Against the Current - Afterword
Afterword
I originally planned to finish this novel in one year, but unexpectedly, it took nearly three times that long. During these less than three years, there were times when the days felt as bitter as passing through autumn and spring, dragging on like long ages, and other times when they felt as fleeting as a white horse leaping past a crevice, rushing by in a blur.
When I was writing this novel, I happened to encounter the most turbulent period of my life thus far. My past life had been simple and peaceful; everywhere I looked were smiling faces, and the dark side of human nature was mostly something I encountered in books, played out merely within my own imagination. When I first began writing "The Fragrance of Orchids", it was truly when I started reading the great book of society, and right as I stepped into the workforce, I was battered by wind and rain, pushed to the point where I had nowhere left to retreat. I remember during the Spring Festival of that year, I went to visit the elderly former principal of my alma mater. Casually mentioning a few things about my work, the old principal's gaze suddenly turned very compassionate, and he said, "You are only just beginning. Every day is a torment. What will you do in the future?" Originally, I hadn't felt that I was speaking of anything very serious—just chatting about daily life—but that expression of care made my eyes turn red on the spot. Later, an elder with a wealth of life experience and social standing told me, "Many people have to experience such storms in life; it's just that you encountered them much too early at your age."
Whether I experienced them early or late, I am not entirely sure. However, as Laozi said, "Misfortune may be a blessing in disguise, and blessing may be concealed in misfortune." Looking back now, a person's major leaps forward do not stem from self-discipline, but rather often result from external blows. I fully tasted the flavor of being squeezed out and surrounded by malice, tasted the flavor of having a million mouths and being unable to defend myself, tasted the flavor of taking the blame while someone else stole the credit, and tasted the flavor of mutual sabotage, scheming, and entrapment. I witnessed the evil of human nature and realized that some things cannot be accomplished simply by trying one's utmost, nor can a turning point be attained just by struggling desperately. This was also my period of greatest confusion and bewilderment. Every day, after finishing the work of two or three people, when I began writing "The Fragrance of Orchids" in the exhaustion of the deep night, I kept pondering: What is true strength and maturity in a person? Is it training oneself to be slick and worldly, harboring deep schemes, possessing the mindset and methods to fear no one's scheming and even scheme right back—is that success? No matter how much the characters in the novel lived freely and exacted swift vengeance, when reality fell upon my own shoulders and I thought about turning myself into an assailant just like my tormentors—where you scheme against me by an inch, I retaliate by a foot, becoming embroiled in your fights and struggles just to protect myself—I felt profound pain. Amidst this contradiction and confusion, the subsequent outline for "The Fragrance of Orchids" stalled for a time.
What on earth should I do? I began to ponder questions like "Who am I?", "Where do I come from?", and "Where am I going?" Everyone holds their own moral code in their heart, along with a gray zone where good and evil are hard to grasp. I wanted to find a ultimate guide for my actions. I read some books on philosophy, began an in-depth engagement with religion, and then I encountered the Buddha's teachings.
This is perhaps what Jimmy means when saying: "Amidst the deepest despair, you encounter the most beautiful surprise." Encountering the Buddha's teachings was my absolute greatest stroke of good fortune. The Buddhist scriptures contain infinite wisdom and dialectic thought, acting like a bright lamp that instantly illuminates a dark room of a thousand years.
Listening to the Buddhist scriptures, I began to understand that ultimate strength and maturity lie in harmonious generosity, compassionate forgiveness, and steadfastly upholding the goodness within one's heart. One can let go of personal interests and attachments, acting like a piece of alum within suffering and evil, allowing those things to settle rather than acting like a stick stirring them up and making them fly everywhere. Exacting swift vengeance is easy; mercy and forgiveness are difficult. Therefore, people easily appreciate tit-for-tat sharpness—the fierce gratification of "you owe me, and I will demand it back a hundred or a thousandfold"—yet they can rarely understand the magnanimity of yielding in matters, willingly suffering losses, or even repaying kindness with enmity. This probably stems from the shape of today's society, which fills many people with fear, allowing them only to accept competition and vicious living, arming themselves rapidly with all sorts of schemes and tactics as armor and weapons to step into a cruel society, while remaining unable to accept the traditional gentlemanly virtues of benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, trustworthiness, gentleness, kindness, respectfulness, frugality, and humility. Harboring constant suspicion, novels uniformly dismiss such traits as "Holy Mothers" or "pushovers," reminding people that they must maintain vigilance in interpersonal interactions, and—after fully weighing their own gains and losses—either retaliate or offer a proportional amount of affection.
Returning to "The Fragrance of Orchids", after the purification of Buddhist teachings, my heart felt much more resolute when I put pen to paper again. If Lin Jinlu is the spirit and vitality of this novel, Chen Xianglan is its soul. The people I encountered and the events I witnessed all transformed into the material for this story. Lin Jinlu was actually quite easy to grasp; he possessed many traits similar to my own personality, and externalized characters are always distinct and easy to write. Chen Xianglan, however, was somewhat difficult. Protagonists with introverted personalities are always very subtle. I wanted to write a heroine with the delicate charm of agarwood, as fragile yet resilient as an orchid, just as the Family Teachings of Confucius states: "The fragrant orchid grows in the deep valley, and does not fail to release its fragrance merely because no one is there; a gentleman cultivates the Dao and establishes virtue, and does not alter his principles because of poverty and distress." Born in the most vulgar and lowly circumstances, she is yet able to bloom the most beautiful flower.
