4.5 metres long, written in Old Turkic in Manichaean script. The scroll demonstrates the eastwards spread of Manichaeism among the Uyghurs, whose West Uyghur Kingdom was tightly connected to Dunhuang.

The Mogao caves

One of the unique things about Dunhuang is the proximity of the astonishing complex of Buddhist caves, the Mogao cave complex, 15 miles to the south-east. We now know that during the silk road era nearly 500 caves were carved into the cliff face here, most of them by Buddhists, many decorated with beautiful multicoloured frescoes and containing artefacts and manuscripts.

The guardian Wang

Aware of a long tradition of Buddhist worship and relics in the region, the local Chinese authorities at the turn of the 20th century had put a Buddhist monk named Wang Yuanlu in charge of sites around the town. As a devout monk Wang earnestly wanted to raise money to regenerate and preserve the caves and regularly toured and examined them.

Photo of the priest, Wang Yuanlu, taken by Aurel Stein and included in his photographic album, 1907 © British Library Board

Wang discovers the Library Cave

One day Wang discovered a false wall at the back of one of these caves, chipped it away and made one of the great archaeological discoveries of all time. For in this cave, subsequently named The Library Cave and now more prosaically referred to as Cave 17, he discovered tens of thousands of ancient scrolls, manuscripts, printed documents, paintings, diagrams, histories, calendars and star charts from the fifth to the eleventh centuries, rolled up and stored higgledy-piggledy.

These scrolls contained an extraordinary range and diversity of documents, on a wide array of subjects, from huge religious scrolls to personal letters, from diplomatic documents to textbooks on astrology, from wills to instructions for the souls of the dead.

They are written in a surprisingly range of contemporary languages, such as Tibetan, Sogdian, Chinese, Old Uyghur, Phags-pa, Tangut and Turkic.

And they attest not only the predominant religion of the region, Buddhism, but many other faiths including Zoroastrianism, Manichaeism and Christianity which, because of them, we now know thrived in the area.

Paul Pelliot - Wikipedia

French archaeologist Paul Pelliot examines manuscripts in the library cave (photo by expedition photographer Charles Nouette, 1908)

Western archaeologists pounce

The western explorers I mentioned above, who made various expeditions throughout the 1890s and early 1900s and whose stories are told in Hopkirk’s book, soon heard rumours about a cave of magical discoveries and made the arduous journey to Dunhuang.

Here the western archaeologists, starting with Marc Aurel Stein, schmoozed the site’s curator, Wang, offering him money, technical assistance, promises to renovate the big painted caves and so on, and talked Wang into parting with thousands and thousands of these priceless scrolls. Crates full of them were dispatched by pony back to Kashgar, by train across Russia and then onto the capitals of Europe. Eventually these priceless manuscripts were scattered across 30 or so collections in 8 or so western nations, chief among them the British Museum in London.

Collectors’ guilt

Two world wars and the decolonisation of most of most of the European empires later, many of these institutions felt guilty about being party to such epic looting of China’s cultural heritage. In 1973 the British Library was founded. In the 1980s the British Museum handed over its hoard of documents from the Library Cave to the British Library.

Founding of the International Dunhuang Programme

In 1994, after much discussion between the various European and American institutions which owned documents from the library cave, the British Library was instrumental in setting up the International Dunhuang Programme (IDP). The IDP is a pioneering international collaboration that brings together online collections from the Eastern Silk Roads and promotes understandings of the history and cultures of the region.

That was 30 years and so this small but beautifully formed exhibition marks the thirtieth birthday of the International Dunhuang Programme. (All this is explained in the final part of the exhibition, which includes a timeline of the events I’ve just summarised.)

The exhibition

The exhibition showcases over 50 manuscripts, printed documents and pictorial works, most though not all, from the ‘Library Cave’ in the cave complex of Mogao and on public display for the first time.

The exhibition is contained in one long room downstairs. The light levels are low to preserve these ancient manuscripts which contributes to the subterranean, treasure-trove vibe.

The show is divided into ten sections, consisting of eight display cases (4 down the middle, 2 embedded in either wall). At the far end there’s a partition cleverly made from shelves piled high with rolled-up paper scrolls, recreating the effect of the original treasure cave. And off to one side there’s a bench seating about 5 people in front of a video projected on the wall which shows general views of the desert, the Mogoao cave complex, and handy maps showing the shifting silk roads and indicating the spread of religious beliefs along them. You can make out most of the elements I’ve listed in the photo below (video on the right, display cases down the middle, the scroll partition is visible at the far left).

