A Thousand Mountains and Rivers

Now I drift through life, having accomplished nothing. I think back on all the women I knew back then and consider each of them in turn. Their conduct and understanding surpass my own. How can I, a great bearded man, truly be less than those women? I have more than enough cause for shame, yet regret is useless. What can I do now? At this point, I want to compile a collection recounting how, in the past, I relied on the grace of Heaven and the virtue of my ancestors, lived in fine clothes and luxury, and ate my fill of rich food; how I disregarded my father's and elder brother's teachings and betrayed the moral guidance of teachers and friends; and how, to this day, I have not mastered a single skill and have spent half my life in ruin. I shall set it down to tell the world: I cannot escape blame for my own failings. Yet women of the inner chambers have always been remarkable, and no one must use my shortcomings as an excuse to hide their own and erase those women along with me. Even now, with my thatched roof and humble windows, my earthen stove and rope bed, the morning and evening wind and dew, the willows by the steps and flowers in the courtyard do nothing to hinder my thoughts or my writing. Though I am unlearned and my writing lacks polish, what harm is there in using invented words and rustic language to unfold a story? It may let the women of the inner chambers be remembered, delight the eyes of the world, and dispel people's gloom. Would that not be worthwhile?