📖 Selections from the Anthology of Literature by Zhaoming - Volume I

I said to him, "Her form light as a startled swan, graceful as a soaring dragon. She gleams like autumn chrysanthemums, flourishes like spring pines. She is like a wisp of cloud veiling the moon, like swirling wind chasing the drifting snow. Viewed from afar, she dazzles like the rising sun crowned in morning glow; seen up close, she burns like a lotus emerging from emerald waves. Full yet slender, tall or petite each in perfect measure. Her shoulders seem carved, her waist as fine as bound silk. She lifts her neck with poise, her fair skin gleams in the light. No perfume enhances her fragrance, no rouge touches her face. Her cloudlike coiffure towers in elegance, her slender brows arc in twin grace. Her crimson lips shine bright, white teeth gleam within; her eyes, luminous and expressive, and dimples frame her noble cheeks. Such exquisite charm, transcendent beauty. Her bearing serene, her posture poised. Her tenderness flows in every gesture, her voice alluring with every word. Her attire is unlike any under heaven, her very frame as if born of divine craft. She wears radiant silken robes, jade and turquoise jewels at her ears. Adorned with golden hairpieces and glittering pearls upon her form. She treads in shoes patterned for travel, her gauze train trails like mist. A faint scent of orchids lingers around her as she pauses by the edge of the mountain path."

Yet as the sun and moon march ever onward, still I wait though the Yellow River runs clear not yet. I hope for the day when the king's way brings peace, and I may gallop forth along the grand thoroughfare to offer my strength. But I dread the fate of the hanging gourd, left to wither unused; I fear the well, long dredged, that none will drink. I pace in lingering sorrow, leaning this way and that, while the bright sun suddenly slips from sight. The wind rises, rustling with desolation; the sky hangs dim, drained of color. Beasts howl in frenzy, searching for their kind; birds cry in chorus, taking flight together. The plains lie vast and empty, no soul in sight, yet the traveler still trudges on, unresting. My heart is chilled with sorrow awakened; my thoughts grieve with bitter ache. I descend the steps in a daze, rage and despair tangled within my chest. Though the night is halfway through, I find no sleep tossing and turning, lost in weary longing.

Writing is the grand enterprise that sustains a nation, a glorious pursuit that endures through ages. Life itself has its appointed span, and honor and delight end with the self; these two are but the destined course of all. Yet the legacy of writing knows no end. Thus, the sages of old entrusted their spirits to brush and ink, their thoughts revealed in scroll and page. They relied not on the eloquence of court historians, nor on the momentum of fame and fortune, and yet their names passed down through generations. So it was that the Western Duke, though imprisoned, expounded the Book of Changes; the Duke of Zhou, though exalted, formulated rites and ceremonies. Neither privation nor prosperity swayed their devotion. Therefore, the ancients treasured even an inch of time more than precious jade, fearing the swift passage of days. Yet many among men do not strive with earnest will when poor and lowly, they tremble at hunger and cold; when wealthy and highborn, they indulge in ease and pleasure. Thus do they toil only for the moment, and forsake achievements that could last a thousand years. While sun and moon race overhead, the body withers below; suddenly, one is swept away with all things into impermanence this is the greatest sorrow of the aspiring man.

The autumn wind rises and Bai Yun flies, grass and trees yellow and Fall as geese return south. Orchids are elegant and chrysanthemums fragrant, thinking of a beloved one I cannot forget. Sailing a towered ship across the Fen River, cutting through the current, raising white waves. Flutes and drums sound, launching a boat song, extreme joy mingled with much sorrow. When does youth end, and how can one face old age?

I, in my humble presumption, have lately dared to entrust myself to words despite my lack of talent. I sought to gather the scattered and forgotten tales of the world, examine their deeds, trace their beginnings and ends, investigate the cycles of rise and fall. From the times of the Yellow Emperor down to the present day, I compiled ten Tables, twelve Annals, eight Treatises, thirty Hereditary Houses, and seventy Biographies a total of one hundred and thirty chapters. My aim was to probe the mysteries between Heaven and Man, to comprehend the transformations across ages, and to form a school of thought all my own. Yet before the draft could be completed, calamity befell me; though I regret it remains unfinished, I faced execution without a trace of bitterness. For my true intent was to complete this book, to hide it among the sacred mountains, to pass it to kindred spirits; if it should spread to cities and great states, then I shall have repaid the shame I once bore. Even if I be condemned to death a thousand times, how could I ever regret it! Yet this may be the path of the wise it is not something that common minds can understand!

Kuafu harbored grand ambitions, racing against the sun. Both reached the depths of Yuyuan, seemingly without a victor. With divine strength so wondrous, even overturning rivers is not enough! His remaining footprints rest in a peach blossom forest, his achievements left behind. Jingwei carries tiny twigs, intending to fill the Vast Sea. Xing Tian dances with shield and axe, his fierce spirit ever present. Once free from worldly concerns, transformation brings no regret. Merely setting past intentions, how can one wait for a good time!