Preface

As I passed by the Book Garden, I chanced upon a scroll titled "The Mythic Journey." Flipping through its pages, my first impression was one of shallow intent and tangled phrasing—a medley of outlandish tales and fanciful errors. The talented gentlemen and refined ladies within seemed no more than tired echoes of the well-worn lines of bygone classics, their emotions and sentiments running dry and threadbare. Yet, as I read on, I found woven within its fabric strange and stirring encounters of joy and sorrow, union and parting, the rise and fall of fortune and fate—scenes so vivid they moved the heart. Though I was well aware of its fanciful flights, the lifelike depictions held such power that, once read, they lingered in my mind, leaving me with a sense of regret and longing.

Upon closer inspection, the realms described within were as unpredictable as drifting clouds in the boundless sky, their transformations without pattern; or like an immortal soaring upon the wind, their whereabouts beyond all knowing. The work’s structure and momentum were grand and unrestrained, the writing sweeping and vast. Though details and minor events were sometimes cast aside, leaving gaps for critics to seize upon, this was no flaw of a skilled writer, but rather a sign that, despite the vibrancy of the whole, the spirit could not reach every corner.

Whenever the tale seemed to reach a dead end—mountains exhausted, waters run dry—a sudden flash of inspiration would arise, like a solitary peak thrusting into view and startling all who beheld it. The narrative thread ran deep and subtle: every phrase bore an underlying intent, every event planted the seeds of future consequence. The hand wrote of this present world, yet characters vital to the unfolding plot would emerge at every turn, connecting seamlessly to the whole. Even those who appeared but briefly left a lingering impression, and in the casual flow of the pen, one could nearly gather them up at a glance. Reading on, the memory caught and held; pursuing the story from chapter to chapter, each figure’s path and each event’s origin could be traced without fail. In sum, it was like the masterful plays of a seasoned chess player—seemingly random moves that, in time, all prove their purpose. Such is the mark of a true grandmaster; the power of thought here reaches its very zenith!

Moved to admiration, I could not help but sigh in wonder and delight, revisiting the text with joy. Though much of it spoke with wild and fanciful words, the literary spirit within was serene and composed, lofty and detached. In the study of self-cultivation and the nature of being, there were subtle revelations to be found. Eagerly, I brought the scroll home, carefully editing and transcribing it, compiling a table of contents, dividing the chapters and sections, and splitting them into five parts—altogether more than two hundred thousand words. Thus I present it to the world as a tale of marvels, that, with the aid of a skillful pen, it might dispel sorrow and banish gloom, providing laughter with meals and company with wine.

The original preface was neither elegant nor refined, and bore no relevance to this book, so I have omitted it. The author, who styled himself as the Cloud Companion, remains a mystery.

Written on the fifth day of the fifth month, in the sixty-first year of the Republic of China, by the Master of the East Blossom Hall.