The Return of the Condor Heroes Afterword

The first instalment of The Return of the Condor Heroes was published in the inaugural issue of Ming Pao¹ on 20 May 1959. This novel took about three years to serialise, which means it took three years to write. These three years marked the most challenging period during Ming Pao’s founding. When revising the work, nearly every scene reminded me of the hardships shared with my colleagues during that time.

Through Yang Guo, The Return of the Condor Heroes attempts to explore how social conventions and customs constrain the human spirit and behaviour. While customs and conventions are temporary, they wield immense social influence during their time.

People nowadays dismiss the notion that teachers and students cannot marry, but it was considered improper during Guo Jing and Yang Guo’s time. Perhaps many rules and customs we consider absolute truths today might be meaningless centuries from now?

Moral standards, behavioural codes, and social customs constantly evolve with time, yet human nature and emotions change very slowly. The joy, sorrow, longing, and suffering expressed in the Classic of Poetry² three thousand years ago remain largely unchanged from people’s emotions today.

I have always believed that in novels, human nature and emotions carry greater significance than social consciousness or political norms. Guo Jing’s saying, “The greatest chivalry lies in serving one’s country and people,”³ still holds profound meaning today. However, I firmly believe that national boundaries will eventually disappear, rendering concepts like ‘patriotism’ and ‘treason’ less meaningful.

Yet the familial love between parents and children, siblings’ bonds, pure friendship, romance, sense of justice, benevolence, altruism, and dedication to society—these emotions and virtues will likely continue to be admired. They seem irreplaceable by any political theory, economic system, social reform, or religious belief.

Martial arts novels inevitably contain fantastical elements and coincidences. I’ve always hoped that while the martial arts in my novels may be impossible in reality, the characters’ personalities should always be plausible.

The separation and reunion of Yang Guo and Xiaolongnü, though seemingly guided by fate and coincidence, actually stems from their inherent personalities. Without such deep mutual devotion, neither would have leapt into the valley. Without her naturally serene disposition, reinforced by early training, Xiaolongnü could not have lived alone in the valley for so long. Without his passionate nature, Yang Guo would not have remained unwavering for sixteen years until death.

Of course, had the valley floor been rock instead of water, they would have perished together upon impact. While life’s encounters, successes, and failures may depend on chance and fortune, ultimately, one’s fundamental character determines their path.

The Divine Eagle⁴ is a fictional creature that doesn’t exist in the real world. Africa’s Madagascar once had an elephant bird (Aepyornis titan), standing over ten feet tall and weighing more than a thousand pounds, making it the world’s largest bird before its extinction around 1660. The elephant bird had extremely thick legs but was too heavy to fly. Its eggs were six times larger than ostrich eggs. I’ve seen fossilised elephant bird eggs at the New York Museum—they’re larger than a small coffee table. However, this species likely possessed very limited intelligence.

The revisions in this Second Edition are not extensive, mainly fixing some plot holes from the original work.

May 1976

After completing the Third Edition of The Return of the Condor Heroes, I added three appendices. The first discussed the Book of Changes⁵ and its relationship to Daoist, Confucian, and Yin-Yang schools’ theories of the Eight Trigrams.

During this time, I also carefully read Professor Shu Jingnan’s⁶ excellent work Chinese Taiji Diagram and Taiji Culture⁷ (he is now at Zhejiang University), which was very enlightening. It discusses many Daoist practices in internal alchemy cultivation, but as I know nothing about this field, I omitted it from my appendix. I feel strongly that there are many profound and mysterious fields of knowledge in the world… and regarding subjects I don’t understand, if I haven’t done thorough study and research, it’s best to admit my ignorance and avoid addressing them.

The other two appendices—one concerning Kublai Khan’s⁸ character and behaviour, and another describing the siege of Xiangyang⁹—serve as background material for young readers of The Return of the Condor Heroes.

However, living in Hong Kong, I have limited access to Yuan dynasty¹⁰ historical references, particularly primary sources. Without scholars to consult about uncertainties in Mongolian texts, I lack confidence in my historical conclusions. Therefore, these two appendices were not included in this book.