When Xianglan first appears, she is actually like the heroines of most novels: having experienced a certain degree of hardship, defensive and sharp-tongued, cutting in her speech and not letting others off easily, full of hope for the future. Because her parents are incapable, she wishes to escape the fate of being a slave for generations and marrying a servant, which leads her to enter the Lin residence. Like every newcomer stepping into the workplace for the first time, she wants to work hard, find a backing (a good boss or middle manager), win approval, and ultimately achieve her goals, yet reality never quite turns out the way one wishes. Most popular heroines nowadays are iron-clad heroines; no matter what they encounter, they are either optimistic and cheerful, or extraordinarily tough beyond ordinary people, gritting their teeth to rapidly recover psychologically, as if showing weakness or shedding tears makes one a "weak flower." Those who write this way have rarely truly experienced despair, which is why they can describe it with such light indifference. What I am more willing to showcase is cowardice and helplessness when undergoing trials, tears and fragility, the fear of an unknown future, and the collapse where "everyone understands grand principles, but small emotions are hard to control"—it is simply human nature, and nothing to be ashamed of.
Jiang Xiyun was a character I deliberately selected. If she were cloaked in a protagonist's halo, she would be an image widely welcomed by the public: realistic, rational, worldly tactics at her fingertips, smooth-talking and ingratiating, managing to please everyone, friendly to those on good terms with her, yet showing no mercy in striking down those in opposition. Although she possesses a kind heart, the moment an issue conflicts with her absolute self-interest, kindness can be logically discounted, using the excuse "I am not a saint" to forgive herself. Most people in this world are of this "neither entirely good nor entirely bad" sort yet consider themselves kind and upright—she is extremely typical. These two character images represent different values; ultimately, it stems from a difference in the starting intent of their thoughts. The former's starting intent is "me"—"my interests, my face, my status," "will my days be easy in the future," "let the other fellow die so long as I live." The latter's starting intent encompasses not only "me" but also "others"—"will my actions harm someone else?", "I see the other person's difficulties, so in some matters, I am willing to suffer a loss and forgive." Different ways of thinking mean that when these two individuals encounter unavoidable difficulties together and tear away the veneer of cordial coexistence, violent conflicts erupt. Hardships are often tests; they can destroy a person or make a person. Either one is dragged down by the muddled reality, stained in the rights and wrongs of humanity, and finding reasons to forgive oneself; or one remains kind even after recognizing all ugly things, willingly sacrificing a little to steadfastly guard one's innocence.
This is what I wanted to express. Through repeated trials where the protagonist's disposition undergoes a death and rebirth, she sheds her bloated loftiness and illusions, transitioning from sharp words to non-contention and non-argument, with soft, loving speech, growing increasingly gentle, calm, and profound. Having experienced it, she understands compassion and courage all the more, emerging from the mire without holding grudges or resenting people, possessing a religious detachment and free-spirited ease, allowing the world to appear before her frankly and peacefully. Her status rises from lowly to noble, yet her disposition goes from proud to humble, lowering herself continuously to follow along right down to the dust and dirt of the earth, leaving not a shred of ostentation and sharpness, retaining only warmth and inclusivity. This is the significance and ideal behind my shaping of this character.
Some readers complained about Xianglan's later transformation, while others offered heartfelt praise. It all depends on an individual's breadth of mind, aesthetic taste, and life experience. As for myself, having told this story according to my own vision, my heart remains satisfied.
Interestingly, as Xianglan's fortunes in the text gradually improved, my work situation also improved. After observing me for a period of time, several superiors went against the prevailing opinions to promote me. I moved to a better place, got a private office, and my current superior is a generous, humorous, scholar-type leader. Looking back, it was precisely the Buddha's teachings that helped me, teaching me to hold cause and effect in awe and get through those difficult days. This also made me firmly believe that results obtained through schemes and calculations, even if attained, are either quickly lost or remain imperfect; whereas moving forward step by step with a clear conscience and endurance may seem wronged and at a disadvantage, it will ultimately reap the most complete reward and karmic fruit.
After "The Fragrance of Orchids", I will probably never write such a long novel again, and I likely will not write in a historical setting again either. For my next project, I plan to write about the Republic of China era—a story I have harbored in my heart for a very long time. After the Republican era, I will probably try a modern setting. I am not a professional author, nor do I harbor grand ambitions; I only hope that with every book I write, I can break through my own limits and improve a little bit, and that will satisfy me completely.
"The Fragrance of Orchids" truly ends here. Writing this book felt like completing a spiritual cultivation of my own. Here, I wish to thank the readers who have accompanied me all the way, and especially give thanks to everyone in the Yanshan Other Courtyard and the Yanshan Villa, who gave me their firmest support and help during my most difficult times. Forming a bond through a single novel is the greatest gift writing this book has given me.
Having rambled on until now, at the very, very end, I wish to share a teaching from Master Kuanru with everyone. When I heard these words, I was still in my most bewildered period, and they felt like a sudden head-clearing enlightenment, filling me with a complex mix of emotions that left me sobbing uncontrollably while sitting in the Buddha hall:
No matter how desolate your situation, never abandon yourself to despair; endure, and hold fast to your wholesome karma.
No matter how treacherous your environment, never give up on being a pure and good person.
Amidst the surging dust of the mortal world, insist on remaining a clear-headed person.
Amidst the flood of material desires, insist on remaining a clean person.
When everyone says human hearts are unfathomable, insist on believing in the goodness of human nature.
When ritual collapses and morality decays, steadfastly guard the morality and ideals within your heart.
When all under heaven laugh at your foolishness, insist on viewing the world with a simple heart and innocent eyes.
Cling to your own soul and beliefs, even if this persistence leaves you utterly alone.
That is all.
Gratitude to everyone, heartfelt gratitude.
Early morning of July 14, 2014