In the West, philosophers like Marcus Aurelius ruled empires while meditating on detachment, seeking calm amid chaos. In China, centuries later, Xie An lived by similar principles—embracing peace and simplicity while greatness sought him out.
Eastern Jin Dynasty, around 360 CE
In the rolling hills of Kuaiji, a man sat quietly by a pond, folding a paper crane. The breeze stirred the bamboo, and the faint sound of a zither drifted through the courtyard. Xie An, noble by birth and gifted with brilliance, had once been offered high office—but he had refused, choosing instead the serenity of reclusion.
His friends often pressed him, saying, "The empire needs men of your talent. Why hide among mountains and poems?" Xie An only smiled. "When the heart is at peace," he replied, "even a small pond holds an empire's reflection."
Years passed, and turmoil grew across the realm. One evening, a royal messenger arrived, kneeling before Xie An's humble gate. "The court summons you," he pleaded. "The Jin state faces peril."
Xie An did not rise at once. He poured tea slowly, watching the steam curl and vanish into the night. "If a man cannot keep calm in his own house," he said, "how can he steady a kingdom?"
At last, he accepted the call—not from ambition, but from quiet duty. When he later led the empire to victory at the Battle of Fei River, those who had once mocked his detachment finally understood: his strength had always lain in stillness.
When asked afterward how he felt during the decisive hour, Xie An simply laughed. "I was playing chess," he said.
The laughter of Xie An lingered across generations—a reminder that peace can command even greater power than ambition. Yet tranquility alone does not explain the creation of beauty. Centuries later, another scholar would take up the brush, exploring not the politics of life, but the art of expression itself. His name was Liu Xie, and his masterpiece, Wenxin Diaolong, would carve the heart of Chinese literature into timeless form.