I have always deeply respected Mr Zhu Guangqian’s¹¹ discussion of the theory of aesthetic distance in Letters on Beauty. When I first read it in my youth, I was immediately convinced. After reading more Chinese and foreign works on aesthetics and philosophy, I still find Mr Zhu’s explanation clear, comprehensible, and illuminating.

Mr Zhu mainly argues that to appreciate art aesthetically, one must set aside utilitarian and intellectual viewpoints and observe purely from an aesthetic perspective. For instance, when appreciating a “Swimming Fish” painting, one should focus on the beauty of the fish’s posture, movement, composition, colour, and lines, becoming so immersed that one’s spirit soars freely.

A utilitarian viewpoint would consider where to buy such a fish, how much it would cost, how many pounds it weighs, its market price per pound, how long it could survive in water, and whether serving this fish would please one’s superior, parents, friends, or loved ones at dinner.

An intellectual viewpoint would investigate the fish’s classification, species, scientific name in Latin, whether it’s freshwater or marine, its main habitat, whether it’s male or female, its spawning season if female, its diet, whether it can be farmed, and its natural predators.

Even fish market vendors or palaeontologists should adopt a purely aesthetic perspective when viewing a fish painting, setting aside their professional viewpoints.

When Zhuangzi¹² and Huizi¹³ debated about fish at the Hao Bridge,¹⁴ debating whether the fish were happy—“You (and I) are not a fish, how do you know if the fish are happy?”

Yang Guo, Xiaolongnü, and Yinggu would likely wonder if the tortoise’s quick twists and turns could be adapted into martial arts movements.

Painters Bada Shanren¹⁵ and Qi Baishi¹⁶ would probably consider which brushstrokes best capture the fish’s beauty, while French Impressionist painter Cézanne might envision a bloody fish carcass hanging beside vegetables, contemplating the lines and colours needed. When Schubert observed trout, his mind likely filled with leaping musical notes and melodies.

Doctors Zhang Zhongjing¹⁷ and Li Shizhen¹⁸ would naturally consider which ailments the fish could treat, whether it nourishes yin or yang, and which herbs to combine it with.

Having lived in Hong Kong for so long, I well understand Hong Qigong’s perspective—the old beggar would naturally consider how the fish would taste steamed, braised, its head, tail, belly, back, stewed, roasted, smoked, or boiled. How would it taste if he cooked it himself? What if Huang Rong prepared it?

The most reasonable way to enjoy reading novels is to adopt an aesthetic attitude, appreciating the characters’ personalities, emotions, and experiences, sharing their joys and sorrows, becoming one with them while maintaining appropriate observational distance (the same applies when watching films or television series adapted from novels).

One can appreciate (or dislike) the beauty (or lack thereof) of the writing, the extraordinary (or implausible) nature of events, the surprising (or terrible) story structure, the beauty (or ugliness) of character personalities… This has always been my approach to reading novels and watching films and television.

For a period, I wrote daily film reviews for newspapers (Hong Kong screens so many films that reviewing one per day barely scratches the surface). Later, I joined a film company professionally as a screenwriter and director.

When watching films, I began focusing on shot length and editing (montage), colour coordination, camera angles and duration, lighting, actors’ expressions and dialogue, etc. This greatly reduced my aesthetic pleasure in watching films.

My approach became more intellectual and less emotional, leaving me rather detached. I would hardly be moved during great tragedies, sometimes not even shedding tears. Even when hearing symphonies or watching ballet in films, I wouldn’t become completely entranced or transported—the artistic appreciation had significantly diminished.

Reading novels with a utilitarian perspective (Does this novel align with proletarian revolutionary thought? Does it follow the theoretical guidance of revolutionary realism? What is its educational value for the masses?) or an intellectual perspective (Does the novel align with historical records? Is it physically possible? Does it match the assertions of certain authoritative philosophical texts? Can this poison kill someone? Can it dissolve a corpse into yellow liquid? Can someone whose arm has been severed flee on horseback without dying from severe injury? Can birds with such low intelligence demonstrate martial arts by countering moves? Could Lu Zhishen¹⁹ really uproot a large poplar tree? Without an east wind, can one build an altar and perform rituals to summon it?²⁰ If Dai Zong²¹ tied charmed armour to his legs, could he really travel eight hundred li in a day—wouldn’t he surely win gold in the Olympic marathon? According to history, Guan Yu didn’t actually release Cao Cao at Huarong Road²², so hasn’t Romance of the Three Kingdoms completely altered history by writing it this way?) greatly reduces the pleasure of reading novels.

