Much of the personal investment in this study derives from my awareness of being an “Oriental” as a child growing up in two British colonies. All of my education, in these colonies (Palestine and Egypt) and in the United States, has been Western, and yet that deep early awareness has persisted. In many ways my study of Orientalism has been an attempt to inventory the traces upon me, the Oriental subject, of the culture whose domination has been so powerful a factor in the life of all Orientals.

These three challenging critiques deal mainly with the problem of methodology and two “how much” questions: if Neo-Confucianism exhibited what Max Weber called “tension,” was this tension as strong as I claim? Granted that there was considerable continuity between Confucian and modern thought, was there as much as I claim?

Following the end of the Second World War, Japanese and foreign scholars eagerly seized upon the concept of fascism as the basis of an analytic framework for explaining what had gone wrong in pre-war Japan and who, if anyone, could be held responsible. The literature on Japanese fascism is, as a result, quite extensive; some of it is richly insightful. The problem with such studies, however, is that fascism has never been satisfactorily defined, either logically or empirically. Recent studies have shown how difficult it is to find a definition that is at once broad enough to encompass the varieties of fascism across time and space and yet concrete enough to illumine distinctive characteristics. In this comment, some of the salient distinguishing features of the Japanese experience are alluded to, and a few important questions which studies of Japanese fascism have failed to address are identified. After nearly forty years' pursuit of the phantom of fascism, the time has come to direct our search toward alternative theoretical concepts which promise to throw new light and fresh perspective on what happened during the twenties and thirties, and why.

This article examines the recent assertion by a scholar of Burmese history that extensive landholding by the Buddhist monkhood helped to undermine every dynasty between the ninth and nineteenth century. It argues that religious wealth, possibly before the fifteenth century and certainly after that period, was less significant than has been suggested, and that the institutional relation between throne and monkhood was by no means static. During the later dynasties, secular elites represented the principal threat to the centralization of resources. Further, in certain instances, royal purification of the Religion sought not to deprive the monkhood of wealth, but to strengthen both the Religion and the crown at the expense of private lay interests.

In his autobiography Loren Eiseley wrote: “One exists in a universe convincingly real, where the lines are sharply drawn in black and white. It is only later, if at all, that one realizes the lines were never there in the first place. But they are necessary in every human culture, like a drill sergeant's commands, something not to be questioned.” We who are non-Japanese students of Japan form a culture of our own, and Edward Said's Orientalism helps us to see, perhaps for the first time, the “drill sergeant's commands” to which we respons.

An earlier generation of Mughal scholars used the British-Indian Empire of the late Imperial period (c. 1875–1914) as its model for interpreting the Mughal state. The highly structured military, judicial, and administrative systems of the British Raj provided the perspective from which they viewed the material on the Mughal state contained in the Persian sources. Unfortunately, the assumptions implicit in this approach caused both a misreading of the Persian texts and a misunderstanding of the Mughal state. This essay argues that the patrimonial bureaucratic empire, a model developed by Max Weber, better captures the true character of the Mughal polity. A close analysis of the major Persian text on Mughal government, the A'in-i Akbari of Abu al-Fazl, demonstrates the superiority and appropriateness of the patrimonial-bureaucratic empire as a model for understanding the Mughal state.

That the late Tang and Song form a watershed in Chinese history is an idea that needs no introduction in these pages. It has won the general acceptance of scholars of the most varying historical (and political) persuasions. New political institutions, including a sophisticated bureaucracy staffed by officials chosen for their ability; a proliferation of cities and towns, as well as the markets to support them; the largest standing army seen anywhere in the world to that time; a brilliant reformulation of the Confucian tradition with profound effects not only on the elite but on the population at large: the magnitude of these and other changes is undeniable.

Katō Shūichi's new history of Japanese literature will be completed with the publication of its second volume, promised by the publisher for 1980, and advertised as “tak[ing] the story from the end of the Muromachi period … to the present day”). Whatever critical response ultimately greets the project, no one is likely to complain that the author tried to keep us in the dark about the theoretical assumptions, much less the analytical approach, that he means to bring to bear upon his subject. Indeed, the entire long introduction (pp. 1–26) with which the first volume of Katō's history begins is an exposition of the author's working hypotheses, under five main subheadings. We are told that “[b]y tracing these factors and seeing how they interrelate, a clear picture of the structure of Japanese literature emerges and it becomes possible to present an orderly account of the history of that literature …” (p. 1). After giving this remarkably clear statement of his analytic work-plan, the author at once plunges into his main task, in chapters on “The Age of the Manyōshū,” “The Age of the Genji monogatari and the Konjaku monogatari,” and “The Age of Nō and Kyōgen.”

The discovery in Hunan in 1973 of silk manuscripts over two thousand years old opened a new field of Chinese studies. The find is of considerable value and importance to students of Chinese archaeology, palaeography, textual criticism, history, and philosophy. The Silk Manuscripts of Ma-wang-tui, containing around 120,000 characters, include two hitherto unknown versions of the Lao Tzu and probably the lost “Four Scriptures of the Yellow Emperor.” A preliminary investigation of these texts indicates that they represent a mode of thinking referred to in the Historical Records as the “thought of Huang-Lao,” that was prevalent in China in the second century B.C. and that may have originated in the ancient state of Ch'u. This paper proposes that the thought of Huang-Lao, as a fusion of Taoist and Legalist ideas, articulates a coherent political philosophy that emphasizes the inseparability of the metaphysical foundations of politics and the art of government as a daily routine.

Before Liberation, the history of the revolution of 1911 fell within the domain of Kuomintang party history. Although numerous publications appeared, some of which possessed historical value, generally speaking an orthodox point of view occupied the dominant position. Many published works were filled with prejudice and distortion and should not be regarded as genuine historical research.

Since the new China was established, research on the revolution of 1911 has gradually become a branch of modern Chinese history, which takes historical materialism as its leading principle.