Sure, here is the translation of "" into English: Thoughtful Pathway

Author: He Yangxiang
Publisher:
Publishing Date: 2002-06-01
Features: He Yangxiang's perspective always stays with those connected to humanism, history, and culture. He wanders between historical records and time and space, sometimes encountering the broken sword of an assassin planted at an emperor's tomb, or stepping into the distant era of "youthful scholars" and "my profound heart"—like rambling notes, history reading records, or a brilliant graduation thesis, which is the reason to read He Yangxiang.
Excerpt:
The loneliness of Yu
Four thousand years later, it is difficult to see the topography of Yuanyuan Pass as it once was. Only stories remain, wandering between past events and myths, along with the Qing Dynasty inscriptions of "Ancient Ape Yuanyuan" on the pass walls, carving history.
Yu the Great, half compressed into paper-like shapes, hidden within literary archives, and half transformed into oral stories scattered in the air-like, yet sometimes condensed into certain climates of the folk. For instance, the storyteller who tells us about Yu is not old, at most in his 40s, yet he has a weathered tone due to the influence of historical ink or the daily of the landscape. The history he tells also changes daily in this form of oral transmission, becoming distinct from foreign preaching and religion. One text gives rise to different versions, yet the unchanging element remains the same. Just as Yu the Great transformed into a bear and took different forms but shared the same goal, he remained unchanging in his essence. Stories also have surface and essence. Their roots remain unchangeable despite the evolving and turbulent times and the shifting interpretations.
However, when standing at Wansui Peak, about 2 kilometers north of Zhengfeng City in the area known as "the essence of the two worlds and the center of the four directions," facing the massive 10-meter-tall, 43-meter-circumference "Qimu Stone," one truly understands the hero's profound loneliness.
In his early days, reading the "Biography of Yu the Great" in the Records of the Grand Historian, I imagined this heroic figure as one who had battled floods his entire life, constantly wandering east and west across the land. Sima Qian described his journeys in several lengthy passages, as if he had traveled to every river— Yellow River, Huai River, and even obscure streams now possibly unmarked on maps. In my mind, he was a man holding a wooden spade, rushing to help wherever there was water trouble, too busy to think about any other aspect of life. His sole existence was flood control. He was a man who lived on the road, and such a person had no ordinary sense of home.
Before setting out, I reread the Records of the Grand Historian. The phrases "swift and diligent," "exhausting himself and overthinking," corresponded to his achievements in "opening up the seven states, connecting the nine roads, draining the nine marshes, and crossing the nine mountains." His actions—traveling by cart on land, boat on water, sledge in mud, and climbing sticks in the mountains—were even more eye-catching. "He gradually moved eastward to the sea and westward to the flowing sands, from north to south"—his journey across east, west, north, and south was already difficult for a human, let alone with only rudimentary means of transportation. Finally, he achieved success for the world, and the world finally achieved "peace and order" due to his hard work. Yet, beyond his actions and achievements, there was one sentence that couldn't be ignored: "For thirteen years he stayed outside, not daring to enter his home!" In contrast, I prefer the oral tradition's version—"Yu controlled the floods, passing by his home three times without entering." Removing the word "dared" may better reflect Yu's character. It wasn't that he was afraid; it was that he couldn't. In Sima Qian's literary narrative, it was about responsibility, but in folk tales, it was about spirit. Even when, it couldn't erase his loneliness.
Before Yu the Great began controlling the floods, there was another person who had achieved fame through flood control but was also killed because of it. At that time, his fate was sealed, not because he had successfully tamed the water, but because when Gun failed to stop the floods by blocking them, his death was inevitable. "For nine years, he tirelessly worked on controlling the floods," but his failure was not just about his achievements; the key was the livelihood of the people. Yao's patience was limited, and Shun's execution was harsh, but the most chilling sentence in the Records of the Grand Historian is—"The world believed that Shun's execution of Gun was justified." This shows that even if one does good deeds their entire life, whether out of kindness or ability, the people only care about the results. It's not entirely about being ungrateful; it reflects the strict accountability of the time—blame means losing one's head. And the person who lost his head due to flood control was Gun's father.
