Master Yongjue returned from Zhejiang to Fujian, where he retired to Drum Mountain. His attendant, Senior Taichong, compiled the records of his three sessions of teachings, uniting them into a collection titled "Inner Writings on the Legacy of Chan." Once completed, he came to Zui Li to ask me for a preface. Though I have read Buddhist scriptures, I have truly understood nothing of the Buddhist path—how could I possibly know the Master? To write a preface out of ignorance would be my failing. But the senior earnestly insisted, and I could not refuse. So I said, "If I must, may I simply recount what I do know of the Master?"

The Master's learning encompasses heaven and humanity, his insight spans past and present. In large matters—the principles of order and chaos, rise and fall—and in small matters—the subtleties of talent's advancement or retreat—in hidden things like the Yellow River Chart, the stars, and calendar calculations—and in visible ones like ritual, music, punishment, and governance—there is nothing he has not thoroughly investigated to its core. A single word from him can endure for a thousand years. This is my knowledge of the Master: his learning is profound.

His radiant spirit roams freely, and his brush follows wherever it leads. Every principle is refined, every intention expressed. His arguments shift unpredictably, with no discernible boundary. Yet all are pure, genuine, elegant, and subtle—full and harmonious, without the flash of ornate decoration or the agitation of forceful display. This is my knowledge of the Master: his writing is pure.

Now nearly sixty, he has just begun to sound the bell of teaching. After two years of leading the hall, he already contemplates falling silent. He entrusts all circumstances to fate, as if unconcerned, utterly free from fondness for novelty or greed for gain. This is my knowledge of the Master: his cultivation is serene.

With an iron spine that holds up the sky, he stands alone in noble style. His conduct is upright and resolute; every action follows the ancients. Though he has presided over four monasteries, he never steps into the worldly arena. Though he daily mingles with the high and mighty, his words never stoop to flattery. This is my knowledge of the Master: his integrity is lofty.

Within the meditation hall, he single-handedly upholds the patriarch's seal, holding the iron barrier firm. Though eminent monks gather like scales on a fish, most retreat before the threshold. He is never seen granting casual approval, passing on the fly-whisk, or transmitting the robe to make his temple bustling. This is my knowledge of the Master: his discipline is strict.

As for ascending the hall to teach, his words flow from his lips spontaneously. His wit and spontaneous skill are free, like lightning sweeping through clouds rising. He never confines himself to a single path—now fierce, now gentle; now elevated and ancient, now plain and direct. This suggests he is like a wish-fulfilling jewel that reflects all colors without settling on one, or like a vast ocean with waves that surge and recede without any fixed pattern. Is this not precisely what Great Wisdom called "the great master's technique, where Chan embraces all forms"?

This is merely my attempt to sketch the Master from far across the river, depicting his shadow in hazy outline. How could my shallow mind truly know him?

Yet I once heard the Master say: "Born into this age, I am truly alone, with only my shadow for company. I have never seen anyone who truly knows me. But I do not seek to be known in this age either. As long as these words remain, my Way is here. If someday someone can see my mind through my words, then the lineage of Shaolin may not die out."

Now may I place these words at the head of the volume? The senior assented. So I wrote them as a preface.