Installation view of ‘A Silk Road Oasis: Life in Ancient Dunhuang’ at the British Library

Topics and stories

The key thing about the displays is that the curators have had the bright idea of dividing the documents into sections grouped around typical types of profession from medieval central Asian society. Each case is named after one of these characteristic professions of the time, constellates around the story of a specific named individual who we know of from a scroll, and then groups around it half a dozen other manuscripts from the same subject area. Thus the cases are named after:

  • The Merchant
  • The Diplomat
  • The Fortune-Teller
  • The Artist
  • The Scribe
  • The Printer
  • The Buddhist Nun
  • The Lay Buddhist

Installation view of ‘A Silk Road Oasis: Life in Ancient Dunhuang’ at the British Library showing a typical display case, in this instance scrolls relating to The Lay Buddhist (see below) (photo by the author)

As is my usual practice, all the text which follows in italics is direct quotation from the curators’ wall labels.

The Merchant (unnamed)

As a key trade centre on the Silk Roads, Dunhuang attracted merchants from as far afield as central Asia and India. Among these were the Sogdians, a group of Iranian people who dominated commerce in the region from the 4th to the 8th century. From their motherland near Samarkand (present-day Uzbekistan), Sogdian merchants established settlements stretching all the way to China.

Map showing location of Sogdiana © the British Library

This allowed them to act as agents for fellow Sogdians back home and along the trade network. Sogdian merchants sold many prized goods and transmitted religious ideas from their own culture and that of nearby regions.

Earthenware figure from China (7th to 10th century) probably representing a central Asian merchant, possibly of Sogdian origins, as suggested by his large beard and conical hat (photo by the author)

This section focuses on the letter written by an unnamed Sogdian merchant based near Dunhuang, which was addressed to two of his business partners in Samarkand, over 3,000 km to the west. It warns them about the devastating effects of political instability in China. The letter describes the famine that resulted from the sack of several Chinese cities by the Huns, a nomadic people from central Asia.

It also includes a letter from a wife who was abandoned by her husband at Dunhuang and who writes to reproach him in 313 AD. Her name was Miwnay and the letter tells us she moved from Samarkand to Dunhuang with her merchant husband Nanai-dhat. This letter was found in a lost mailbag and complains how, not having not heard from him in three years, Miwnay and her daughter Shayn have become destitute and forced to serve a local Chinese household.

“Behold, I am living wretchedly, and I consider myself dead. […] I obeyed your command and came to Dunhuang and did not observe my mother’s bidding or that of my brothers. Surely the gods were angry with me on the day when I did your bidding! I would rather be a dog’s or a pig’s wife than yours!” (Translated by Nicholas Sims-Williams)

Emphasising the theme of multiculturalism, this section also includes:

  • one of the oldest surviving Zoroastrian scriptures, consisting of a text about the prophet Zoroaster (born between 1500 and 500 BC) and a transcription of the holy ‘Ashem Vohu’ prayer
  • a letter from a Christian priest named Sergius to a Turkic government official based at Dunhuang

Dunhuang Limes

I need to digress for a moment about the Dunhuang Limes.

The Dunhuang Limes is a series of military sites spread over a distance of more than 140 miles, and are considered to be parts of the westernmost portion of the Great Wall. The sites begin in Anxi to the east of Dunhuang and extend to the Lop Nor desert to the west, and date back as far as the 2nd century BC [see the map at the top of this review for the line of the Great Wall].

The term limes, usually used to describe Roman military roads and their fortifications, was assigned by Aurel Stein to this series of watchtowers, forts, storehouses, beacon towers, walls, and other defensive structures. The items excavated from the sites reveal much about the daily life and administration of the garrisons stationed at the frontiers of the Chinese Empire. These items include tools, stationery, pottery, arrowheads and textiles, as well as important written documents including the Sogdian ‘ancient letters’.

Hence the shoe:

A shoe made of hemp from Dunhuang Limes © the British Museum

This utilitarian everyday object serves as a poignant reminder of the early settlers who resided along the Dunhuang Limes. These defensive walls and watchtowers, constructed north of the town, protected the territory then ruled by the Chinese Han Empire (206 BC to 220 AD). Doubling as farmers, the soldiers transformed the rugged landscape into cultivated land, while monitoring the desert Silk Roads for potential attacks.

The booklets

Another digression to mention that each of the characters or job types is introduced not only via the usual object labels but in nifty printed booklets (attached to each display case) made of a kind of artificial vellum and decorated with patterns from the period. Some thought and effort went into these and they’re very stylish.

One of the stylish fake-vellum booklets which contain object information in ‘A Silk Road Oasis: Life in Ancient Dunhuang’ at the British Library (photo by the author)

The Diplomat: Ca Kima-sana

From the 10th century, the rulers of Dunhuang strengthened their ties with Khotan, a central Asian kingdom located 1,800 km to the west. Sent by their state, Khotanese envoys frequently travelled to the oasis to help maintain close diplomatic relations, especially by seeking marriage alliances.

Map showing location of Khotan © the British Library

Khotanese delegations varied in size and were hosted by the local government. Their members, who spoke an Indo-Iranian dialect, had to operate in a multilingual environment. They were actively engaged in Dunhuang’s Buddhist community as patrons and helped spread medical and geographical knowledge during their visits.