Of course, one can read with such a critical attitude, but it’s no longer an aesthetic attitude—it’s not the best approach for enjoying art and appreciating literature.

Therefore, I think it’s better not to discuss Kublai Khan’s true character or whether Yang Guo really killed the Mongol Khan Möngke by hurling a stone at Xiangyang—I would rather address these in separate historical articles.

Those are scholarly articles that should be read with a scholarly attitude. (For example, in my novel Sword Stained with Royal Blood, I had considerable freedom with Yuan Chengzhi’s character—he could love Qingqing or love Ajiu as he wished. But in my historical article ‘A Critical Biography of Yuan Chongxuan’, any historical inaccuracy must be corrected.)

Some readers, because their personalities differ greatly from or even oppose the novel’s characters, cannot understand why characters act certain ways, finding their actions unreasonable, against common sense, or even impossible (would Yu Sanjie²³ really commit suicide with her sword because Liu Xianlian²⁴ refused to marry her?).

They find the novel’s writing “nonsensical” and the characters’ behaviour “incomprehensible”, believing the characters could have chosen more sensible, rational solutions to their problems.

Many people cannot understand Yang Guo’s impulsive personality and his “reckless actions” driven by momentary passion, especially highly rational natural scientists.

They feel Yang Guo starts out like Wei Xiaobao, then becomes like Xiao Feng—his personality changes drastically throughout the book. That a person’s character would change between ages twelve or thirteen and their thirties is hardly surprising.

The issue is that rational people don’t understand passionate people, which is one source of many tragedies in the world. Rational people don’t understand Yang Guo, Xiao Feng, Duan Yu…

They think Yang Guo shouldn’t have wanted to kill Guo Jing, Xiao Feng shouldn’t have committed suicide, Duan Yu shouldn’t have pined for Wang Yuyan, Ye Erniang shouldn’t have been so devoted to Abbot Xuanzhen, why would someone as beautiful and clever as Li Mochou remain fixated on Lu Zhanyuan? Huang Rong shouldn’t have suspected Yang Guo, Yin Li’s failure to recognise Zhang Wuji is too unscientific…

Some people think that when Yang Guo suspected Guo Jing of being his father’s killer, he should have calmly investigated with a rational attitude rather than impulsively trying to kill him for revenge, then just as impulsively saving his life.

If Yang Guo were Sherlock Holmes, or Hercule Poirot or Miss Marple from Christie’s detective novels, or if he were Judge Bao²⁵, Judge Kuang²⁶, Judge Peng²⁷, or Judge Dee²⁸, he would certainly have coolly gathered evidence and questioned witnesses (like Cheng Ying and Huang Yaoshi). But he is the impulsive Yang Guo.

Being impulsive and extremely intelligent are not at all contradictory – only some scientists who dislike art would think they are. There are far too many artists who possess both qualities. One cannot become an artist without being both intelligent and passionate.

Qu Yuan,²⁹ Sima Qian,³⁰ Li Bai,³¹ Li Shangyin,³² Du Mu,³³ Li Houzhu,³⁴ Li Qingzhao,³⁵ Su Dongpo,³⁶ Cao Xueqin,³⁷ Gong Zizhen,³⁸ Ba Jin,³⁹ Xu Beihong⁴⁰… weren’t all these great artists both intelligent and passionate?

Every academician of the Chinese Academy of Sciences could probably find some irrational behaviour in their life stories (especially during their youth, since someone whose life has been entirely rational probably could not become a great scientist either).

