In the West, many remember Diogenes, the Greek philosopher who lived in a barrel and mocked society's vanity. In another world and another time, China too had its thinkers who turned away from politics and sought truth in wine, friendship, and the open air of the bamboo grove. Among them stood Ji Kang—a man whose music could calm the wind, yet whose words could shake an empire.
Wei–Jin Transition, around 260 CE
The state was weary, its rulers suspicious, its people tired of endless schemes. Scholars bent their words to power, twisting principle for favor. But Ji Kang would not bend. "To serve the corrupt," he once said, "is to bury one's spirit alive."
So he withdrew to the countryside, where the bamboo grew thick and the air smelled of rain. There he gathered with friends—men of wit and vision—playing music, debating life and death, and drinking until laughter dissolved into thought. To outsiders, they seemed mad. To those who listened, they were free.
One evening, as twilight filtered through the leaves, Ji Kang took up his zither. The notes rose like mist, light yet unyielding, echoing both defiance and serenity. His companions fell silent, knowing they were hearing not a melody but a confession—one man's truth carved from sound.
Word of Ji Kang's independence reached the court. Officials warned him to submit, to write praises for those in power. But Ji Kang replied only, "I play the zither for my own peace, not to please the world." When they finally came for him, he met death with calm eyes, as if he were stepping back into the same bamboo shadows that had sheltered his thoughts.
The melody of Ji Kang's zither lingered long after the strings fell silent, weaving through time like a quiet rebellion. Yet not all who sought freedom fought so openly. Some chose gentler paths—wandering, drinking, or simply dreaming beneath the same bamboo leaves, where philosophy softened into reflection and the world blurred between truth and illusion.