A Literary Genius Born in the Wrong System

Pu Songling (1640–1715), celebrated today as the mastermind behind Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio (Liaozhai Zhiyi), lived a life overshadowed by an unfulfilled obsession: passing the imperial civil service examinations. His story is one of brilliance misaligned with bureaucratic rigidity, a poignant reflection of how China’s meritocratic system could both inspire and crush talent.

Born into a declining gentry family in Shandong province, Pu showed early literary promise. His flair for storytelling and lyrical prose earned him local fame, particularly after topping three consecutive preliminary exams—a feat that cemented his reputation as a rising scholar. Yet this very talent became his Achilles’ heel. His mentor, Shi Runzhang, a renowned poet-official, praised Pu’s unconventional examination essays for their narrative flair. Little did Pu know that such stylistic freedom would doom his bureaucratic ambitions.

The Iron Cage of the Eight-Legged Essay

The Ming and Qing dynasties’ examination system demanded mastery of the baguwen (八股文), an eight-legged essay format notorious for its rigid structure. Successful candidates replicated sterile, formulaic arguments on Confucian classics—a far cry from Pu’s vivid, imaginative writing. As historian Benjamin Elman notes, the system rewarded conformity, not creativity.

Pu’s first four attempts at the provincial-level xiangshi (乡试) ended in failure. His essays, though admired by literati like Shi, were deemed “unorthodox” by conservative examiners. These gatekeepers had themselves climbed the ladder by regurgitating standardized prose; they viewed Pu’s deviations as heresy. A telling irony: the man who would later redefine classical Chinese fiction was punished for the same originality that immortalized him.

A Glimpse of Officialdom: The Southern Sojourn

At 31, Pu accepted a rare foray into bureaucracy as a private secretary to Sun Hui, a county magistrate in Jiangsu. This year-long stint (1670–71) exposed him to the grime beneath the scholar-official’s polished veneer: corruption, sycophancy, and the drudgery of administrative paperwork. Yet instead of disillusioning him, the experience bizarrely fueled his ambition. When Sun asked whom he aspired to emulate, Pu boldly named Guo Ziyi—the Tang Dynasty’s legendary general-statesman. The gap between his menial role and imperial dreams was laughable, yet it underscored a tragic truth: for Pu, the examinations were the only path to dignity.

The Grind of a Perpetual Xiucai

Pu spent over 50 years as a xiucai (秀才), the lowest degree-holder, trapped in an endless cycle of tests:
– Annual Evaluations (岁考): Determined if a xiucai qualified for stipends.
– Qualifying Exams (科考): Filtered candidates for the triennial xiangshi.

Historical records suggest Pu attempted the xiangshi around ten times between his 20s and 60s—a staggering 30-year investment for a chance at becoming a juren (举人). Each failure compounded his desperation. In letters, he lamented passing “three years after three years in vain.” His wife, Liu Shi, pragmatically urged him to abandon the chase, but societal pressure and self-worth kept him hooked.

Cruel Twists of Fate: The 1687 “Leap Page” Disaster

Pu’s 1687 attempt at age 48 epitomized his examination curse. Confident in his essay, he wrote feverishly—only to realize he’d skipped a page (“越幅”), violating formatting rules. The blunder led to public disqualification. His poem The Great Sacred Joy (大圣乐) captures the horror:
> “A thousand ladles of cold sweat soak my robes;
> My soul flees my body—
> I feel neither pain nor itch.”

Even this humiliation didn’t deter him. He continued drafting practice essays, including sycophantic Thank You Memorials for hypothetical imperial decrees—groveling exercises that mocked his literary genius.

The Final Blow: 1690 and Beyond

In 1690, Pu, then 51, seemed poised for redemption. After ranking first in preliminary rounds, illness forced him to abandon the final tests. His bitter poem Drunk in Peace (醉太平) compared himself to a wet nurse who “swaddles the baby upside-down”—a veteran fumbling his life’s work.

By his 60s, Pu transferred his ambitions to his sons, who likewise failed. Even students he tutored never passed beyond xiucai. The system that denied him became a generational curse.

Legacy: The Phoenix from the Ashes

Pu’s examination failures gifted the world an unintended masterpiece. Strange Tales, written during his decades of rejection, subverted the very literary norms that excluded him. His ghost stories and satires—like The Examination Hell (考弊司)—laid bare the system’s absurdities. Modern scholars argue his outsider status granted him the clarity to critique Qing society with unmatched daring.

Today, Pu is revered as China’s answer to Edgar Allan Poe, while the examiners who spurned him are footnotes. His life poses enduring questions: How many geniuses did imperial systems waste? And can true artistry only flourish in the ruins of bureaucratic dreams?

Ironically, the man who longed to draft edicts for emperors achieved immortality by speaking for the forgotten—prostitutes, foxes, and ghosts. In the end, Pu Songling’s quill proved mightier than any official seal.