The Scholar Who Never Made It: Pu Songling’s Frustration with the Imperial Exams

Pu Songling, the literary master behind Liaozhai Zhiyi (Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio), spent his life haunted by an unfulfilled ambition: passing the provincial-level imperial examinations to become a juren (举人). Though he believed himself more than qualified for the highest degree of jinshi (进士), the juren hurdle proved insurmountable. This agonizing struggle permeates his iconic work, particularly in tales like Prince An, where he memorably compares a scholar’s exam experience to seven vivid metaphors:

1. Entering the exam compound barefoot with a basket, like a beggar.
2. Enduring officials’ scolding during roll call, like a prisoner.
3. Crammed in a cell with heads peeking out, like autumn’s dying bees.
4. Stumbling out afterward, dazed as a sick bird freed from a cage.
5. Awaiting results, trembling at every rustling leaf, fantasizing success or despair.
6. Receiving rejection, stunned as a poisoned fly.
7. Cycling through rage, resignation, and renewed hope like a dove rebuilding its nest.

These metaphors, born from decades of personal torment, reveal Pu’s bitter conclusion: “The path to office is dark; without bribes, one cannot reach the emperor’s notice.”

The Hollow Honor: Pu’s Lifelong Wait for Recognition

Pu became a xiucai (秀才) at 19 but waited until age 72 for the consolation prize of gongsheng (贡生), a substitute juren title. This “senior licentiate” status, earned through sheer longevity as a low-tier scholar, granted minimal privileges: a nominal “Candidate for Confucian Instructorship” (a non-ranked clerical post) and four taels of silver—which the local magistrate delayed paying. The elderly Pu had to petition repeatedly, even pleading poverty during a drought, just to receive the ceremonial flag and plaque acknowledging his status.

The famous portrait of Pu in gongsheng robes, painted by artist Zhu Xianglin at age 74, captures his weary pride. Pu praised its lifelike detail in verse, yet the image symbolizes unfulfilled potential—a genius trapped by systemic failure.

Liaozhai Zhiyi: How Failure Fueled a Literary Masterpiece

Pu’s obsession with the exams ironically birthed China’s greatest collection of supernatural tales. His hometown of Zichuan, steeped in legends of ancient philosophers and political strategists, nurtured his imagination. By 25, he’d begun drafting Liaozhai, despite friends like Zhang Duqing warning it would derail his exam prospects (“Stop chasing phantoms!”).

Writing was a grueling labor of love. As a impoverished tutor, Pu scribbled stories by freezing winters, reusing paper, and transcribing tales like Lianxiang from travelers’ anecdotes. His poem—”All news becomes my ghost-fox history; no wine can drown my sorrows”—hints at his deeper purpose: using the supernatural to critique societal ills, much like Qu Yuan’s allegorical laments.

The Cultural Earthquake: Liaozhai’s Subversive Legacy

While countless juren faded into obscurity, Pu’s “failures” produced enduring art. His stories exposed the exam system’s cruelty (Ye Sheng features a scholar who dies of despair, only to haunt the exams posthumously) and mocked its arbitrariness (Si Wenlang involves an examiner who sniffs essays blindfolded). This thematic boldness made Liaozhai a precursor to later critiques of Confucian orthodoxy.

Modern scholars note Pu’s psychological depth—his ghosts and fox spirits embody repressed desires and societal tensions. The tale Jia Fengzhi even satirizes exam culture through a protagonist who deliberately writes terrible essays (mocking examiners’ poor taste), only to pass when he stops trying.

Why Pu Songling Still Matters Today

Pu’s life mirrors modern struggles between practicality and passion. His persistence—writing without pay, balancing teaching and creativity—resonates with artists everywhere. Academically, Liaozhai bridges classical and vernacular literature, influencing genres from magical realism to horror.

Most importantly, his work humanizes history’s “losers.” As Pu himself wrote: “My tales are born from loneliness worse than hunger.” In giving voice to the marginalized—failed scholars, women, and the supernatural—he crafted a timeless mirror of human resilience. The very system that spurned him immortalized his name, proving that genius, once unleashed, defies even the strictest cages.