Closing the book, I still have only a few lines of idle words to add.
Half a year later, it is finally complete. I poured a great deal of effort into writing it, yet through these six hundred thousand-odd characters, there is only one thing: feeling.
The affection between brothers, between sisters, between husband and wife, and at the very end, Li Congjia’s feeling.
He never speaks of love, and neither do I. To say “love” in this world is too heavy a thing, and I do not dare presume to measure it carelessly. He was clearly that exquisite jade figure plucking a blossom beneath a tree, yet I insisted on making him look upon the sun and moon, the mountains and rivers. How could that not become a tragedy?
For myself, everything I wanted to say is already contained in these six hundred thousand-odd characters. Perhaps elegance is a kind of obsession. In truth, every character has a very simple nature.
Perhaps that is simply my own preference? Even Zhao Guangyi is someone pitiable. From the very beginning he hesitated, watching the people around him die again and again. I think that feeling may be difficult for people today to imagine. His mind had already been twisted by the world, and he once tried to become Zhao Guangyi, but in the end he was not. No one had protected and supported him since childhood. All he remembered was a flood that destroyed everything he had. All he remembered was that every person and every thing he tried to keep along the way slipped from his grasp. So his desire became very simple: he wanted to destroy what other people possessed.
Unfortunately, by the end, the empty mountains and rivers remained unchanged through the ages. Those two men let go and departed, and no one would ever know Jiang Zheng’s story again. He had wanted to be himself, only to discover that he could no longer do so.
Or perhaps I can say that the four characters The Eternal Silence of Mountains and Rivers are compassion for him, and also a memorial to this city overturned beneath night rain.
One lifetime of turmoil, three broken promises. On this final occasion, Li Congjia at last did not break his word. The pity is that this time, the person who failed to come was Zhao Kuangyin.
As for Zhao Kuangyin, no one is born destined to be strong. Likewise, Li Congjia was not born destined to move through everything with such calm detachment. It comes back to the same thing: everything in a person is shaped by what happens to them. Zhao Kuangyin’s weakness was guilt. It was simply his nature never to speak of it, but he himself was deeply hurt and could not accept that his younger brother might truly be gone, so he tried desperately to make amends. Jiang Zheng simply believed Zhao Kuangyin would only ever be good to the real Zhao Guangyi. He believed that if Zhao Kuangyin learned the truth, he would never allow Jiang Zheng to remain, so he schemed with everything he had. He did not believe one person could sincerely treat another well, and so he mocked Li Congjia. At heart, Jiang Zheng was narrow-minded, but that too came from growing up in a Buddhist monastery from childhood. How could he understand human feeling? His ties of affection were all too shallow. He did like Yunjie. She was the first woman he met after reaching adulthood, gentle and restrained, so naturally she remained in his heart. He simply did not dare believe in that feeling himself.
When I was younger and still inexperienced, I read the Later Lord’s lyrics and felt only their desolation. When I grew older, I suddenly began to understand that perhaps what he wanted to express was not the great grief visible on the surface, but very simple feelings. His life was too tragic, so it seems as though his sorrow ought to have been vast, overwhelming, enough to shake Heaven and earth. But perhaps it was not entirely so.
The Chinese word for sorrow holds two characters: grief and hurt. He did not grieve; he had only been wounded by this world.
Later generations have described him as having a pure, childlike heart. Those four characters once made me very sad.
Choosing danmei as the form was simply a personal preference. Within what I could handle, I wanted to express clearly how I felt about him. Perhaps most people will not understand or accept it. I understand that, and I do not feel any regret. Everyone has different tastes; there is no inherent right or wrong. The same is true of feeling. Immortal companions, a hundred years wandering the jianghu together, who says one of them must be a woman in red?
And thank you to everyone who has read this story. You have genuinely moved Yi Han. In some ways this story carries a very personal stubbornness, yet so many of you still stayed with it to the end. I never expected that. You are all kindred spirits. Once again, my deepest thanks.
Angst beneath light clouds and clear wind? Perhaps. As for the ending, there really is a legend that Emperor Huizong of Song was Li Yu reincarnated. If you are interested, you can look it up.
But then I sigh, because that later ruin of state and family may have been even more tragic.
There was no earth-shaking grief. Not sorrow, but a wounded heart.
When the dust and smoke have faded, it is enough that we remember there was once someone whose wrist was white as snow, whose blue-green robes could overturn a kingdom.
A desolate world, and long solitude.