Historical records state, "Shun selected Gun's son Yu to continue Gun's legacy." There is a deep, almost inexplicable suffering in this, as succession is not always romantic. Shun's motives for this are difficult for us to fathom today, but it also reveals the immense pressure of risking one's life. How did the young and ambitious Yu think about this? Anyway, he set off—though it seemed as if he was being forced onto this path. That's why Sima Qian's use of the word "dared" makes perfect sense.
On one side, his biological father Gun failed and died; on the other, the spiritual father of the tribal monarchy, Shun, entrusts him with the task. Yu stood in the middle, facing the suffering of the people devastated by floods. In such a situation, he had to put his own life and family aside. Putting aside his personal life allowed him to avoid the complexities of relationships, such as family ties. After losing his father, who else would demand so much from him? What was the price? The five-story-tall Qimu Stone is another tragic testament to this.
"The Great Yu controlled the floods, passed through Huanyuan Mountain, and transformed into a bear. He said to the woman of Tushan, 'If you want to bring food, come when you hear the (drum sound).'" Yu accidentally hit the drum while jumping over stones. The woman of Tushan came and saw Yu as a bear and was ashamed to leave. At the foot of Songshan Mountain, he transformed into a stone. When his son Qǐ was born, Yu said, 'Bring my son back.'" The stone split open to the north, and Qǐ was born.
This story from the Huainanzi is full of twists and turns—the bear-bodied Yu and the wife of Xushan who, after seeing him, "was ashamed and left." It is vividly and painfully written. The birth of Qǐ is also miraculous and enigmatic. However, standing before the Qimu Stone on this afternoon, the sunlight was so bright. The steep stone split open, dividing into two halves. Walking around it, there was a genuine reverence, as it was an unadorned giant stone, weathered by wind and sun, still a stone, simple and silent, with no inscriptions to mark it. It made every passerby see only a solitary stone, backed by a range of green peaks, shining with white light, dazzling the eyes. For me, a stone lover, it was still a surprise—I had never seen such a large, intact stone. For those who didn't believe in the miracle, it would remain a silent, stubborn stone due to the lack of text and explanation. Only when the stone speaks can it truly be a myth.
Yu the Great was lonely, and his loneliness was not a later confusion—it was present then, even the closest person, like his wife, would "be ashamed and leave," her departure reflecting a deeper misunderstanding than the floods—so deep that he had to chase after her, shouting, "Bring my son, bring my son." It was truly heart-wrenching. The sorrow in the myth spreads and seeps into the heart. Yu, despite having the power to divert floods and carve mountains, couldn't make his beloved woman change her mind, allowing the overwhelming tide of his own emotions to drown him. Qǐ, too, couldn't give this orphaned child more paternal love. Even with the woman of Tushan raising him as a substitute sister, it wasn't as romantic as the legends suggested. Later, Yu married two sisters, but for the sake of more families' lives, he sacrificed his own share, leaving the shadow of the woman of Tushan lingering for years. The Five Finger Ridge can bear witness—the bear-bodied Yu used his fingers to divert the water, but feared that if the woman of Tushan saw him, she would follow the woman's old path and transform too quickly, leaving him no time to change back. That personal suffering, even after founding his capital in Yangcheng and establishing his dynasty, and Qǐ ruling after him, couldn't be erased. Moreover—
The feudal lords clamored loudly, each with their own opinions, competing to offer solutions. But when it came to putting them into practice, they would shrink back from their homes, unwilling to go out with wooden spades to marshes and wilds. They were all revolutionaries in theory, completely theoretical, like the scholars in Lu Xun's description, sitting on cultural mountains, eating strange grain, and offering analyses, calling Yu an "insect." Yet they turned a blind eye to the people submerged in water. They would say, "They are all famous for their ability to endure hardships in the world." To these people, how could Yu not stretch out those always calloused big feet, ready to trample them?
This hero led a group to act, yet he had to endure the sneers and jeers behind him, the spitting and splashing—a kind of water that couldn't be blocked or diverted. It gathered into another flood, ready to drown the person who had worked so hard to control the water.