This section is named for two figures: one is Sam Khina Hvam Samgaka, a high-ranking Khotanese official who commissioned a devotional scroll, wishing for a long life and the well-being of his relatives. The manuscript is over 21 metres long and contains six different Buddhist texts. It was embellished with an opulent silk painting.

Scroll in Sanskrit and Khotanese, over 21 metres long, embellished with an opulent silk painting (943 AD) © British Library

The other named figure is the diplomat Ca Kima-sana, also known as Zhang Jinshan. He is represented by a long scroll in which he explains that he led a delegation of over 100 people to secure the hand of a Chinese princess for their king. He also recounts the religious activities he undertook at Dunhuang in exchange for safe return. This section also includes:

  • a tenth-century Chinese-Khotanese phrasebook
  • an account of hospitality given to foreign visitors at Dunhuang between 979 and 982
  • a Khotanese translation of the Siddhasara, a medical text attributed to the ancient Indian physician Ravigupta

The Fortune-Teller: Shenzhi, the Yin and Yang Master

Fortune-tellers, whose practices were regulated by the local administration, helped both the ruling elite and ordinary people navigate daily life. They advised on anything from the best time to start a construction project to the best direction to take on a journey. They also guided people when choosing a life partner, looking for lost things or strategising for battles.

Fortune-tellers produced calendars and other astrological works. These were considered a form of scientific knowledge, normally controlled by China’s imperial court. At the same time, divination traditions from central Asia spread along the Silk Roads and converged at Dunhuang, leading to a unique blend of approaches.

This section includes a striking almanac:

Official almanac showing the 12 spirits of the zodiac animals, portrayed as officials with animals in their hats (978 AD) © British Library Board

An almanac is a yearly publication that typically contains information such as astronomical data and astrological predictions. This incomplete document for the year 978 is a copy of the almanac originally printed by the imperial Chinese Bureau of Astronomy. It shows the 12 spirits of the zodiac animals, portrayed as officials with animals in their hat. They surround the deity Taisui, who is associated with Jupiter and governs people’s destiny in a given year.

This section also contains:

  • the longest surviving manuscript text in the Old Turkic script, the Irk Bitig or Book of Omens, a 4-metre-long Tibetan divination scroll written in Old Turkic which contains 65 divinations
  • the oldest star chart from any civilisation which depicts 1,345 stars across 13 maps, dating to the second half of the 7th century
  • a 4-metre long divination scroll in Tibetan, featuring 12 divination diagrams in the Chinese astrological tradition
  • eight diagrams linked to a divination form known as the ‘Nine Palaces’ which indicate lucky and unlucky dates and directions for construction work, in a scroll which belonged to Shenzhi,
    a Yin and Yang Master and a monk at the Longxing Temple

The Printer: Lei Yanmei, the woodblock carver

Using a method derived from earlier stamping processes, printers chiselled content in reverse into woodblocks. They then inked those blocks and impressed them onto paper. The quality of the prints thus depended on their woodcarving skills. Printing technology emerged in China around the 7th century, about 700 years before appearing in Europe. The work of printers quickly became essential for Buddhists, as a way of enabling the large-scale reproduction of sacred texts and images. As printing spread to East Asia and to central Asia along the Silk Roads, printers set up many local workshops. While some places, like Sichuan, became major printing centres, Dunhuang printers also produced, on a much smaller scale, copies of Buddhist scriptures, prayer sheets and almanacs.

The Diamond Sutra, the world’s earliest printed book with a date, 868 AD

This 5 metre scroll is the oldest complete printed book with a date. Preceding the finely carved text is a depiction of the Buddha preaching to his elder disciple, Subhuti, amid a large assembly. Such sophisticated design attests to a mature printing industry, calling for collaboration between highly skilled artists, scribes and woodcarvers. It is thus possible it came from Chengdu, Sichuan, which was a major printing centre at the time.

This section also includes:

  • a text containing numerous identical images of the Bodhisattva Avalokiteshvara
  • a woodblock printed prayer sheet with pigments
  • a booklet of Diamond Sutra translated by Kumarajiva

The Scribe: Ke’u Monley

Between 786 and 848, Dunhuang came under Tibetan rule. It was transformed into a bustling centre for scribes who worked for the Tibetan empire.

The Tibetan Empire in the 8th to 9th centuries © the British Library

Local scribes, some of whom were from mixed Chinese and Tibetan parentage, produced thousands of copies of Buddhist sutras in Tibetan. These works, presented in a range of formats, were even distributed to monastic libraries in central Tibet. The rules of the scriptorium were stringent and scribes had to manage the resources they received carefully for fear of punishment. They were also taught to write in different styles, tailored to their tasks, such as transcribing sacred texts or drafting official documents. 

