Come Like Water, Go Like Wind: Where Do I Come From, Where Do I End?

Upon hearing the news of the master's passing, I could not help but shed tears. This is the only public figure for whom I have ever wept, and I suspect there will never be another. From last night until now, my mood has been abysmal, and I have had no desire to do anything at all. When my emotions finally began to settle, I found myself at a loss for what to write.

"The heavens and earth are but a furnace, with creation as the smith; the yin and yang are but charcoal, and all things are the copper."

Suddenly, this line from the Ode to the Bird surfaced in my mind—a line the master actually taught me through Huang Yaoshi in the Legend of the Condor Heroes. It is shameful to admit, but I have returned most of the poetry I learned in school to my teachers, yet the words from the master's great works have remained etched in my heart. Using them here now perfectly captures my current state of mind.

From my first encounter as an eight-year-old child to now, having passed the age of forty, the master's works have accompanied me for decades. Just as the master said, "Flowers bloom and flowers fall, flowers fall and flowers bloom; the youths of the jianghu grow old, and white hairs finally appear at the temples of the fair maiden." This line still strikes me with unparalleled brilliance to this day. I have read many novels, including those by famous authors, but when it comes to describing the fleeting nature of time, only this line has ever moved me so deeply. I later learned that this line was adapted from the Peking Opera Wujia Slope, but its usage in the book truly achieved the effect of "an antelope hanging by its horns, leaving no trace to be found."

If good works influence people in a subtle, imperceptible way—like a spring breeze and rain nourishing all things in silence—then that "antelope hanging by its horns" quality is exactly how the master's works have influenced me. "Within books, one finds jade-like beauty; within books, one finds houses of gold." It was only after reading the master's works that I truly understood these two lines of poetry.

Reading the master's works is just like the famous dish "Whose Jade Flute Plays the Falling Plum Blossoms"—the flavor is endless and ever-changing. In his books, the master provided me with a magnificent and colorful world: there are unimaginable landscapes, delicacies, and fine wines; there is the misty rain of the south and boundless romance; there are heroes whose promises are worth their weight in gold and treacherous, sinister villains; there is love that transcends life and death and friends who share a bond of absolute loyalty; there is the patriotic spirit of the "great hero who serves the country and the people," the compassion for a world full of suffering, and the ability to dissolve grudges with a single smile; there is the gallantry of riding fine horses with swords at our sides, the artistic refinement of the zither, chess, calligraphy, and painting, and even the religious philosophy of Western culture.

To others, the master's works are memories of childhood, but to me, they have been a mentor and a friend accompanying me throughout my life. The high spirits of my youth always bore the traces of the master's works.

I still remember when I had just graduated and my mother tried to persuade me to stay in my hometown for work. She spoke at length with earnest advice, but I only replied, "Those things are all very, very good, but I simply do not like them."

At the time, I joked with friends, "Even if I must drift and wander my whole life, I must live happily and as I wish," and "My nature is free and unrestrained; I cannot endure such a stable, settled life." Yet, as I grow older, I find myself yearning more and more for stability; the dreams of my youth can now only be found by searching bitterly through the master's works.

The master originally intended to enter politics in his youth, but he ultimately became famous for his martial arts novels. This may have been a regret for the master, but it was a great blessing for Chinese culture. In the eyes of the elite, martial arts novels were considered vulgar, but because of the master, they were vindicated. Some even say that martial arts novels fall into two categories: Jin Yong's novels, and all other martial arts novels. Following the rise of "Redology," we saw the emergence of "Jin-ology," which even entered the hallowed halls of Peking University—a rare occurrence in the cultural world over the past few decades.

Yet, the master who left us so many beautiful works has quietly departed, just as he once said: life is about making a great scene and then leaving quietly. And so, the world has lost a great literary giant, and the Chinese literary world has lost its final master.

Hearing that you have transformed into a crane and departed, the four seas share in the sorrow.

Your ink remains across the universe, a fragrance that will flow through the ages.

My writing is inadequate, unable to describe even a ten-thousandth of the sorrow in my heart. To mourn the master in this way truly lacks the proper respect, but I offer this with a sincere heart. May the master have a peaceful journey!