Then there were the people. Their memorials were everywhere, everywhere. Yu devoted himself completely, sacrificing everything to protect the people. He lost his specific family, his beloved wife, and didn't take time to be a loving father—all for the great peace of the world. Yet the people's memorials would fade over time, and their minds would shift. They would forget, and human affairs would turn upside down. They were fragile. The best way to forget a person, they believed, was to erase them from history, to win a space in the tunnels of records, a few lines of text. But inwardly, when floods no longer threatened, the sun shone brightly, and life was peaceful and happy, who would remember, think, ponder, or take it seriously?
Like this afternoon, at the foot of Wansui Peak, near the Qimu Stone, there were few tourists. The man called Yu truly hid among the two figures in the western section of the northern side of Qimu Stone, wearing a Dai Jinxian hat, long robes, and bowing backward—turning into a bear, spinning like the wind, causing those who admired him to feel a pain and tremor in their hearts.
Postscript:
The truth is, writing it down, turning the hidden feelings and generated thoughts into words, and naming it "concept," the framework is already in place, and only the additional value and replication of the "tower" need to be added. This kind of construction is not my strength. Therefore, understanding the true intention of my colleagues, I wrote down the concept, but the process was a journey. For me, why not?
Once a concept is set, it leads to reduction. Most of the time, the formed concept is not full but rather weak, so vigilance is required, and I must strive to maintain the awareness of being "on the road." The difference in heart should be a boundary. Yet, the standard we often use is concept. New and old are easier than good and evil, so often, the emotions behind theories are.
If there were a kind of writing, for academics and life, that judged with heart rather than technique, and if it didn't yet exist, I believe it will grow. Though now it is just a seedling, and though its future greenery is unknown to many today.
Like any writing, rational writing eventually becomes human, the distinction of the human heart. It is sharp, passionate, fierce, and urgent; it is understanding, tolerant, kind, and inclusive—all of which do not contradict.
At the end of writing, it is ultimately the human heart. And the cultivation of the "heart" is almost a lifelong task.
Only, there is no other kind of writing as straightforward as the human heart's writing, which lies bare. Write it down. Strip away any performance, decoration, or posture. Write down your true self, and at the end, there is nothing to hide.
Or perhaps there is no work more "brutal" than this—it disciplines the writer more severely than any other kind of writing. It speaks of the heart, sets boundaries, concerns character, and establishes standards. Especially in an era of intellectual writing, it does—establish the heart.
Argumentation is a different kind of narration. It makes the object of speech human through human involvement, making it humanistic. Thus, it demands to be a humanistic appeal.
Often, this kind of writing resembles a form of knowledge archaeology. She moves through materials of various kinds, facing the history of humanity built up by layers of text. What has disappeared, what is written, what awaits reinterpretation—layer upon layer, she meticulously excavates, retraces, understands, or rereads, engaging in a dialogue with the ancients, others, and oneself. Sometimes, even delving into a single layer of soil can bring boundless but limited comparisons that cause awe.
There is so much to do, yet life is short. Therefore, I also understand the need to adopt concepts.
Yet, no. Or perhaps there is a humanism that distinguishes itself from historical remnants—it is not the past, the visible past into temples and views, but a humanism—ongoing, shifting, growing—a present that is written down, more difficult than the past.
Just as writing about objects—the static—is always easier than writing about active people.
Yet, this humanism is what is most worth writing about. The text grows alongside it, experiencing it, but it is also the most easily wounded author—it is too difficult. Using fixed text to describe something that is not fixed is like this different humanism before which many people, like me, are washed by time.
Concepts are perhaps the easiest to be swept away. Then, what is our foothold?
"Life and work are connected. The fact is, such works demand such lives, life is the design of the work, and the work is (foretold) by certain signals in life." This passage by Merleau-Ponty reveals the vast and inevitable fate of writing.
The truth is, this interwoven and entangled human and cultural text can be interchangeable. Formed traditions are not bound by tradition. That living water is clear and gentle, interspersed with sincerity, yet ultimately unyielding, with warmth and vitality; like a river, it flows aggressively, never stopping.
What never stops is also this man with mud on his shoes. Those who will eventually sink into the depths of history—people and events—are the life-and-death struggles this person is determined to record.
This person knows that living life like this is what it means to live. Writing like this is what it means to create.
For the road, she is very serious.
And she can't stop.