Chapter 2

Clad in ivy and draped in lychee leaves, the Master of the Three Gaps was moved to compose his Li Sao; amidst ox-headed ghosts and serpent-bodied spirits, the Long-Nailed Gentleman chanted until it became his obsession. Singing forth the sounds of nature, he did not select for pleasant tones, and there was reason for this. Like the lonely fire of autumn fireflies, Song contended for brilliance with demons and monsters; chasing the dust of wild horses, the shadow-spirits laughed at him. Though my talent does not match that of Gan Bao, I have an elegant love for searching out the divine; my sentiments resemble those of Huangzhou, delighting in people’s tales of ghosts. Upon hearing them, I took up my brush, thus forming this compilation. Over time, kindred spirits from all directions sent contributions via postal tubes, so things gathered by shared interest, and the accumulation grew ever more abundant. In extreme cases: though the people were not beyond the pale of civilization, their affairs were sometimes stranger than those of the land where hair is cut short; though right before one’s eyelashes, the anomalies exceeded even those of the country where heads fly. Swiftly flying with unrestrained enthusiasm, my madness is indeed hard to deny; forever entrusting my broad-mindedness, my obsession is not hidden. Seeing such a person as I, would you not laugh at me? Yet at the crossroads of the Five Fathers, one may encounter indiscriminate hearsay; but upon the Stone of Three Lives, one deeply understands past causes. Words spoken in license are not entirely to be discarded because of the speaker. When Song was born, my late father dreamed of a sickly, emaciated Buddha, who entered the room with one shoulder bare, a medicinal plaster the size of a coin stuck roundly near his nipple. Awakening, Song was born, indeed matching the black mark. Moreover: frail and often ill in youth, my long life has not been fortunate. The desolation of my household is cold like that of a monk; the toil of my pen and ink is barren like an alms bowl. Often scratching my head and reflecting to myself: could it be that the wall-facing meditator is truly my previous incarnation? Perhaps due to karmic roots with leaks, I failed to bear the fruit of the human or heavenly realms; instead, drifting and falling with the wind, I ultimately became a flower in the fence and latrine. In the vastness of the Six Paths of Rebirth, how can one say there is no principle? Only this: at midnight, the light glimmers faintly, the lamp dim and ready to form a wick; in my bleak study, the chill trembles, the desk cold as if ice. Gathering fox fur scraps to make a coat, I presumptuously continue the Records of the Underworld; drinking wine and wielding my brush, I have only produced a book of solitary indignation: such is my寄托 (entrustment), which is sorrowful enough! Alas! The frost-startled sparrow, hugging the tree without warmth; the autumn insect mourning the moon, leaning against the railing to warm itself. Those who know me, are they not among the green forests and black borders? Spring day of the Jiwei year of the Kangxi reign. O texto fornecido consiste exclusivamente em código CSS e marcadores de estrutura de página (classes como ` Please provide the classical Chinese text you wish to have translated.