Chapter 2

Volume 01 Clad in vines and girdled with ramie, the Minister of the Three Clans was moved to write his "Lament"; ox-demons and serpent-gods, the Long-Clawed One chanted of them and made it his癖. They sang of their own accord as heavenly music, without choosing pleasing tones—there was reason for it so. I, Song, am solitary as the fire of autumn glow-worms, yet goblins and spectres vie for the light; chasing after the dust of wild horses' breath, I am laughed at by the wangliang spirits. My talent is not that of Gan Bao, yet I delight in searching out the supernatural; my temperament is like that of Huangzhou, liking men to speak of ghosts. Hearing such tales, I take up my brush, and thus they have been compiled into a collection. Over time, friends from all quarters sent more by post, and so things gather according to one's tastes, and what I have accumulated grows ever more. Indeed: though the people are not outside civilization, events may be stranger than in the lands of the shorn-haired; though the eyelid is before one's very eyes, marvels may exceed those of the flying-head kingdoms. My swift-flying, untrammeled fancies—wildness I cannot deny; my everlasting, far-reaching sentiment—folly I do not conceal. Men of candour like you—would you not laugh at me? Yet at the Five-Fathers Crossroads, some hear-say may be accepted; and on the Stone of Three Lives, one may perceive the causes of former existences. For wanton words, one cannot summarily dismiss the man who speaks them. When I, Song, was born, my late father dreamed of a gaunt, sickly Buddhist monk, with one shoulder bare, entering the chamber; a plaster the size of a coin was stuck roundly between his nipples. When I awoke, I was born, and indeed it matched that black mark. Moreover: in childhood I was weak and sickly, and as I grew, my fate was not equal to others'. The desolation of my household—cold and still as a monk's; the toil of my brush and ink—meagre as a begging-bowl. Often I scratch my head and ponder: was that wall-gazing man truly my former body? Perhaps the roots and causes of my leaky nature have not yet ripened the fruit of human and heavenly rewards; but drifting and falling with the wind, I have become a flower in the fence and the privy. Vast as the Six Paths are, how can one say there is no principle in it! Only this: in the dead of night, the lamplight flickers as the wick is about to flower; in my lonely study, the desk is cold as if icebound. Collecting armpit-furs to make a robe, I rashly continue the Records of the Dark Realm; raising my wine-cup and taking up my brush, I only complete a book of solitary indignation—such is my entrustment, and it is sad enough! Alas! The frost-startled cold sparrow clings to the tree with no warmth; the moon-mourning autumn insect leans by the rail and warms itself. Those who know me—are they not in the green woods and dark forests? On a spring day in the year Kangxi Jiwei. I don't see the classical Chinese text you want me to translate. Please provide the source text for Part 2 of 3, and I will translate it according to your instructions. I don't see the classical Chinese text for Part 3 of 3 in your message. Please paste the text you want translated, and I will render it into English according to your instructions.