If a piece of writing contradicts its author’s aspirations, why bother to write it at all? Here, yan (言) stands for either “speech” or “writing,” and zhi (志) refers to an author’s feelings and aspirations. The term originates from The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons by Liu Xie (465?-520? or 532?) of the Southern Dynasties. In Liu’s view, a writer should write to express his feelings and aspirations in the same way the authors of The Book of Songs did, bursting into songs and verses to voice their aspirations, sorrows and joys. Only such writings can be truly good. If what they put down on paper does not accord with what they think or feel, or if they themselves are soulless and can only show an affected sentimentality, their writings will naturally prove meaningless. This term criticises writers who are pompous and flashy to the neglect of true feelings

Trees bearing peaches and plums do not have to talk, yet the world, attracted by the sweet fruits they yield, beats a path to them. A man once planted an orchid but its flowers did not exude any fragrance. Why? Because he did not put his heart into his cultivation. Even trees and flowers rely on sincere care to bear fruit or to give off a sweet scent. So it is with the business of writing, which is essentially about voicing one’s feelings and wishes. If what is written contradicts the author’s aspirations, what’s the point of writing at all? (Liu Xie: The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons)