He was so unworldly and so little of a courtier that when the new Emperor
Su Tsung returned in triumph to the capital and appointed him Imperial Censor,
he fulfilled his new duties by telling his majesty the whole unpalatable truth
in a manner strangely free from ornamental apology, and was promptly rewarded
with the exile of a provincial governorship. But Tu Fu was no man of affairs,
and knew it. On the day of his public installation he took off
his insignia of office before the astonished notables, and, laying them
one by one on the table, made them a profound reverence, and quietly withdrew.

Like his friend Li Po, he became a homeless wanderer, but, unlike him,
he concealed his brilliant name, obtaining food and patronage
for his delightful nameless self alone, and not for his reputation's sake.
Finally, he was discovered by the military governor
of the province of Ssuch`uan, who applied on his behalf
for the post of Restorer of Ancient Monuments in the district,
the one congenial appointment of his life. For six years he kept his post;
then trouble in the shape of rebel hordes burst once more upon the province,
and again he became an exile. The last act of this eventful life
took place in his native district: some local mandarin gave a great banquet
in honour of the distinguished poet, whom he had rescued,
half drowned and famishing, from the ruined shrine by the shore
where the waters had cast him up. The wine-cup brimmed again and again,
food was piled up in front of the honoured guest, and the attendant who waited
was Death. The end was swift, sudden, and pitiful. The guest died
from the banquet of his rescuer.

Of all poets Tu Fu is the first in craftsmanship. It is interesting to add
that he was a painter as well, and the friend of painters,
notably the soldier-artist, Kiang-Tu, to whom he dedicates a poem.
Possibly it is to this faculty that he owes his superb technique.