This section includes:

  • old Tibetan annals giving a year-by-year account for the period 641 to 764, the earliest surviving historical source on the Tibetan empire
  • a bilingual manuscript which features the Tibetan version of the Lankavatara Sutra in red ink alongside a Chinese commentary in black ink
  • a large book of Buddhist scripture titled The Perfection of Wisdom Sutra
  • a document giving information about the scribe Ke’u Monley who belonged to a team of scribes entrusted with copying the Perfection of Wisdom Sutra for the Tibetan prince
  • along with some original scribal tools, namely a glue brush and a wooden pen

Tibetan woodslip pen (eighth to tenth century) © British Library Board

The artist: Dong Baode

Artists from different regions shaped Dunhuang’s creative landscape. The projects they were commissioned for ranged from adorning the Mogao Caves with breathtaking murals and stucco figures, to crafting portable paintings on silk, hemp and paper. Surviving sketches, preparatory drawings and tools like stencils offer a window into artists’ creative process. While workshops likely existed earlier, a government-supported painting academy emerged in the 10th century, providing official backing for artistic endeavours. Most artists remained anonymous unless they reached a particularly elevated status. They combined visual traditions and techniques from along the Silk Roads, leaving an enduring legacy through their contributions.

Sketch of protective deities (tenth century) © British Library Board

These two figures, depicted on thick paper, stand dynamically on rocks, almost mirroring each other. Precise lines render their flowing scarves, flexed muscles and facial hair. This type of sketch served as a reference for artists and could have been resized as needed to fit across various compositions. Very similar illustrations are found in Dunhuang manuscripts.

This section contains:

  • a stencil of a Buddha figure
  • a scroll relating to the master painter named b who other documents tell us managed a local painting guild, controlled and deployed painting resources
  • a 1.2 metre tall black ink study representing Avalokiteshvara, the bodhisattva of compassion

The Lay Buddhist: the 80-year-old who wrote in blood

Buddhism left the largest imprint at Dunhuang, although faiths such as Daoism, Zoroastrianism and Manichaeism were also present. With the spread of Buddhism on the Silk Roads, the oasis became a major hub for Buddhist worship and pilgrimage from the 4th century onwards. The worship of images, through portable paintings and other media, held a central place in Buddhism. Copying scriptures was also paramount to Buddhist devotees, as a way of accumulating spiritual benefits. While wealthy patrons could commission elaborately decorated manuscripts, ordinary people wrote sacred texts themselves. Manuscripts served various functions, as reflected by the variety of formats and languages they came in. They could be chanted during ceremonies, worn as talismans and employed in memorial services.

Illustrated Sutra of the Ten Kings (tenth century) © British Library Board

This scripture depicts the purgatory-like period following death. The Ten Kings, shown as magistrates seated at desks, assess the deeds of the departed. The last king spins the wheel of rebirth, deciding how they will be reincarnated. This handscroll is almost 5 metres long. It was likely produced to assist a dead relative in their voyage to the next life and used during memorial services.

This section also contains:

  • a decorative copy of the Great Parinirvana Sutra
  • a miniature Tibetan scroll less than 5cm wide, containing verses about the path to liberation from the sufferings of death and rebirth, and a prayer to end the reincarnation cycle
  • a scroll of the Nilakantha Dharani, dharanis being incantations believed to be protective and to generate spiritual benefits when chanted
  • a banner painting of a bodhisattva
  • and three small booklets of the Diamond Sutra in Chinese written by an unknown 80-year-old devotee using his own blood as ink

The Buddhist Nun: Deng Ziyi

Buddhism gradually changed the lives of female devotees by offering them a role beyond those of daughter, mother and wife: they could become nuns. Dunhuang documents give us a glimpse into their experiences, from joining as novices, sometimes before the regulatory age of 12, to embracing the rules of monastic discipline upon being ordained. Between 800 and 1000, there were more nuns than monks living in the town. Censuses provide a sense of the community structure and demographics within nunneries at the time. It was not uncommon for nuns to retain some possessions after embracing monastic life. They could also play a significant role in the local lay community.

Rules of a women’s association (959 AD) © British Library Board

This circular is over 1,000 years old. It defines the objectives, bylaws and structure of a women’s club, established to promote friendship among women. All 15 signatories agreed to these rules by signing a mark under their name. The association was overseen by a nun, underscoring the influential role of nuns within the Dunhuang community.

This section includes:

  • information about Deng Ziyi who became a nun aged just 10 in 914, including the official permit granting her permission to become a novice
  • a finely calligraphed scroll copied in 543 by a nun named Xianyu listing the voluntary commitments for fully ordained Buddhist women
  • a tenth century list of nuns at the Dasheng Temple, the largest of five nunneries at Dunhuang, which had a total of 209 members
  • a votive painting depicting the 11-headed manifestation of Avalokiteshvara, the bodhisattva of compassion
  • the will, written in 865, of the nun Linghui, written in the presence of witnesses, including close relatives and two officials

The caves

As I mentioned, at the far end of the exhibition space is an alcove partitioned off by a floor-to-ceiling stand containing scores of rolled-up paper mimicking the scrolls found in the famous Library Cave.

