Sure, here is the translation of "" into English: A lone horse in the west wind

Author: Kong Qingdong
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-01-01
Features: Kong Qingdong's exceptional command of language makes his writings not only vivid and entertaining but also cynical. His works are consistently bestsellers, and his innate humor leaves a deep impression on readers. Some jokingly call Kong Qingdong the "true humor since Qian Zhongshu" and "Mark Twain of Peking University." A bit exaggerated, a bit wise, his extraordinary experiences and unique way of thinking give his writing a lasting vitality. Mocking life, resisting the with wit, Kong Qingdong truly embodies the saying, "His writing reflects his character." This book is no exception. Don't believe it? You'll see for yourself.
"Choosing the slippery cart, unaware of fatigue; Gazing through the iron wall, sighing in vain.
Hiding ice, burying fire, destroying the divine sword; Riding alone into the west wind, listening to the great tide."
—Excerpt from Kong Qingdong's "Seven-Character Poem · Passing the Bridge"
Kong Qingdong possesses an innate humor, his writing filled with laughter, anger, and satire, both solemn and playful, like a waterfall cascading down, intense and exhilarating. Some netizens say reading Kong Qingdong, "first laugh until you die, then busy deep in thought." This book is a collection of essays written by Kong Qingdong during his lecture tour in South Korea. Humorous and satirical, yet with a profound undertone.
Preface: Riding Alone into the West Wind
This new book consists mostly of old works. Its publication was difficult, with tears in my eyes. I lament the foreign friends, who were inexplicably shocked; I resent my own trivialities, which were wasted in clamor. For two years in the East Sea, I endured much ill fortune; for four years back in China, I added a few strands of white hair. During the World Cup, I was unfairly targeted while teaching in South Korea. At the foot of the Forbidden City, my years as a guest in Korea came to an end. Thinking back on my life, it has been filled with misfortune, always arriving late to every bus. Bad luck never seems to follow me—like grazing and milking, planting melons and harvesting beans.
In middle school, I went to the train station to study Lei Feng, helping passengers carry luggage, only to be suspected of robbery. One day, I found a bag of rice and carried it to the police station with a classmate. The result was like a mud ox diving into the sea—my neighbors all laughed. To get into Peking University's Chinese Department, which had only two spots in Heilongjiang, I had to dominate the province to even dare to apply. Pursuing my master's and doctoral degrees, I walked on thin ice, battered and, facing countless hardships. Finally, I became a teacher and scholar, but students saw me as an advanced teacher in ragged attire, like a cleaning worker. Every time I spoke disrespectfully, they thought I had entered the wrong classroom. Teaching my son to live frugally and recite the Analects was deemed child abuse and psychological, leading to constant arguments and eventual separation. Allowing students to develop freely, like birds flying and fish leaping, was seen as irresponsible and the decline of teacherly virtue. As a member of the National People's Congress, I couldn’t keep my cool, constantly raising objections in and out of meetings. The "meat-eaters" shot two arrows at me: "You’re just a broken representative, yet you take it seriously!" When elected the top teacher at Peking University, as I walked past a crowd, I immediately felt as once described: "The weather is getting colder—have you received your tin bowl yet?" Alas, Comrade Ma Junren said, "I’m more unjustly treated than Dou E!" Comrade Ke Xiang said, "I can’t pour out all my bitterness, nor can I vent my grievances!" Comrade Yang Guo said, "Have I ever been falsely accused in my life?" Fifteen years ago, I wrote a sorrowful seven-character poem, "Passing the Bridge":
"Whole day wandering in paradise, suddenly arrived at the bridge of Hela.
In Fengdu, a thousand friends called; in Eden, spirits lured.
Choosing the slippery cart, unaware of fatigue; Gazing through the iron wall, sighing in vain.
Hiding ice, burying fire, destroying the divine sword; Riding alone into the west wind, listening to the great tide."
The last line shows a foolish hero’s self-righteous pride. Fifteen years have passed, and twenty-five or thirty-five will pass even faster. I know that the great tide may not come, or perhaps it already has. Didn’t the old nun tell Ah Q, "It’s already overthrown"? I should perhaps learn from Ah Q and quickly grab a radish and return to the Earth Temple. Zhou Gong feared the spread of rumors, but it was the time when the river carp was ready to ascend.
Back then, Cai Jing was exiled, and no restaurant, bar, or café would serve him. Upon arriving in Tanzhou (Changsha), he wrote a poem:
"Eighty-one years of past events, three thousand miles away from home.
Alone, bone and flesh scattered across the world; Gazing at the motherland, tears fell.
Five times I bowed in the golden hall, ten times I proclaimed in the jade hall.
Recalling past glories, now just dreams."
However, Cai Jing was hardly a good person, and though his end was tragic, it wasn’t worth much sympathy. Instead, Su Dongpo’s "Reply to Li Duan’s Letter" struck a sobering note in simplicity:
"Since offending, I’ve shut myself away,
In a small boat, barefoot, roaming mountains and rivers.
With fishermen and woodcutters, often mocked by drunkards,
Yet I took pride in being gradually forgotten."
Though I often teach my students Confucius’s "Do not worry that no one knows you, but rather worry that you do not know others," I can’t help but be dumbfounded as the world grows more distant and unknowing. Recently, my research into popular literature has drawn criticism from the learned, with even Niu Er from the streets scolding: "Can works as vulgar as Jin Yong’s novels hold deep humanistic spirit?"—as if the whole world now knows that Kong Qingdong lacks even the most basic literary and historical. A student leader from China University of Political Science and Law, after failing to invite me to give a lecture, sternly lectured me to "study some philosophy." It reminded me of Su Dongpo’s "Remembering West Lake and Writing to Chao Mei Tong":
"West Lake is the world’s most beautiful scene;
Travelers, wise or foolish, all see what they gain.
Who can truly grasp its entirety?"
Su Dongpo, the most perceptive person in history, still said, "Who can truly grasp its entirety?" Perhaps it is precisely because of this that he achieved such perceptiveness. His casual remark, "Different perspectives, near or far, high or low," holds such profound philosophical depth. Yet if you discuss this with today’s academic peddlers from Peking University, Tsinghua, and the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences, they will cover their mouths and laugh: "Such shallow, who doesn’t understand it?" In their eyes, "Bright moonlight before my bed" isn’t poetry? "Long clouds over Qinghai obscure snow-capped mountains" isn’t poetry? Only "Warm sunlight in Lantian gives birth to jade mist" is poetry; only "Shaving cream from a barber shop has nothing to do with the universe" is poetry. So it’s still a horse, still the west wind.
The last line of "The Legend of the Flying Fox" reads:
"Heard the white horse beside him, watching the old master walk further and further away, couldn’t help but neigh in sorrow, wondering why the former master didn’t turn back."
Even the intelligent horse felt this way, so perhaps we shouldn’t expect much from humans. Still, a cup of to the homeland, with the endless sky above, let’s dance for the loyal souls.