I have asked: Where does the spirit of an intellectual originate? What is it's source? For a very long time this originally simple question has been buried under layers and layers of paper. Naturally, I cannot deny that the literary world which has permeated my heart and mind has incubated a certain kind of spirit. But I have still discovered that what leads me to lament has come from nature, from a vast and desolate world. Perhaps this kind of lament exists in any time and place---We have too few intellectuals. Their emblems are not simply education and accomplishments; the most important attribute is the quality of the soul. True knowledge should reach the sublime. Those who make use of the technical arts in hopes of success must at the same time also make themselves grow into intellectuals.
Vulgarizing the concept of "Intellectual" is a travesty. It will bring forth uncommitted frauds, muddle-headed scholars and artists who have sold out their integrity. Sometimes these people do not necessarily hate hard work, but without exception they all have an extreme fear of poverty. They concentrate on their external appearance, have no inner sense of order, and are most adept at following current trends. Has anyone seen an exception? Who has found such a rarity? In face of power and advantage each is more devious than the last, as though they were approaching the end of the world. I would prefer to spend my life sweating and groveling in the dust, while remaining far from them.
I have been a professional writer, but the highest ambition of my life is to become an author.
People need a distant focal point, like a far away star. I walk towards it, wearing shabby clothes and eating frugally, concentrating and disciplining myself. I hope that a hand in the darkness will open the gates of wisdom for me. Compared to my objective and the training which I pursue, I appear to be so insignificant and humble. I am pale and powerless, trivial and lazy, unable to undertake self-examination. But, for the growth of my spirit, I ensure that my sincerity, my simplicity, and my benevolent behaviour never leave me. I ensure that my courage and righteousness become more concrete and clear. In that way I can also be a companion to the long, silent process of erosion and attrition.
On the wild plain where I cast myself, in the midst of the millions of living things, labour makes me profoundly still. I have achieved this state of being: I steadfastly maintain my faith in the meaning of work and discovery. What I write down with my own hand is only immature and crude, but it is work with no affinity for common eyes. These words that I write are for you, for him and for her. I love you all. For you I respectfully submit this work.