Installation view of ‘A Silk Road Oasis: Life in Ancient Dunhuang’ at the British Library showing the scroll partition (photo by the author)

This space gives more detail about the caves, namely:

Away from the busy streets of Dunhuang, 25 km southeast of the town, is a large Buddhist site made up of hundreds of richly decorated caves called the Mogao Caves. It is here that, in 1900, the Daoist priest Wang Yuanlu found a small room containing tens of thousands of manuscripts, paintings and other objects dating from the 5th to 11th century. Known as the ‘Library Cave’ or Cave 17, this extraordinary time capsule is one of the world’s greatest archaeological discoveries. It has revolutionised our knowledge of the Silk Roads, offering glimpses of religious and secular everyday life. Many of the objects in the exhibition are from Cave 17. They were acquired by archaeologist Marc Aurel Stein and taken to the UK.

There’s:

  • a copy of Stein’s photo album open to the photo he took of Wang
  • a timeline of key events starting at Wang’s discovery of cave 17 in 1900 and continuing up to the opening of this exhibition
  • more objects including:
    • a confessional book of the Manichaean Uyghurs
    • three Buddhist ritual objects, being: a paper-cut flower; a carved wooden figure of a Buddha; a Tibetan tantric ritual implement
  • a small sculpture by modern artist Xie Xiaoze titled ‘Rain of Languages (Buddhist Sutras)’

Rain of Languages (Buddhist Sutras) by Xie Xiaoze (2023) in ‘A Silk Road Oasis’ at the British Library

Most usefully, there was a small monitor showing photos of some of the decorated caves. These are mind blowing, showing beautifully preserved caves decorated from floor-to-ceiling with complicated colourful motifs and often including one or more statues of the Buddha or Boddhisatvas. I think these should have been included in the short film projection on the wall at the start of the exhibition, they’re too stunning and important to be stashed away here, and on a fairly tiny screen, smaller than a laptop screen.

Photo from the slideshow of photos of the interiors of some of the Mogao cave, complete with explanatory text. Courtesy of Dunhuang Academy, Photo by Sun Zhijun

In fact the friend I showed them to said these are stunning, mind-blowing, amazing – they should have been blown up and printed on the walls life-size. Maybe, although space is limited in this little downstairs gallery. But they certainly impress on you the huge culturual importance of the cave complex, the extravagantly beautiful carvings and frescoes, make you realise it’s up there with the Egyptian Valley of the Kings in terms of priceless decorated ancient interiors.

Music

I haven’t yet mentioned that this room packed full of priceless manuscripts also features a mellow and evocative soundscape. This has been created by a Dr Xiaoshi Wei using recordings from the British Library’s vast sound archive and from the China Database for Traditional Music with a view to recreating the sounds of the ancient Silk Road. Birds sing, gongs sound, monks chant, adding to the atmosphere of peace, calm, civilisation and enlightenment.

This is a small-ish exhibition, but full of wonders and revelations.


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The I without a self by W.H. Auden

In January 1939 the English poet W.H. Auden sailed to America where he intended to make a new life for himself. He wanted to escape the fame and notoriety he had garnered in England, and the association his work had with left-wing politics, as well as the more basic consideration that there was more work for a freelance poet, dramatist, essayist and commentator in America than in Britain.

He set about the process of shedding his politically committed 1930s persona, and embarked on an earnest attempt to understand himself and the times he lived in. This was eventually to lead him back to the Anglican beliefs of his childhood, but recast in the forms of 1940s and 50s existentialist theologians.

His poetry stopped being about gangs of schoolboys behaving like soldiers or vivid descriptions of England’s derelict depression-era industry or calls for action in civil war Spain, a fabulously thrilling mix of vivid detail and urgent mood, which makes the reader feel part of some insider gang:

Consider this and in our time
As the hawk sees it or the helmeted airman:
The clouds rift suddenly – look there
At cigarette-end smouldering on a border
At the first garden party of the year.
Pass on, admire the view of the massif
Through plate-glass windows of the Sport hotel;
Join there the insufficient units
Dangerous, easy, in furs, in uniform
And constellated at reserved tables
Supplied with feelings by an efficient band
Relayed elsewhere to farmers and their dogs
Sitting in kitchens in the stormy fens.

and became more consciously detached and urbane. In the worst of it, his characters carry out long monologues full of knowing references to Character Types and Schools of Thought. In the best of it he invokes or addresses the Greats of European Culture such as Horace or Goethe or Homer and writes poems of tremendous authority such as The Shield of Achilles. As the terrible war dragged on, Auden came to see it as the poet’s role to define and preserve the values of civilisation.

