Chapter Fifty-Nine: A Gift of Books

(Continued request for recommendation votes!)

Chen Jianchen reached out to steady Zhuge Wolong and smiled, saying, "Please be careful, sir!"

Zhuge Wolong, however, paid it no mind and replied, "I've stumbled countless times in my life; it no longer matters to me."

Chen Jianchen said, "Even so, falling is never a good thing."

Zhuge Wolong laughed heartily, barely managing to steady himself, and said, "You are an interesting young man. Why not come inside and share a drink with me?"

Chen Jianchen bowed respectfully. "It would be my honor."

So Zhuge Wolong took Chen Jianchen into the house, with Wang Fu following closely behind.

Inside, the scent of wine was overwhelming. The room was bare except for a bed, a table, and two chairs, all arranged with utmost simplicity. Zhuge Wolong and Chen Jianchen each took a chair, while Wang Fu had to stand, bustling about under Zhuge Wolong’s direction to fetch and pour the wine, busy as could be.

On any other day, Wang Fu would never have deigned to do such menial chores, but now, to win the old man's favor and get a look at the manuscript of "The Stone Dream Chronicle," he had to swallow his pride.

Chen Jianchen’s tolerance for alcohol was low; while Zhuge Wolong drank heartily, Chen Jianchen only sipped, barely showing any intent.

Zhuge Wolong paid no heed. As he drank, a wildness stirred within him. He slapped the table and began to curse vehemently, pouring forth his grievances with abandon, nothing like an old man in his seventies:

"In all my life, I have conducted myself with integrity, owing nothing to man or god, yet the cursed heavens are forever against me! If it’s not wind, it’s rain—never a moment’s peace. In my view, what gods are there above? Where in the heavens are there eyes?"

Having finished his tirade against the heavens, he stood and sighed mournfully. Clapping his hands, he recited:

"From learning words, woes arise;
My talents dulled, wasted by time.
Thousands of characters, strokes and dots,
Ink is scarce, tears overflow.
Failed in the imperial exams, I turned to writing,
But my words are weak, my books few;
They neither feed nor clothe,
So I must feign eccentricity to attract attention—
How pitiful, how lamentable!"

As he spoke, tears and snot flowed together.

Chen Jianchen listened, his heart heavy, deeply sympathetic for the old man’s plight—for in the Tian Tong Dynasty, there were countless scholars who devoted their lives to the classics, but only a scant few ever succeeded in the imperial examinations. There must have been many like Zhuge Wolong, who studied poetry and prose all their lives but never passed the exams, fading quietly into the dust of history. Only, unlike Zhuge Wolong, they lacked the talent to write such splendid novels, and so vanished without a trace.

The Eight-Legged Essay was no easy thing.

Memorizing the Four Books fluently was merely the basic entry requirement; from the opening lines to the finished essay, years of diligent practice were needed to reach proficiency. The final hurdle—mastering structure and length, and discerning the examiner’s preferences—was equally crucial.

All writing is subject to interpretation—different minds see different meanings. There is no standard answer. No matter how brilliant your essay, if it doesn't suit the examiner’s taste, you are easily eliminated, with no hope of passing.

They claimed to revere Confucianism, but even within it, unity was a myth; after a thousand years, countless schools and factions had arisen. The differences among these factions were often subtle, but their consequences vast. Within the court, these factions jostled for power, each seeking to control the machinery of state.

Thus, examinees had to gauge the situation carefully when answering questions, adapting their responses to match the examiner’s preferences. This skill was difficult to master, so history is full of talented scholars who never passed the exams—many spent their lives steeped in the classics, their thinking ossified, unable to adapt.

Listening to Zhuge Wolong’s complaints, Wang Fu grew impatient. He had come to see the infamous manuscript, not to hear grievances. Seizing a pause, he interjected, "Sir, I’ve heard you’re currently writing a remarkable book called 'The Stone Dream Chronicle.' May I borrow it for a look?"

Zhuge Wolong burst into sudden rage. "No! I won’t lend it to you!"

He snatched up his wine and splashed it onto Wang Fu.

His mood changed faster than flipping a page. Wang Fu was caught off guard and couldn’t dodge in time; his fine robes were soaked.

The garment was expensive, now stained with wine. Wang Fu was distressed, angry, but dared not protest. He could only hurry out to find water to clean it.

After Wang Fu left, Zhuge Wolong suddenly grinned at Chen Jianchen and said, "You’re different. I like you. Since you’ve shared a drink with me, I’ll give you this book. Study it well—it will surely benefit you."

He reached beneath his seat and pulled out a book with a blue cover. The title stood prominently: "The Stone Dream Chronicle."

Chen Jianchen was astonished. He took the book and opened it. It was not some scandalous novel, but rather a collection of notes—clear and precise, recording Zhuge Wolong’s distilled insights from a lifetime of experience with the imperial examinations, written in upright script, sharply analyzed and easy to comprehend.

It was practically a model for learning the Eight-Legged Essay.

On the title page, a flowing hand had inscribed: "Selecting scholars by the Eight-Legged Essay is like passing gas; but without passing gas, how would you know its stench?"

Chen Jianchen chuckled, a flash of inspiration suddenly illuminating his mind, like lightning splitting the sky. He realized he had been trapped in a mistaken way of thinking.

Because he was an outsider, whenever his own beliefs collided with those of this alien world, he instinctively shut his mind’s door, keeping all he disagreed with firmly outside.

This preserved the purity of his own heart, but denied it the opportunity for refinement.

It was much like self-isolation.

Understanding this, Chen Jianchen’s mind cleared; he finally grasped the root of his recent confusion and distress. In the clash of ideas, going with the flow was mediocre, shutting oneself away was average, but adopting what is useful was best.

Blind rejection only traps oneself unknowingly, making one an outsider, isolated from the world.

The Master said: "At fifteen, I aspired to learning; at thirty, I stood firm; at forty, I was free from doubts; at fifty, I understood fate; at sixty, I listened effortlessly; at seventy, I followed my heart’s desire without overstepping the bounds..."

It describes a process of continual learning and growth. There is no end to learning. If one is content with the status quo and resists all else, how can one ever learn anything new?

The Daoists advocate carefree non-action, but they too go forth into the world, tempering their hearts amidst the dust of life; Buddhists say all is emptiness, yet they travel and seek alms, experiencing the myriad aspects of human affairs. The principle is the same.

If the Eight-Legged Essay is a vat of dye, a set of shackles, only by leaping in and breaking free can one truly be complete.

To see a mountain as a mountain, then not as a mountain, then as a mountain once more.

Transformation happens in a single thought.

At that moment, Chen Jianchen’s mind was illuminated anew. It was not as if the dust had been wiped from the glass, but as if the glass itself had vanished, the barrier gone.

A radiant light emerged from "The True Chapters of Three Principles," illuminating five characters in a row—signifying that ten strands of righteous energy had been activated.

Chen Jianchen carefully put away "The Stone Dream Chronicle," bowed deeply to Zhuge Wolong, and said respectfully, "Thank you, sir, for the gift of your book."