Poetry as the Religion of the Chinese
This short review explores Lin Yutang's assertion that poetry serves as the religion of the Chinese, examining parallels between poetry and religion in terms of spiritual solace and social control, while drawing comparisons to Zen Buddhism and reflecting on poetry's role in modern life.
Poetry as the Religion of the Chinese
In My Country and My People, Lin Yutang asserts: "Poetry has taken the place of religion in China". Religion serves as a vessel for the spirit and a solace for the soul. Yet, religion concurrently possesses qualities of social control and inherent obscurantism. Viewed from these two perspectives, Lin’s thesis carries profound implications.
In their nascent stages, religions are often predicated on the aspirations of the people, serving as an emotional and spiritual anchorage; thus, they are initially imbued with humanity. In the Old Testament, the Book of Exodus recounts how God, to compel Pharaoh to release the Hebrews, visited Ten Plagues upon Egypt, the final one being the slaying of the firstborn. While such retribution is severe, it can be interpreted as a projection of an oppressed people’s indignation, creating a tension with the later image of "God is Love." Similarly, in the early stages of poetry—such as the yuefu (Music Bureau, 乐府) ballads of the Han and Wei dynasties—the subject matter remained close to daily life, and the emotions were candid, sincere, and unfettered by formalist constraints. Later "Archist" (Return to Antiquity, 复古) movements often looked back to this period for inspiration; Chen Zi'ang’s line, "Looking out at the vastness of the universe / Alone I grieve, and my tears fall" (念天地之悠悠，独怆然而涕下), is a continuation of this direct expression of the heart.
As religions evolve, however, another facet emerges: their role as instruments of order and social control. The European Middle Ages represented the most prominent era of religious authority eclipsing the "poetic" spirit. The Crusades, spanning nearly two centuries, were waged under the banner of "Holy War", yet entangled faith with secular desires. Poetry followed a parallel trajectory: from early folk songs to courtly panegyrics, and eventually to the intellectualization and "Neo-Confucianization" (说理化与道学化) following the Song Dynasty. While poetry advanced in artistic refinement, it was also incorporated into the Confucian didactic apparatus. Following the zenith of Tang poetry, the lyrical space gradually narrowed. Though this did not reach the extremes of religious alienation, poetry’s function of healing the soul through "spontaneous response to nature" (ganfa, 感发) was diminished, becoming instead tainted by the shadows of secular ambition and power, much like organized religion.
Expanding upon the shared shortcomings of poetry and religion, the virtues of poetry far outweigh its flaws—which aligns with Lin Yutang’s original intent of high praise. Just as a reading of the Holy Bible begins with "In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters" (Genesis 1:1-2), so does our reading of poetry often commence with Li Bai’s "The bright moon shines before my bed / I wonder if it’s frost on the ground" (床前明月光，疑是地上霜). For a child, both passages carry a hazy obscurity and mystery; yet it is this initial contact that shapes our earliest aesthetic worldview and imparts our first sense of the poetic. To say "Poetry is the religion of the Chinese" implies that it leads us to knock upon the gates of life and enlightens our thoughts.
While the previous analogy utilized Christianity, it served primarily to highlight the characteristics of the "Chinese religion" through a Western lens. I am more inclined to believe that poetry is closer to Sinicized Buddhism—specifically Zen (Chan, 禅宗) Buddhism. Poetry often possesses an Idealist hue; in its transmission of emotion, it causes "all things to be dyed in my colors" (万物皆着我之色彩). As Zhong Rong wrote in the Preface to the Shipin (The Gradation of Poets, 《诗品序》): "The vital force (qi, 气) moves things, and things move man; therefore, one’s disposition and nature are stirred and find expression in dance and song" (气之动物，物之感人，故摇荡性情，形诸舞咏). The Zen aphorism "In a single flower, a world" (一花一世界; Sanskrit: Ekapuṣpa-ekalokadhātu) also originates from the mind; the mental image (xinxiang, 心象) determines the phenomenal world (wuxiang, 物相). Fortunately, Zen does not extinguish human emotion. We see many eminent monks composing verses, while many poets are deeply versed in the "flavor of Zen" (chanqu, 禅趣). Poetic and Zen meanings harmonize so seamlessly that whether a secular person or a monastic (fangwaizhi-shi, 方外之士) speaks of poetry, both may grasp the subtle epiphany of "Twirling a flower and smiling" (拈花微笑; Sanskrit: Picka-Vihara).
Finally, we consider the status of poetry in modern life. As technological advancement has gradually eroded religious authority, classical poetry has receded from daily expression a century after the Vernacular Movement. We no longer write classical poetry—indeed, we largely lack the capacity to do so. We no longer find spiritual sustenance in poetry; we read it, but the spirit therein belongs to the ancients, not necessarily to ourselves. Poetry has lost its native environment —like a fish out of water—making us wonder: is poetry dead? We gaze upon its remains, praise it, and critique it, yet it remains something we have lost.
How do we face poetry today? Perhaps we can look at a parallel problem in the religious sphere. Ridley Scott's epic film Exodus: Gods and Kings depicts Moses leading the Hebrews out of Egypt. In the famous scene where Moses parts the Red Sea, the film eschews a purely supernatural spectacle, focusing instead on Moses’ doubt and confusion. Ultimately, he finds a path by observing the tidal currents. It suggests that perhaps there are no "miracles" in the traditional sense, and perhaps God is absent—yet man still possesses the capacity to create miracles and forge a path forward. This is akin to erecting a monument to religion while preserving its rationality and sanctity. Our relationship with poetry is the same. We read poetry, and we shall continue to do so; it is as if we are laying flowers before its monument, to remember, and to demonstrate that its vitality endures.