Chapter Seventy-Three: Punctuation Marks

After quite some time, the people of the Imperial Academy finally realized that what the Mohist youth had wanted them to observe was not the poem itself, but rather this unique form of chalk writing.

“What is this?” Kong Yingda’s cheeks flushed slightly, perhaps searching for something to say.

“This surface is called a blackboard, and this white object is chalk, which allows one to write on the blackboard. I have noticed that the scholars of the Imperial Academy labor greatly when lecturing, often having to repeat themselves many times. With this blackboard and chalk, the burden on the teachers will be greatly reduced,” Mo Dun explained, picking up a piece of chalk and demonstrating by writing a few words on the board. He then erased them easily with a simple blackboard eraser.

Several of the Academy’s scholars stepped forward to try it themselves, all singing its praises. Indeed, the blackboard and chalk could considerably lessen the teachers’ workload.

Kong Yingda’s eyes sparkled as he nodded to himself; this was truly a fine invention. Yet, proud as a Confucian, he was unwilling to admit defeat so easily.

“This is all well and good, but compared to the curved-beam plow, it still falls far short!” he insisted stubbornly.

Mo Dun smiled at the elder’s refusal to yield. “Then, Master, I invite you to take a closer look at this poem.”

Kong Yingda smiled as well, secretly pleased. The Mohist youth was still too young and could not resist showing off his poetic skills at last.

“It is indeed a rare and excellent poem, vividly expressing the hardship of farmers and the difficulty of obtaining food, advising people to cherish provisions and avoid waste. It is highly instructive, and I believe the Minister of Agriculture would greatly appreciate it!” Kong Yingda launched into an elaborate analysis, dissecting the poem thoroughly.

Li Shimin nodded inwardly, deeply satisfied. Since its founding, the Tang dynasty had always valued agriculture and sericulture. Now, with the Mohists’ inventions—the curved-beam plow and seed-drilling cart—next year’s harvest would surely increase. With such an edifying poem, agriculture would flourish all the more.

Kong Yingda felt secretly triumphant, but as he caught a glimpse of Mo Dun’s mocking smile, he grew suspicious and examined the poem again with greater care.

“There’s nothing wrong with it! That’s exactly what it means!” he thought, puzzled. Yet some strange feeling tugged at him, a hunch that there was some hidden trick to this poem.

Suddenly, his gaze froze, fixed on the final punctuation mark of the poem, as if struck by lightning.

Others noticed Kong Yingda’s odd reaction and were about to ask, when he abruptly stepped forward, almost pressing his face to the blackboard, staring hard at the tadpole-shaped symbols and little circles Mo Dun had left at the end of each line.

“What are those?” Kong Yingda asked, his voice trembling.

“Punctuation marks!” Mo Dun replied.

“What are they for?” Kong Yingda’s intuition told him these would be of great importance.

Mo Dun smiled, saying nothing, and wrote a new sentence on the blackboard.

“It’s raining today, and I’m keeping guests—shall I keep myself, or not?” Li Shimin read softly.

“Boy, what’s the meaning of this? Are you trying to drive us away?” Cheng Yaojin bared his teeth in a mock threat.

“Uncle Cheng, you jest! I would be more than happy to have you stay; why would I send you away?” Mo Dun hastily explained. “Allow me to share a little story with everyone.”

“A story? I like stories,” Cheng Yaojin replied with a chuckle.

Li Shimin smiled as well, recalling the story Mo Dun had once told outside the South City Gate about the catfish effect; it had caused quite a stir in Chang’an.

“According to the secret writings of Master Mo, once he visited a miser’s house as a guest. It began to rain heavily, and the stingy host, reluctant to let Master Mo stay, wrote a note: ‘It’s raining, so guests stay; the sky keeps me, not I.’ Upon seeing the note, Master Mo laughed heartily, added a few strokes, and cheerfully found a room to settle in. The host, seeing the revised note, had no choice but to accept it,” Mo Dun narrated, once again invoking the all-purpose writings of Master Mo.

“Why was that?” Qin Qiong asked curiously. Given the host’s miserly nature, it seemed unlikely he would yield so easily.

Mo Dun added a few punctuation marks to the blackboard, and the entire meaning of the sentence transformed.

“It’s raining today—let us keep the guests. Shall I keep myself? Yes, keep!” Qin Qiong read the words and burst out laughing.

A single sentence, separated by punctuation, could produce two completely opposite meanings. No wonder the miserly host had to accept defeat.

Li Shimin also laughed heartily. The two sentences had utterly contrary meanings, and the note left by the host had been cleverly altered by Master Mo, resolving the awkward dilemma of having nowhere to stay during the rain.

“In my view, this sentence could be read another way: ‘It’s raining, guests may stay—shall I keep myself? No, do not keep!’” Li Shimin, with childlike delight, continued the wordplay.

Cheng Yaojin eagerly followed, “It’s raining, guests may stay—shall I keep myself? Yes, keep!”

The two of them played with the sentence back and forth, thoroughly enjoying themselves.

Kong Yingda snorted, “It’s nothing but a jest—what significance does it have?”

“Oh? Then, Master, please look at this sentence,” Mo Dun said, writing another on the blackboard.

“The people may be made to follow, but not to understand.”

“This sentence comes from Chapter Eight of the Analects, Tai Bo. It means the people should follow our guidance without needing to understand why,” Liu Yinian declared proudly, eager to display his learning and win the emperor’s favor.

Mo Dun shook his head. “Master Kong advocated teaching without discrimination, had three thousand disciples and seventy-two worthies. Even Master Mo admired him greatly. I do not believe Master Kong would promote a policy of keeping the people ignorant!”

“A policy of ignorance?”

As soon as these words left Mo Dun’s lips, Li Shimin and Kong Yingda both stiffened. For generations, emperors had governed based on “the people may be made to follow, but not to understand.” Now, hearing it called a policy of ignorance, they realized how fitting the term was.

Mo Dun added two punctuation marks to the sentence on the blackboard, and its meaning was transformed entirely.

“The people—when possible, let them follow freely; when not, let them know the reasons. For those who can, give liberty; for those who cannot, let them understand. Teaching according to ability—this perfectly reflects Confucian rule by virtue, following the will of the people, enlightening the people’s minds,” Mo Dun explained.

Mo Dun’s words left Kong Yingda drenched in sweat. He realized they might have misunderstood Master Kong’s intent. Worse still, they had governed the nation based on this mistake.

Before today, he would have unwaveringly believed the original interpretation. Had anyone questioned Master Kong, he would have defended him to the death.

But now, re-examining the sentence, he saw it could be interpreted in three different ways:

“The people may be guided; if not, let them know.”

“The people may be guided, but not to know.”

“The people may be guided? No, they may be made to know.”

Li Shimin’s face darkened. He had always revered Master Kong and relied heavily on Kong Yingda to train talent for the Tang, but now he realized he may have governed for nearly a decade based on a mistaken principle.

“Kong Aiqing, I order you to immediately use punctuation marks to clarify the meaning in all Confucian classics, striving for complete accuracy,” Li Shimin commanded sternly.

“I obey, Your Majesty!” Kong Yingda bowed and departed.

As he reached the door, he suddenly paused, bowed deeply to the statue of Master Mo enshrined in the Scholar’s Tower, and exclaimed, “Master Mo was truly a man of great wisdom!” With a long sigh, he hurried away.