Meanwhile, to earn a living, he needed to deliver lectures and write reviews. He was always a highly cerebral person, from early youth given to sorting and ordering friends, poems and experiences into categories. Thus his essays and lectures have a kind of brisk, no-nonsense clarity about them, much given to invoking types and archetypes and categories, and to then explaining how they apply to this or that writer.

Thus, when he came to write about Kafka, Auden takes as his premise the notion that Kafka was the century’s greatest writer of parables and then goes on to work through the consequences of that idea. It is characteristic of Auden that his explanation requires reference to Dickens, Shakespeare, Alice in Wonderland, and an explanation of the archetype of The Quest and the Princess and the Hero, as well as references to Gnostics and manicheism. It is characteristic that Auden uses quite a lot of Christian theological language, while making no reference to Kafka’s well-known Jewish context.

The essay is already available online in its entirety and since it is so lucid I can’t see any point in garbling it through my own interpretation but quote it in full.

The I without a self by W.H. Auden

Kafka is a great, maybe the greatest, master of the pure parable, a literary genre about which a critic can say very little worth saying. The reader of a novel, or the spectator at a drama, though novel and drama may also have a parabolic significance, is confronted by a feigned history, by characters, situations, actions which, though they may be analogous to his own, are not identical. Watching a performance of Macbeth, for example, I see particular historical persons involved in a tragedy of their own making: I may compare Macbeth with myself and wonder what I should have done and felt had I been in his situation, but I remain a spectator, firmly fixed in my own time and place. But I cannot read a pure parable in this way.

Though the hero of a parable may be given a proper name (often, though, he may just be called ‘a certain man’ or ‘K’) and a definite historical and geographical setting, these particulars are irrelevant to the meaning of parable. To find out what, if anything, a parable means, I have to surrender my objectivity and identify myself with what I read. The ‘meaning’ of a parable, in fact, is different for every reader. In consequence there is nothing a critic can do to ‘explain’ it to others. Thanks to his superior knowledge of artistic and social history, of language, of human nature even, a good critic can make others see things in a novel or a play which, but for him, they would never have seen for themselves. But if he tries to interpret a parable, he will only reveal himself. What he writes will be a description of what the parable has done to him; of what it may do to others he does not and cannot have any idea.

Sometimes in real life one meets a character and thinks, ‘This man comes straight out of Shakespeare or Dickens’, but nobody ever met a Kafka character. On the other hand, one can have experiences which one recognizes as Kafkaesque, while one would never call an experience of one’s own Dickensian or Shakespearian. During the war, I had spent a long and tiring day in the Pentagon. My errand done, I hurried down long corridors eager to get home, and came to a turnstile with a guard standing beside it. ‘Where are you going?’ said the guard. ‘I’m trying to get out,’ I replied. ‘You are out,’ he said. For the moment I felt I was K.

In the case of the ordinary novelist or playwright, a knowledge of his personal life and character contributes almost nothing to one’s understanding of his work, but in the case of a writer of parables like Kafka, biographical information is, I believe, a great help, at least in a negative way, by preventing one from making false readings. (The ‘true’ readings are always many.)

In the new edition of Max Brod’s biography, he describes a novel by a Czech writer, Bozena Nemcova (1820-1862), called The Grandmother. The setting is a village in the Riesengebirge which is dominated by a castle. The villagers speak Czech, the inhabitants of the castle German. The Duchess who owns the castle is kind and good but she is often absent on her travels and between her and the peasants are interposed a horde of insolent household servants and selfish, dishonest officials, so that the Duchess has no idea of what is really going on in the village. At last the heroine of the story succeeds in getting past the various barriers to gain a personal audience with the Duchess, to whom she tells the truth, and all ends happily.

What is illuminating about this information is that the castle officials in Nemcovi are openly presented as being evil, which suggests that those critics who have thought of the inhabitants of Kafka’s castle as agents of Divine Grace were mistaken, and that Erich Heller’s reading is substantially correct.

The castle of Kafka’s novel is, as it were, the heavily fortified garrison of a company of Gnostic demons, successfully holding an advanced position against the manoeuvres of an impatient soul. I do not know of any conceivable idea of divinity which could justify those interpreters who see in the castle the residence of ‘divine law and divine grace’. Its officers are totally indifferent to good if they are not positively wicked. Neither in their decrees nor in their activities is there discernible any trace of love, mercy, charity or majesty. In their icy detachment they inspire no awe, but fear and revulsion.

Dr. Brod also publishes for the first time a rumor which, if true, might have occurred in a Kafka story rather than in his life, namely, that, without his knowledge, Kafka was the father of a son who died in 1921 at the age of seven. The story cannot be verified since the mother was arrested by the Germans in 1944 and never heard of again.

