I originally planned to complete this novel within one year, but unexpectedly it took nearly three times as long. During these less than three years, there were times when each day felt like an eternity of bitter endurance, while other moments seemed to pass as fleetingly as a white steed glimpsed through a crack.
Writing this novel coincided with the most turbulent period of my life thus far. My earlier years had been simple and tranquil, surrounded by smiling faces wherever I looked, with the darker aspects of human nature mostly encountered through books and my own imagination. When I first began writing "Lan Xiang Yuan," I was truly beginning to read the great book of society, and right from the start, my career was battered by storms, repeatedly pushed to the brink with no retreat possible. I remember that Spring Festival when I visited my alma mater's former principal and casually mentioned some work matters. Suddenly, the principal looked at me with profound compassion and said, "You've only just begun, yet every day is torment. What will you do in the future?" I hadn't thought I'd shared anything particularly serious—just everyday exchanges—but this expression of concern immediately brought tears to my eyes. Later, an elder with considerable life experience and social status told me, "Many people must weather such storms in life, but you're encountering them too early for your age."
I'm not certain whether these experiences came too soon or too late, but as Laozi said: "Good fortune lies within misfortune, and misfortune lurks within good fortune." Looking back now, I realize that great leaps in personal growth don't stem from self-discipline alone, but often emerge from external blows. I tasted the bitterness of being marginalized and surrounded by malice, experienced the helplessness of being unable to defend myself despite having countless arguments, endured the injustice of being made a scapegoat while others took credit, and witnessed the scheming and betrayal of mutual undermining. I saw the evil in human nature and understood that some things cannot be accomplished through sheer effort alone, nor can desperate struggles always bring about turning points. This became my most confused and bewildered period. After completing work equivalent to two or three people's daily load, when I began writing "Lan Xiang Yuan" late at night in exhaustion, I constantly pondered: What constitutes true strength and maturity? Is it about becoming sophisticated and shrewd, developing the mental acuity and means to not only fear no one's schemes but even counter them—is that success? No matter how satisfying revenge might be for characters in novels, when reality strikes personally, the thought of transforming myself into a perpetrator like those who harmed others—returning every inch of calculation with a foot of retaliation, getting entangled in endless conflicts—to protect myself, filled me with anguish. Amid these contradictions and confusion, the subsequent outline for "Lan Xiang Yuan" once stalled completely.
What should I truly do? I began contemplating questions like "Who am I? Where do I come from? Where am I going?" Everyone carries their own moral compass within, along with gray areas where good and evil become elusive. I sought an ultimate guide for my actions. I read philosophical works and began exploring religion more deeply, until I encountered Buddhism.
This might be what Jimmy Liao meant by: "In the deepest despair, you encounter the most beautiful surprise." Encountering Buddhism became the greatest fortune of my life. The Buddhist scriptures contain boundless wisdom and dialectical thinking, like a bright lamp suddenly illuminating a dark chamber that has stood for millennia.After listening to the Buddhist scriptures, I began to understand that ultimate strength and maturity lie in harmonious magnanimity. Compassionate forgiveness and steadfast adherence to inner goodness allow one to relinquish personal interests and attachments, acting like alum in suffering and evil—settling and clarifying rather than stirring like a stick, which only spreads chaos. It is easy to seek vengeance and relish retribution, but difficult to practice mercy and tolerance. Thus, people readily admire confrontational attitudes—the fierce satisfaction of "repaying what you owe me a hundred or a thousand times over"—yet seldom comprehend the magnanimity of yielding in disputes, willingly accepting losses, or even repaying malice with virtue. This likely stems from the state of today's society, where many live in fear, embracing only competition and cutthroat survival, arming themselves with cunning and tactics as armor and weapons to enter a harsh world. They cannot accept traditional virtues like benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, faith, gentleness, kindness, respect, frugality, and tolerance, often viewing them with suspicion. Hence, in novels, such traits are uniformly dismissed as "Mary Sue" or "pushover," reminding people to maintain vigilance in interpersonal relationships, weighing their gains and losses before deciding to retaliate or offer corresponding affection.
Returning to The Fragrance of Orchids , after being cleansed by Buddhist teachings, I felt much more assured when putting pen to paper. If Lin Jinlou is the spirit and energy of this novel, then Chen Xianglan is its soul. The people I've met and the events I've witnessed have all become material for this book. Lin Jinlou is actually easy to grasp, as he shares many similarities with my own personality, and extroverted characters are always vivid and straightforward to write. Chen Xianglan, however, is somewhat challenging. Introverted protagonists are always subtle and complex. I wanted to create a heroine with a delicate yet resilient fragrance, like an orchid—as described in The School Sayings of Confucius : "Orchids grow in deep valleys, not ceasing to be fragrant even if no one is there to appreciate them; a gentleman cultivates virtue and morality, not changing his principles due to poverty or hardship." Born in the most vulgar and humble circumstances, she still manages to bloom with the most beautiful flowers.
