Abibliophobic

In the distant past, all lived under Heaven (天下), united under the great Sovereigns. But the world descended into five centuries of decline and chaos, and the realm of 天下 fractured into seven warring kingdoms. From this crucible emerged the western Kingdom of Qin. Forged by barbarian invasions from the west and enemy kingdoms to the east, the once-backwater land of Qin became a centralized martial state, harnessing the advancements of civilization in the form of crossbows and combining them with the horse traditions of the steppe barbarians. Thus, the state of Qin began its conquest, starting with the Kingdom of Han in 230 BC.

The King of Qin, born Ying Zheng, was trained under the harsh discipline of Legalist philosophy and guided by the merit-seeking reforms of Lü Buwei (呂不韋). When Ying Zheng took the throne, his conquest subdued the Han Kingdom, followed quickly by Zhao, Wei, Chu, Yan, and finally Qi. By 221 BC, at 38 years of age, Ying Zheng ascended the ancient mountain of Taishan, where generations before had gone to commune with Heaven. There, he performed the rites of Fengshan and proclaimed a covenant with Heaven, whereby justice, wisdom, and peace throughout this new Empire of Qin would be rewarded through the unification of all under Heaven. This new dynasty was marked by the symbol of the tiger and embodied by the element of water. The Qin kingdom, having previously collected all Nine Ancestral Cauldrons (九鼎), carved this covenant into a seal from the mythical jade pieces of the Three Sovereigns (三皇) and Five Rulers (五帝). Here, Ying Zheng shed his name as a mere king (王) and combined the names of the ancient sovereigns into the new title: Emperor (皇帝), taking the name Qin ShiHuang (秦始皇帝), the First Emperor of Qin.

China (Qin) would no longer be a collection of chaotic and competing kingdoms. Qin ShiHuang centralized the structure across the land, removing borders between the kingdoms and connecting them through standardized roads, weights, measures, coinage, and written language. He carved new infrastructure projects through rivers, creating a connective tissue of canals and waterways that united lands which could not be connected by roads alone. And while Qin Shi Huang broke down the internal borders of the kingdoms, he established new ones along the frontiers in a network of walls and outlooks that would eventually become the Great Wall.

But the intensity and focus with which Qin Shi Huang stitched together his new empire became the very weight that would so quickly tear it apart. In his pursuit of immortality, Qin Shi Huang died in 210 BC at the mere age of 49. In his wake remained an unforgiving system of Legalism, which demanded absolute obedience and dedication, and those who failed to meet its standards were subjected to severe punishment. Several rebellions ignited in response to forced labor, excessively strict laws and punishments, and harsh taxation. Within a mere fifteen years, the grand unification project of China fractured once again, and all under Heaven was plunged back into violence and chaos.

A dynasty may rise and fall just as the river swells and recedes, carving valleys where none existed before. Tigers who once ruled the lowlands may one day disappear, and ancient cauldrons, once so precious, may vanish into legend. Even the grandest armies of one hundred thousand may one day crumble, for these are the things of the earth that come and go. But the dream of Heaven that was lifted that day upon Mount Taishan endures forever. And for the next 2000 years of Chinese Civilization, the path carved by Qin ShiHuang was developed and followed.

The example of the First Emperor's dynasty was clear: as quickly as Heaven can grant its blessings, they can just as swiftly be taken away. To rule Tianxia was never about power, class, wealth, or lineage; it was to bear the weight of Heaven itself, and anyone willing to carry that Mandate can unite the realm. The title of Emperor would be grasped by peasants, warriors, kings, beggars, men and women alike. Just as the timeless words engraved upon that ancient seal once said:

受命於天，既壽永昌 "Having received the Mandate of Heaven, may there be longevity and prosperity."

Marcus Aurelius Antoninus: the last of the Five Good Emperors, the great Philosopher-King. At least, that is how his legacy is remembered 2000 years on. Behind the peace and stability of his rule lies a reign defined as much by catastrophe and loss as by wisdom. Marcus Aurelius’ early rule coincided with one of the most devastating crises of the Roman world: the Antonine Plague

The plague entered the Roman Empire around 165AD, it spread rapidly along trade routes and through densely populated cities within the Roman world. Contemporary accounts, like the physician Galen describes high fevers, skin eruptions, and death on a previously unfathonable scale. Millions within the Roman borders died, with some regions losing a quarter of their population. The pandemic weakened the empire’s economy, depleted its manpower, and undermined it's military at a time when Rome faced increasing pressure along its frontiers.

It was in this environment of disease, war, and uncertainty that Marcus Aurelius ruled. The Pax Romana was not the image of stability and tranquility we often like to believe. Instead it was a peace maintained through constant warfare and personal sacrifice. Marcus spent most of his reign with the legions campaigning along the Danube borderlands. In this environment of war and plague, we received the most intimate window into Marcus Aurelius’ inner life. Here, he penned his private journals, later compiled as "The Meditations". These fragmented, repetitive, and intensely personal notes written to himself for himself were never intended for any eyes other than his own. In them, we glimpse the private thoughts of the most powerful man of the second century as he struggled to reconcile the philosophy of his youth with the relentless realities of the world.

Understanding the context of Marcus Aurelius' life as the first great pandemic of the Roman era is crucial in understanding the full depth of his writings. He and his wife, Faustina, had at least 13 children, yet only one son, the infamous Commodus, survived to adulthood. Us later generations often ask how Marcus Aurelius, after a lifetime of disciplined and principled rule, could leave the empire to a successor so ill-suited to the task. The answer may be more plainly understood than we wish to see. In The Meditations, we hear the voice of a man acutely aware of impermanence, duty, and the limits of his own power. A voice of a father who has outlived most of his children.

What we find amongst the inner monologue of Marcus Aurelia are measured, thoughtful, and often sobering reminders on how to live well: to act according to nature, to remain humble, and to accept death. Yet the circumstances under which these maxims were written should never be forgotten. When Marcus addresses “you” in the Meditations, he is addressing himself. These are not commands given to students, but reminders to himself to buttress against his most critical and personal weaknesses: exhaustion, grief, and doubt.

Marcus Aurelius was human, and more sentimental than he wished to be. He knew death, loss, and sorrow not as abstractions, but as daily companions. By the end of his life, worn down by illness and years of campaigning, he returned to nature as he had long counseled, expressing the quiet hope that even his name would one day fade. And yet, nearly two thousand years later, his private reminders endure. Written amid pandemic, war, and personal tragedy, Marcus Aurelius’ words are an unintended inheritance to us—one that, that if listened to with the same level of humility and acceptance of one’s own weaknesses, as Marcus did, can still yet offer wisdom.