The Ming History, gathering dust on my desk, has been thumbed until its pages curl at the edges. The pine-soot ink in the inkstone has carried its fragrance through the years. As I take up my brush tonight, I suddenly feel the ink surging in the stone, as if countless souls were knocking from behind the paper. Zhang Juzheng’s vermilion notes bloom across the rice paper; Wang Yangming’s philosophy of the mind flows with the ink; Zheng He’s treasure ships break through the clouds; Tang Yin’s peach blossoms fall into the inkstone. I breathe softly, scattering the dust of history. Now let us see how the splendor of the Ming will shine anew beneath my brush.