When Xianglan first appears, she resembles the heroines of most novels—having experienced certain hardships, she is defensive and sharp-tongued, unyielding in retaliation, yet full of hope for the future. Because her parents are incapable, she seeks to escape generations of servitude and the fate of marrying a servant, so she enters the Lin residence. Like every fresh graduate entering the workplace, she wants to work hard, find a patron (a good superior or mid-level leader), gain recognition, and ultimately achieve her goals, but reality seldom complies. Nowadays, popular heroines are often iron-willed warriors who, no matter what they face, either remain optimistic and cheerful or display superhuman resilience, quickly recovering from setbacks as if weakness and tears equate to being a "delicate flower." Those who write this way likely haven't truly experienced despair, hence their ability to depict it so lightly. I prefer to portray the timidity and helplessness amid trials, the tears and fragility, the fear of an uncertain future, and the breakdown where "everyone understands grand principles, but petty emotions are hard to control"—it's simply human nature, nothing to be ashamed of.Jiang Xiyun is a character I deliberately created. If she were adorned with the protagonist's halo, she would be a widely beloved figure—pragmatic, rational, and well-versed in worldly tactics. She knows how to speak pleasingly, ingratiate herself, and navigate situations with ease. She treats those aligned with her kindly but shows no mercy to opponents. Though she possesses a sense of kindness, once her absolute interests are at stake, that kindness can justifiably be compromised, and she absolves herself with the excuse, "I'm not a saint." Most people in the world fall into this category of "neither entirely good nor bad" yet consider themselves kind and upright—a highly typical portrayal. These two character archetypes represent different values, ultimately rooted in divergent motivations. The former's motivations revolve around "me"—"my interests, face, status," "whether my future will be comfortable," and "better others suffer than myself." The latter's motivations extend beyond "me" to include "others"—"will my actions harm someone?" "I see their struggles, so I'm willing to endure losses and forgive." When these two mindsets confront unavoidable challenges together, their cordial interactions shatter, erupting into intense conflicts. Adversity often serves as a test—it can destroy a person or elevate them. One may either be dragged down by the murky realities, tainted in self-justification, finding excuses to forgive themselves; or, after recognizing all that is ugly, still choose kindness, willingly sacrificing to preserve innocence.
This is what I aim to express. The protagonist, through repeated trials that temper her spirit to the brink of death and rebirth, sheds cumbersome arrogance and illusions. She evolves from sharp-tongued and argumentative to non-confrontational and gentle in speech, growing increasingly humble, serene, and profound. Through experience, she learns compassion and courage; after emerging from the mire, she holds no grudges or blame, embodying a religious-like openness and detachment, allowing the world to appear frankly and peacefully before her. Her status rises from lowly to noble, yet her character transforms from pride to humility, remaining grounded and yielding like dust, devoid of any ostentation or sharpness, only warmth and tolerance. This is the meaning and ideal behind shaping this character.
Some readers complain about Xianglan's transformation in the later chapters, while others offer heartfelt praise—it all depends on individual breadth of mind, aesthetic taste, and life experiences. As for me, I am content with having told this story according to my own vision.
Interestingly, as Xianglan's circumstances gradually improved in the story, my work situation also turned for the better. After observing me for some time, several superiors overrode objections to promote me. I moved to a better position, gained a private office, and now work under a benevolent, humorous, scholarly leader. Looking back, it was the Buddha's teachings that helped me—instilling reverence for cause and effect, enabling me to endure those difficult times. This has strengthened my belief that outcomes achieved through scheming and calculation, even if obtained, may soon be lost or remain incomplete. But by consistently upholding conscience and patience, though it may seem like enduring unfairness and loss, one will ultimately receive the most complete and rewarding retribution.After "The Fragrance of Orchids," I probably won't write such a long novel again, and likely won't tackle historical themes anymore. My next book will be set in the Republican era—a story I've held in my heart for a long time. After that, I might try my hand at contemporary themes. I'm not a professional author, nor do I harbor grand ambitions. I only hope that with each book I write, I can break through my own limits and make some progress—that alone would satisfy me.
"The Fragrance of Orchids" truly ends here. Finishing this book felt like completing a spiritual practice. I want to express my gratitude to the readers who have accompanied me on this journey, especially the friends from Yanshan Villa and Heyan Villa, who offered me unwavering support and help during my most difficult times. That a novel could bring us together is the greatest gift this book has given me.
Having rambled on until now, in these final moments, I'd like to share with you an excerpt from Master Kuanru's teachings. When I first heard these words, I was in my most confused period. They struck me like a sudden revelation, stirring a tumult of emotions until I sat weeping uncontrollably in the Buddha hall:
No matter how dire your circumstances, never abandon yourself to despair. Endure, and preserve your good karma.
No matter how treacherous the environment, never give up on being a genuinely good person.
Amid the bustling mortal world, persist in being a clear-minded person.
In an era of rampant materialism, persist in being a pure-hearted person.
When everyone says human hearts are unfathomable, persist in believing in the goodness of human nature.
When rituals collapse and morals decay, hold fast to the morality and ideals in your heart.
When the whole world laughs at your foolishness, persist in viewing the world with a simple heart and innocent eyes.
Hold fast to your soul and convictions, even if this persistence leaves you standing alone.
That is all.
With heartfelt gratitude to everyone.
July 14, 2015, early morning
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