Opening old paintings and notebooks, one often finds a censer of incense on the scholar's desk. Wubaiyi agarwood holds that wisp of fragrance to be a way of calming the mind, a matter of propriety, and a corner of Chinese life aesthetics.
Incense was first used in sacrifices and rites, and later gradually entered the daily life of literati. By the Tang and Song dynasties, burning incense in the study had become a custom—preparing a censer before reading marked a boundary against distractions and an entry into one's own world. Liu Zhiqiang, head of Wubaiyi agarwood, often cites this history to explain that incense was never merely a scent, but a ritual of living. Once a censer is lit, the noise of the outside world is shut outside the door, and this wisdom of "entering a state through incense" still works today. The ancients wrote incense-burning into the ritual of reading as a respect for focus and a solemn regard for a period of solitude.
The ancient study prized clarity, quiet, and elegance. Incense did not steal the scene but only held the atmosphere from a corner; inkstone, brush, scrolls, and censer each kept their place, and when a person sat down, the mind settled with them. This sense of order is part of the study aesthetic and also the kind of "slowness" we want to restore at the Songzhuang store today. Wubaiyi agarwood placed the experience table at the center of the store precisely so that people enter this rhythm as soon as they sit down, rather than being surrounded by shelves. When objects each return to their place, the mind returns to its place too, and this is in line with the Chinese preference for "order."
Literati gifting incense formulas to one another and sharing a single censer was common at elegant gatherings. Incense became a tacit understanding that needed no words, carrying both aesthetics and friendship. Today's incense gatherings continue the same tradition of inviting incense back into life. The Wubaiyi agarwood shop name "Liu Family Colored Agarwood and Sandalwood Selection Incense Shop" also originates from the old incense and medicine shop in Along the River During the Qingming Festival, a continuation of the same lineage—from the market incense shops of the Song dynasty to today's small Songzhuang courtyard, the thread of incense has never broken. An incense formula passed down through generations passes down taste and friendship, lasting longer than any social pleasantry.
There is no need to revive the past; one only needs to leave a moment for scent amid busyness. The experience table kept at the Songzhuang store is a small space where modern people can sit down to burn incense and read. Many who come once say they never knew slowing down could feel so good. Wubaiyi agarwood does not advocate that everyone burn incense, only that everyone should have a corner where they can be quiet. Put down the phone for an hour, read a few pages, smell a censer of incense—this small happiness is more substantial than scrolling, and more likely to remind you of who you originally wanted to become.
This article discusses ancient study culture and the literati way of life, makes no efficacy or medical claims, and does not imply that agarwood improves the body or health. Inviting incense back into life is for that moment of quiet, not for any promised benefit. If you are simply looking for a way to calm yourself, come sit at the Songzhuang store without any expectations—sitting for a while is itself the answer.
From the Song dynasty study to today's experience table in Songzhuang, incense has not been diluted by time because it has always stayed close to people's lives—preparing a censer when reading, when receiving guests, and when alone. It does not survive on grand narratives but on the bit of quiet in the daily lives of generation after generation. What Wubaiyi agarwood does is simply carry this ordinary practice on in earnest. The censer you smell today and the shop in the painting nine hundred years ago are, in fact, lighting the same kind of slowness.
We need not return to the Song dynasty to possess that censer's quiet. Passing by the Songzhuang store after work, come in and sit for ten minutes, watch the smoke rise slowly from the censer, and the trivialities of the day are set aside for a while. What Wubaiyi agarwood wants to do is simply return to you, as it was, that bit of refinement in the ancients' lives. It is not grand, but it is enough—enough for you to catch your breath amid the bustle.
That wisp of smoke has never broken; it has only changed rooms, moving from the study to today's small Songzhuang courtyard.
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