Remarkable as The Trial and The Castle are, Kafka’s finest work, I think, is to be found in the volume The Great Wall of China, all of it written during the last six years of his life. The wall it portrays is still the world of his earlier books and one cannot call it euphoric, but the tone is lighter. The sense of appalling anguish and despair which make stories like The Penal Colony almost unbearable, has gone. Existence may be as difficult and frustrating as ever, but the characters are more humorously resigned to it.

Of a typical story one might say that it takes the formula of the heroic Quest and turns it upside down. In the traditional Quest, the goal – a Princess, the Fountain of Life, etc. – is known to the hero before he starts. This goal is far distant and he usually does not know in advance the way thither nor the dangers which beset it, but there are other beings who know both and give him accurate directions and warnings.

Moreover the goal is publicly recognizable as desirable. Everybody would like to achieve it, but it can only be reached by the Predestined Hero. When three brothers attempt the Quest in turn, the first two are found wanting and fail because of their arrogance and self-conceit, while the youngest succeeds, thanks to his humility and kindness of heart. But the youngest, like his two elders, is always perfectly confident that he
will succeed.

In a typical Kafka story, on the other hand, the goal is peculiar to the hero himself: he has no competitors. Some beings whom he encounters try to help him, more are obstructive, most are indifferent, and none has the faintest notion of the way. As one of the aphorisms puts it: ‘There is a goal but no way; what we call the way is mere wavering’. Far from being confident of success, the Kafka hero is convinced from the start that he is doomed to fail, as he is also doomed, being who he is, to make prodigious and unending efforts to reach it. Indeed, the mere desire to reach the goal is itself a proof, not that he is one of the Elect, but that he is under a special curse.

Perhaps there is only one cardinal sin: impatience. Because of impatience we were driven out of Paradise, because of impatience we cannot return.

Theoretically, there exists a perfect possibility of happiness: to believe in the indestructible element in oneself and not strive after it.

In all previous versions of the Quest, the hero knows what he ought to do and his one problem is ‘Can I do it?’ Odysseus knows he must not listen to the song of the sirens, a knight in quest of the Sangreal knows he must remain chaste, a detective knows he must distinguish between truth and falsehood. But for K the problem is ‘What ought I to do?’ He is neither tempted, confronted with a choice between good and evil, nor carefree, content with the sheer exhilaration of motion. He is certain that it matters enormously what he does now, without knowing at all what that ought to be. If he guesses wrong, he must not only suffer the same consequences as if he had chosen wrong, but also feel the same responsibility. If the instructions and advice he receives seem to him absurd or contradictory, he cannot interpret this as evidence of malice or guilt in others; it may well be proof of his own.

The traditional Quest Hero has arete, either manifest, like Odysseus, or concealed, like the fairy tale hero; in the first case, successful achievement of the Quest adds to his glory, in the second it reveals that the apparent nobody is a glorious hero: to become a hero, in the traditional sense, means acquiring the right, thanks to one’s exceptional gifts and deeds, to say I. But K is an I from the start, and in this fact alone, that he exists, irrespective of any gifts or deeds, lies his guilt.

If the K of The Trial were innocent, he would cease to be K and become nameless like the fawn in the wood in Through the Looking-Glass. In The Castle, K, the letter, wants to become a word, land-surveyor, that is to say, to acquire a self like everybody else but this is precisely what he is not allowed to acquire.

The world of the traditional Quest may be dangerous, but it is open : the hero can set off in any direction he fancies. But the Kafka world is closed; though it is almost devoid of sensory properties, it is an intensely physical world. The objects and faces in it may be vague, but the reader feels himself hemmed in by their suffocating presence: in no other imaginary world, I think, is everything so heavy. To take a single step exhausts the strength. The hero feels himself to be a prisoner and tries to escape but perhaps imprisonment is the proper state for which he was created, and freedom would destroy him.

The more horse you yoke, the quicker everything will go – not the rending or the block from its foundation, which is impossible, but the snapping of the traces and with that the gay and empty journey.

The narrator hero of The Burrow for example, is a beast of unspecified genus, but, presumably, some sort of badger-like animal, except that he is carnivorous. He lives by himself without a mate and never encounters any other member of his own species. He also lives in a perpetual state of fear lest he be pursued and attacked by other animals – ‘My enemies are countless,’ he says – but we never learn what they may be like and we never actually encounter one. His preoccupation is with the burrow which has been his lifework. Perhaps, when he first began excavating this, the idea of a burrow-fortress was more playful than serious, but the bigger and better the burrow becomes, the more he is tormented by the question: ‘Is it possible to construct the absolutely impregnable burrow?’ This is a torment because he can never be certain that there is not some further precaution of which he has not thought. Also the burrow he has spent his life constructing has become a precious thing which he must defend as much as he would defend himself.

One of my favourite plans was to isolate the Castle Keep from its surroundings, that is to say to restrict the thickness of the walls to about my own height, and leave a free space of about the same width all around the Castle Keep … I had always pictured this free space, and not without reason as the loveliest imaginable haunt. What a joy to he pressed against the rounded outer wall, pull oneself up, let oneself slide down again, miss one’s footing and find oneself on firm earth, and play all these games literally upon the Castle Keep and not inside it; to avoid the Castle Keep, to rest one’s eyes from it whenever one wanted, to postpone the joy of seeing it until later and yet not have to do without it, but literally hold it safe between one’s claws . . .

He begins to wonder if, in order to defend it, it would not be better to hide in the bushes outside near its hidden entrance and keep watch. He considers the possibility of enlisting the help of a confederate to share the task of watching, but decides against it.

. . . would he not demand some counter-service from me; would he not at least want to see the burrow? That in itself, to let anyone freely into my burrow, would be exquisitely painful to me. I built it for myself, not for visitors, and I think I would refuse to admit him … I simply could not admit him, for either I must let him go in first by himself, which is simply unimaginable, or we must both descend at the same time, in which case the advantage I am supposed to derive from him, that of being kept watch over, would be lost. And what trust can I really put in him? … It is comparatively easy to trust any one if you are supervising him or at least supervise him; perhaps it is possible to trust some one at a distance; but completely to trust someone outside the burrow when you are inside the burrow, that is, in a different world, that, it seems to me, is impossible.

One morning he is awakened by a faint whistling noise which he cannot identify or locate. It might be merely the wind, but it might be some enemy. From now on, he is in the grip of a hysterical anxiety. Does this strange beast, if it is a beast, know of his existence and, if so, what does it know. The story breaks off without a solution.

Edwin Muir has suggested that the story would have ended with the appearance of the invisible enemy to whom the hero would succumb. I am doubtful about this. The whole point of the parable seems to be that the reader is never to know if the narrator’s subjective fears have any objective justification.

The more we admire Kafka’s writings, the more seriously we must reflect upon his final instructions that they should be destroyed. At first one is tempted to see in this request a fantastic spiritual pride, as if he had said to himself: ‘To be worthy of me, anything I write must be absolutely perfect. But no piece of writing, however excellent, can be perfect. Therefore, let what I have written be destroyed as unworthy of me.’

But everything which Dr. Brod and other friends tell us about Kafka as a person makes nonsense of this explanation. It seems clear that Kafka did not think of himself as an artist in the traditional sense, that is to say, as a being dedicated to a particular function, whose personal existence is accidental to his artistic productions. If there ever was a man of whom it could be said that he ‘hungered and thirsted after righteousness’, it was Kafka.

Perhaps he came to regard what he had written as a personal device he had employed in his search for God. ‘Writing,’ he once wrote, ‘is a form of prayer,’ and no person whose prayers are genuine, desires them to be overheard by a third party. In another passage, he describes his aim in writing thus:

Somewhat as if one were to hammer together a table with painful and methodical technical efficiency, and simultaneously do nothing at all, and not in such a way that people could say: ‘Hammering a table together is nothing to him,’ but rather ‘Hammering a table together is really hammering a table together to him, but at the same time it is nothing,’ whereby certainly the hammering would have become still bolder, still surer, still more real, and if you will, still more senseless.

But whatever the reasons, Kafka’s reluctance to have his work published should at least make a reader wary of the way in which he himself reads it. Kafka may be one of those writers who are doomed to be read by the wrong public. Those on whom their effect would be most beneficial are repelled and on those whom they most fascinate their effect may be dangerous, even harmful.

I am inclined to believe that one should only read Kafka when one is in a eupeptic state of physical and mental health and, in consequence, tempted to dismiss any scrupulous heart-searching as a morbid fuss. When one is in low spirits, one should probably keep away from him, for, unless introspection is accompanied, as it always was in Kafka, by an equal passion for the good life, it all too easily degenerates into a spineless narcissistic fascination with one’s own sin and weakness.

No one who thinks seriously about evil and suffering can avoid entertaining as a possibility the gnostic-manichean notion of the physical world as intrinsically evil, and some of Kafka’s sayings come perilously close to accepting it.

There is only a spiritual world; what we call the physical world is the evil in the spiritual one.

The physical world is not an illusion, but only its evil which, however, admittedly constitutes our picture of the physical world.

Kafka’s own life and his writings as a whole are proof that he was not a gnostic at heart, for the true gnostic can alwaysbe recognized by certain characteristics. He regards himself as a member of a spiritual elite and despises all earthly affections and social obligations. Quite often, he also allows himself an anarchic immorality in his sexual life, on the grounds that, since the body is irredeemable, a moral judgment cannot be applied to its actions.

Neither Kafka, as Dr. Brod knew him, nor any of his heroes show a trace of spiritual snobbery nor do they think of the higher life they search for as existing in some otherworld sphere: the distinction they draw between this world and the world does not imply that there are two different worlds, only that our habitual conceptions of reality are not the true conception.

Perhaps, when he wished his writings to be destroyed, Kafka foresaw the nature of too many of his admirers.


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