Traveling with Mr. Jin

Author: Guo Mei / Country: Mainland China
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-07-01
Features: Zhongnan Mountain has always been sacred in my memory. In childhood, listening to elders' stories, I naively believed that Zhongnan Mountain was home to countless immortals. At that time, Zhongnan Mountain was the "immortal mountain" in my imagination. As I grew older, I read Wang Wei's immortal poem: "Taiyi is near the heavens, mountains linked to the sea's edge. White clouds merge on the way back, green mist disappears as seen. The celestial regions change at the peak, valleys differ in light and shade. To seek lodging among people, I call the woodcutter across the water." This poem further ignited my endless yearning for the mysterious "sacred mountain," and I desperately wanted to personally experience the realm of "white clouds merge on the way back, green mist disappears as seen." This deep desire became an unshakable obsession over the years.
As time passed, Zhongnan Mountain also rose in my study, gradually blending with the lingering echoes of history and the essence of poetry, like a dream that was both near and far, captivating my soul. In my heart, Zhongnan Mountain is the mountain of hermits, the mountain of knights, the mountain of practitioners, the mountain of dreamers, the mountain of wanderers, and the mountain of travelers. I always search for Zhongnan Mountain in my dreams, for the rugged mountain paths, for the gentle streams, for the cliffs with withered vines, for the competing peaks, for the secluded valleys, for the tranquility of "dry mountains with no birds flying," for the holiness of "mountains connected by auspicious qi, peaks surrounded by sacred mist," and for the carefree spirit of "evening descending from the blue mountain, the moon following me home."
Later, I had the fortune to read Master Jin Yong's works, and I was particularly fond of The Return of the Condor Heroes. Perhaps it was the world in the book that captivated me; or perhaps it was the profound love between Yang Guo and Xiao Longnü that moved me deeply. Yet, there was another reason, not to be shared with outsiders, which was my admiration for Zhongnan Mountain over the past decade—it remains a sacred place in my heart. When I thought of Yang Guo and Xiao Longnü finally tying the knot beneath Zhongnan Mountain and vanishing into the heavens, I was overjoyed. Though I knew they were merely fictional celestial lovers, it made no difference to my admiration. Moreover, Zhongnan Mountain was not a fictional sacred mountain; it still stands in the Central Plains, south of Chang'an and between the Qin Mountains, majestic and towering, piercing the clouds. Such a Zhongnan Mountain does not fail to stir my heart deeply. Such a Zhongnan Mountain does not fail to draw me into longing. So, I came! Alone, with a passionate and pious heart, with endless fantasies accumulated over the years, and with genuine admiration for Yang Guo and Xiao Longnü, I traversed the thousand-year-old yellow land, chasing millions of miles of memories, just to get closer to a illusory dream, to grasp the truth within my sight. So, Zhongnan Mountain, I came, alone.
I enjoy being a solitary traveler—not because I particularly dislike group tours, but because I believe travel is a highly personal experience, carrying a hint of wandering, and should not be too entangled with others, otherwise, one would miss the unique beauty. Imagine a group of strangers moving from one scenic spot to another like shoppers—beyond exhaustion, what else can they gain? Scenery is not just for the eyes to see; it needs to be enriched by memory, sensed by the heart, and savored by the soul. Travel should be like life—walking and stopping, collecting every fleeting moment of emotion into the warehouse of memory, and savoring it carefully when the wind is gentle and the clouds are calm. Only then can the feeling linger and become unforgettable.
When I stood with my backpack on the ancient road of Chang'an, gazing at the green mist in the southern horizon, a sense of desolation surged in my heart. The thousand-year-old yellow land lay beneath my feet, and the once imperial capital of Xi'an, with its weathered embrace, tightly held me as a traveler. A strong sense of belonging filled my soul. Faced with the flat Guanzhong Plain, the towering Zhongnan Mountains piercing the heavens, and the ancient capital of Chang'an, stripped of its former glory, I only wanted to open my arms and roar to the sky. The shift of time is but a flick of the wrist, and the fall of prosperity is no further than a dream. Yet, the aura of the Tang Dynasty still lingers in the breath of passersby. The imperial capital was tied to imperial authority, power, and the glory of uniting the four seas, but also to intrigue and darkness. Chang'an was once the center of political. However, just a step away from this place of conflict, Zhongnan Mountain was also a paradise for recluses. This seemingly contradictory reality invites endless reflection—retirement was meant to lead to officialdom, and this paradox ran through China's feudal era. Take the Tang Dynasty as an example—there were countless instances of scholars retreating to Zhongnan Mountain before being recalled by the court for important positions. At that time, recluses unanimously chose Zhongnan Mountain as a blessed land precisely because it was the nearest famous mountain to the emperor, hence the term "the Zhongnan shortcut."
It is said that during the reign of Emperor Zhongzong of the Tang Dynasty, a Confucian scholar named Lu Zangyong had been living in seclusion on Zhongnan Mountain before achieving success. Later, he was summoned by the court and held multiple high-ranking positions. One day, while accompanying a distant Taoist master, Sima Chengzhen, on a tour of Zhongnan Mountain, Lu Zangyong said, "There are many fine places in the mountains; why seek further?" meaning he encouraged Sima Chengzhen to come to Zhongnan Mountain to practice. Unbeknownst to him, Sima Chengzhen replied with a cryptic tone, "In my view, it is a shortcut to official success." These words were so harsh that Lu Zangyong was left speechless with embarrassment. In fairness, we should not solely blame Lu Zangyong for being a petty figure seeking fame. In that era, "retiring to Zhongnan Mountain" had become fashionable, and many followed this shortcut besides Lu Zangyong. Wang Changling even openly stated, "Immersing myself in green mountains, drinking clear waters, nourished by righteousness, I then pay homage to high officials, hoping for great encounters." Even Li Bai once "retired with the Taoist Wu Yun in Shan County, where Wu Yun was recommended to the court and both served as court advisors." Wang Wei, from an early age, balanced his official and reclusive life, often hiding in Zhongnan Mountain, until his later years when he retired to the Wangchuan Villa in Lantian, finally living a reclusive life of "neither seeking nor escaping the void." In his poem A Parting at Zhongnan Mountain, he wrote: "In middle age, I grew fond of Taoism; in later years, I made my home on the southern slope of the mountain. When inspired, I go alone, knowing no one but myself. When I reach the end of the stream, I sit and watch the clouds rise. By chance, I meet an old forest dweller, and in laughter, we have no plans to return." This perfectly depicts his leisurely life in retirement beneath Zhongnan Mountain, "unconcerned with all worldly matters." Wang Wei's practice of "harmonizing official and reclusive life" was emulated by later scholars, becoming a spiritual escape for Confucian scholars trapped in officialdom. Scholars are both resilient and fragile—they retreat to the mountains to preserve their last shred of dignity and escape the darkness of reality. But I wonder if the high-minded heroes in the martial arts world, when they retreat from the world, also harbor such a contradictory and helpless sentiment?
P3-6