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墨書 Inktalez
During the Zhenyuan era of the Tang Dynasty, a certain Madman, having failed to pass the imperial examination, wandered in low spirits. On the Qingming Festival, he took a solitary stroll in the outskirts of Chang'an, meandering through endless fields of red flowers and green grass, surrounded by the spring mountains and waters. Unbeknownst to him, he had strayed far from the city. Suddenly feeling a bit weary and thirsty, he looked around and spotted a cottage peeking through a cluster of peach blossoms in a nearby valley. He quickened his pace towards the thatched gate and called out, "I am passing through on this spring day and would like to ask for some water!"
With a creak, the door opened, revealing a young maiden. Dressed in simple clothes, she exuded an air of elegance and grace that took him by surprise. After explaining his purpose again, she gazed at him with her bright eyes, sensing no malice in his demeanor. She kindly invited him into her humble abode and went to prepare tea.
Once the tea was served, the Madman politely accepted the cup and inquired about her surname and family. The maiden seemed reluctant to discuss such matters; she simply replied, "My name is Jiang Niang. I live here with my father." She did not mention her surname or family background, hinting at some unspoken troubles. The Madman naturally refrained from pressing further.
For an unmarried man and woman to share tea alone in a room was already quite unconventional. Their young hearts stirred with warmth under the afternoon sun of spring, each deeply drawn to the other; however, they adhered to propriety. As the sun began to dip behind the western hills, the Madman reluctantly stood up, expressed his heartfelt thanks, and bid farewell to the maiden with lingering reluctance. She accompanied him to the gate, leaning against it silently as she watched Cui Hu gradually walk away. The Madman turned back occasionally to glance at her, seeing her like a peach blossom framed against the vibrant flowers at the entrance.
The following Qingming Festival, the Madman returned to the cottage only to find it transformed beyond recognition. Inquiring with neighbors, he learned that the girl he had met last year had passed away three years prior. Who then was the girl he had seen last Qingming?
That night he stayed in the long-abandoned cottage and dreamt of the maiden who came to him gracefully, revealing the truth: she had not died from illness but had taken her own life after being humiliated by a local tyrant. Last year's encounter during Qingming was her Grudge taking form in the peach tree, hoping he would compose poetry to help her reincarnate—she promised great rewards for his assistance.
Upon waking the next day, he inscribed a poem on the wall. This poem became a timeless classic, and soon after, he passed the imperial examination and brought justice upon the tyrant. While on his way to take up his official post outside of Beijing, he came across another cottage where he stopped to rest. To his astonishment, he found that its occupant resembled Jiang Niang exactly and shared her name—thus fulfilling a legendary connection across time.
The poem was none other than "On Nanzhuang" written by the famous Tang poet Cui Hu:
Last year on this day at this door,
A face among peach blossoms glowed red.
That face I know not where it has gone,
Yet peach blossoms still smile in spring's breeze.
Du Mu composed a poem titled "Qingming" during his time in Chizhou when he could not return home for tomb-sweeping on this festival:
During Qingming season rain falls incessantly...
On the road, passersby seemed to be soulfully detached.
"Excuse me, where can I find a tavern?"
A shepherd boy pointed in the distance, "There's Apricot Blossom Village."
Unexpectedly, not long after composing this verse, Du Mu truly encountered a shepherd boy who told him of a tavern nearby that catered to the lonely souls unable to return home to honor their ancestors during the Qingming Festival. Du Mu strolled over and indeed found a tavern, where the patrons wore expressions of sorrow. Moved by the scene, he became intoxicated and unknowingly fell asleep at the table. When he awoke, it was already the next day, and he found himself amidst a cluster of neglected graves.
The most famous line is from "Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio," which states, "There is beauty within the pages of a book." I won’t elaborate further on that.
After reviewing various materials, I realized that dawn had broken without my noticing. I felt no fatigue, but rather sank into deep contemplation.
What I encountered were two Wraiths embodied in words. Various sources indicated that such occurrences have existed throughout history. Suddenly, I recalled a saying: "Reading a book a hundred times reveals its meaning." Is the "meaning" in this phrase merely about interpretation? The definition of meaning also includes artificially created concepts, such as prosthetics or dentures. Does this imply that after reading a book a hundred times, the artificially created elements within it (crafted by the author) will suddenly manifest? Why do we refer to an engaging novel as "vividly alive"? Could this "vividness" refer to the essence of a soul? And what about "leaping off the page"? What exactly leaps off the page? Is it a ghost?
Why do we always feel someone behind us when reading horror novels? When we close our eyes, do we not see unclean things? Even in dreams, do we not encounter characters from those novels conversing with us?
A terrifying question suddenly struck me: Are we truly people in reality, or are we souls trapped within the world of an author's words? Why are there so many stories and coincidences in our lives? Are we merely characters in a novel, wandering through life according to preordained plots? And is the author of this novel merely a character transformed from another story?
From the moment one is born, fate has already arranged an ending for them. Is this ending simply that of some novel?
In an unseen manner, everything is arranged. But what is this arrangement? Is it reality or words?
Are we naively living within the text of various novels, lonely and crammed upon bookshelves?
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