From a purely rational perspective, Shakespeare’s four great tragedies all fall apart. Hamlet should have immediately killed his uncle to avenge his father, not been so indecisive and hesitant. Othello should have investigated Iago’s slander and proven Desdemona’s innocence, not strangled his wife. Macbeth shouldn’t have been so ambitious as to kill the king and usurp the throne. King Lear, with slightly clearer thinking, should have known his daughters were deceiving him.

Some “modern” and “clever” readers think Yang Guo was foolish to wait sixteen years for Xiaolongnü. They think he should have first married Gongsun Lüe, used half the Passionless Pill from his mother-in-law to cure the poison of the Passion Flower, then married both Cheng Ying and Lu Wushuang, finally pledged his love to Guo Xiang. Then he could have gone to the Passionless Valley, held Guo Xiang’s hand while sitting on the rock, waiting to see if Xiaolongnü would return—if she didn’t, he could marry Guo Xiang with a clear conscience. (This would turn Yang Guo into the “clever” Wei Xiaobao!)

Huang Rong suspects that Yang Guo’s grand celebration of little Guo Xiang’s birthday is a ploy to win her heart and make her suffer for life, seeking revenge against the Guo family. But no—Huang Rong misunderstands Yang Guo again. Guo Xiang is such a lovable little sister, graceful yet bold, understanding, clever and quick-witted—Yang Guo had genuinely come to like her. Giving her three golden needles meant: “Whatever you ask of me, I’ll agree! Even if you want me to die for you!”

Making such a grand display for a young girl’s birthday is the impulsive behaviour of a passionate young man—something a mature, rational middle-aged person would never do. A young foreigner once rented a plane to write “I love you” in the sky to express his feelings to his beloved. Yang Guo’s extravagant gesture shares something of this spirit.

Having waited sixteen years for Xiaolongnü, with no outlet for his pent-up feelings, his celebration of Guo Xiang’s birthday was somewhat like shouting at Xiaolongnü: “I’ve waited sixteen years for you, and you still haven’t come—now I’m celebrating another lovely young lady’s birthday!”

If others want to mock him, what does Yang Guo care? Why would he be afraid? He’s not you!

When reading detective novels, one should read rationally, considering the criminal’s psychology, following clues from the detective’s perspective, imagining various possible scenarios, then using evidence to prove or disprove theories.

When reading martial arts novels (The Deer and the Cauldron being an exception), one should read with overflowing passion, following these passionate, righteous, and impulsive characters, understanding why they act passionately, righteously, and true to their conscience.

They aren’t selfish or calculating, not always thinking about benefits and advantages, but rather frequently considering what they should or shouldn’t do.

9 January 2003

Footnotes

1. 明報 – Míng Bào. A Hong Kong newspaper that was founded in 1959 See Wikipedia. ↩

2. 诗经 – Shījīng. The oldest existing collection of Chinese poetry, dating from the 11th to 7th centuries BCE. See Wikipedia. ↩

3. 侠之大者，为国为民 – Xiá zhī dàzhě, wèiguó wèimín. A famous quote expressing the highest ideal of Chinese chivalry—serving one’s country and people. ↩

4. 神雕 – Shén Diāo. The titular Divine Eagle, a fictional giant bird of extraordinary intelligence that becomes Yang Guo’s companion. ↩

5. 易经 – Yìjīng. An ancient Chinese divination text used for philosophical guidance and fortune-telling, One of the Five Classics, also known as Yijing or I Ching. See Wikipedia. ↩

6. 束景南 – Shù Jǐngnán. A professor at Suzhou University and later Zhejiang University, specialising in Chinese philosophy. See Wikipedia (Chinese). ↩

7. 中华太极图与太极文化 – Zhōnghuá Tàijí Tú yǔ Tàijí Wénhuà. A comprehensive study of Chinese Taiji philosophy and culture by Professor Shu Jingnan. ↩

8. 忽必烈 – Hūbìliè. The founder and first emperor of the Yuan dynasty who ruled China from 1271-1294. ↩

9. 襄阳 – Xiāngyáng. A strategic city whose siege and eventual fall to the Mongols (1267-1273) marked a crucial turning point in Chinese history. See Wikipedia. ↩

10. 元 – Yuán. A dynasty ruled by the Mongols from 1271 to 1368. See Wikipedia. ↩

11. 朱光潜 – Zhū Guāngqiān. A prominent Chinese aesthetician and literary scholar (1897-1986), known for introducing Western aesthetic theories to China. See Wikipedia. ↩

12. 庄子 zhuāng zi. Honorific name of Zhuang Zhou, an influential philosopher during the Warring States period. Zi the highest title for an intellectual, especially philosopher, in ancient China. See Wikipedia. ↩

13. 惠子 – Huìzǐ. A philosopher from the Warring States period. See Wikipedia. ↩

14. 濠梁之辩 – Háoliáng zhī biàn. A famous dialogue between Zhuangzi and Huizi about the nature of fish and happiness. ↩

15. 八大山人 – Bādà Shānrén. A famous Chinese painter known for his distinctive style in depicting nature. See Wikipedia. ↩

16. 齐白石 – Qí Báishí. A famous Chinese painter known for his distinctive style in depicting nature. See Wikipedia. ↩

17. 张仲景 – Zhāng Zhòngjǐng. A renowned traditional Chinese medicine practitioner who studied medicinal properties of various substances including fish. ↩

18. 李时珍 – Lǐ Shízhēn. A renowned traditional Chinese medicine practitioner who studied medicinal properties of various substances including fish. ↩

19. 鲁智深 – Lǔ Zhìshēn. A character from Water Margin known for his tremendous strength. ↩

20. 东风 – Dōngfēng. A famous scene from Romance of the Three Kingdoms where Zhuge Liang built an altar and performed a ritual to summon an east wind. ↩

21. 戴宗 – Dài Zōng. Another character from Water Margin famous for his swift running abilities. ↩

22. 华容道 – Huáróng Dào. A famous episode from Romance of the Three Kingdoms where Guan Yu lets Cao Cao escape. ↩

23. 尤三姐 – Yóu Sānjiě. A character from Dream of the Red Chamber who commits suicide over rejected love. ↩

24. 柳湘莲 – Liǔ Xiānlián. A character from Dream of the Red Chamber who rejects Yu Sanjie’s love. ↩

25. 包公 – Bāo Gōng. A renowned Song dynasty official known for his wisdom in solving cases. See Wikipedia. ↩

26. 况钟 – Kuàng Zhōng. A fictional judge known for solving cases. See Wikipedia (Chinese). ↩

27. 彭公 – Péng Gōng. Another fictional judge character. See Wikipedia (Chinese). ↩

28. 狄公 – Dí Gōng. Judge Dee, a fictional character based on the historical figure Di Renjie. See Wikipedia. ↩

29. 屈原 – Qū Yuán. A famous poet from the Warring States period. See Wikipedia. ↩

30. 司马迁 – Sīmǎ Qiān. A famous historian from the Han dynasty. See Wikipedia. ↩

31. 李白 – Lǐ Bái. A famous poet from the Tang dynasty. See Wikipedia. ↩

32. 李商隐 – Lǐ Shāngyǐn. A famous poet from the late Tang dynasty. See Wikipedia. ↩

33. 杜牧 – Dù Mù. A famous poet from the Tang dynasty. See Wikipedia. ↩

34. 李后主 – Lǐ Hòuzhǔ. The last emperor of the Southern Tang dynasty. See Wikipedia. ↩

35. 李清照 – Lǐ Qīngzhào. A famous female poet from the Song dynasty. See Wikipedia. ↩

36. 苏东坡 – Sū Dōngpō. A famous poet and statesman from the Song dynasty. See Wikipedia. ↩

37. 曹雪芹 – Cáo Xuěqín. The author of Dream of the Red Chamber. See Wikipedia. ↩

38. 龚自珍 – Gōng Zìzhēn. A famous poet from the Qing dynasty. See Wikipedia. ↩

39. 巴金 – Bā Jīn. A famous novelist from the 20th century. See Wikipedia. ↩

40. 徐悲鸿 – Xú Bēihóng. A famous painter from the 20th century. See Wikipedia. ↩