No. 1524-C補續高僧傳序
Preface to the Supplemented Biographies of Eminent Monks
吾氏高僧之列十科。猶孔門弟子之推四哲。四哲載記後。既更有弟子。十科立傳後。豈竟無高僧。非無高僧。是無傳高僧之人也。亦弟子中。非得馬遷之筆。而不能傳。曰傳者傳也。貴傳其神如見故人。一披圖不待問。即知為某某。此無他。葢以神遇。不以言得也。噫。一大部僧史。非一大部高僧之面目也哉。古秀高寒之色。凜凜逼人。皆在阿堵中。非具僧繇畵龍點睛之手。虎穴鷹巢叅討之徧。司馬董狐良史之才。無乃捃拾人唾。入籃是艸。或以乙代甲。或遺大取小。使古人門庭施設。垂手殺活之機。皆莫能辯。宋寧贊傳成後。張無盡呂夏卿君子輩。與寂音尊者。從而議之。固不無遺憾焉。吾友高松河公。慨甞向予昭代僧史之缺典。今捨吾黨其誰。於是。鍵關東海上三年。以利其器。顧不惜踏破鐵鞋。走齊魯燕趙間。始斷烟殘碣。搜括迨徧。東南名山。所未果緣。約與吾分任之。憶甲寅春。於湖上送公。為八閩遊。吾亦將振䇿兩粵。取道臧[(卬-ㄗ)*〡*可]。以還故山。雞足熊耳間。常見有肉身大士。如盤龍古亭勝國。至今猶自定中。爪生髮長。他則如念庵再光定堂。譬彼幽蘭多生空谷。雖芳香絕倫。賞識無人。未能悉舉。誓與畢命蒐羅。了此公案。於時也。殘雪載塗。饑烏無色。引領征人。孤思悵結。公其行矣。無何歸來。相見鐵山先楞。師喜有屐齒嚙殘閩地雪。衲頭觸盡浙江雲之句。已不知多少祖師。盡被一囊收拾。天下多少老和尚。盡被掂觔簸兩。一一秤過來。惜乎。此後兩人。皆墮講肆窠臼。無暇及此。若夫人之今古。采之得失。列之詮次。尚俟商確。可稱未全之書。嗚呼。公今死矣。其如人亡則難何。吾亦老之將至。裹糧抱杖。能無望路之歎。此書儗庋之高閣。公一生苦心。竟成烏有。將質之海內。則又多所未逮。三復不已。與其無也寧存。遂與毛居士子晉。相商而付諸梓。倘見罪於諸方。則吾實亦不得辭其責也矣。幽冥之下。負我良友不少。更復何言。所幸易簀之際。囑累道開。曲盡艱苦。今竟成書。將致告公於常寂光中。能讀父書。能成父志者。諸弟子中。又其唯道開乎。
Our school lists ten categories of eminent monks, much like Confucius' disciples who honored the "Four Philosophers." After their records were compiled, more students appeared. Should there be no further eminent monks after the biographies of these ten categories were written? It's not that there were none, but that there were no chroniclers capable of capturing them. Among these disciples, without a writer like Sima Qian, no true biography could be created. A biography is called such because it transmits the spirit—it must make the person come alive, as if we see an old friend. The moment you open the scroll, without asking, you know exactly who it is. This skill arises not from words but from capturing the essence.
Alas! Is not this grand collection of monastic history simply a gallery of the faces of noble monks? The ancient, lofty, and austere qualities—chilling yet compelling—are all captured in their eyes. Without the masterful touch of Zhang Sengyou (who painted the dot to awaken the dragon), the thorough exploration of tiger dens and eagle nests, or the talent of Sima Qian, Dong Hu, the great historians, one can only gather others' leavings and collect scraps like grass in a basket. Sometimes a later monk is mistaken for an earlier one; sometimes the great is overlooked in favor of the trivial. The settings and works of these ancient masters, their merciful actions and life-giving methods, all become indistinguishable.
After Emperor Ning of Song praised the completed biographies, gentlemen like Zhang Wujin and Lü Xiaqing, along with the Venerable Ji Yin, later debated, inevitably finding some regrets. My friend, Master Gao Song of the River, once sighed to me about the missing chronicles from our dynasty's eminent monks. "Now, if not our group, who else?" he said. So he locked himself away for three years near the eastern sea to sharpen his tools. He could not spare himself from wearing out iron sandals, walking through Qi, Lu, Yan, and Zhao, searching among broken smoke and fragmented stelae. The famed mountains of the southeast, which he had not yet visited, we agreed to split: he would take one half, I the other.
I recall the spring of 1674, seeing him off at the lake as he journeyed to Fujian. I too planned to head to Guangdong and Guangxi, take a roundabout path via Zang Xian, and return to my native hills. Among the places like Cock's Foot and Bear's Ear, I often heard of living incarnations of Bodhisattvas—such as Pan Long, Gu Ting, or those in the Sacred Kingdom—even now still in samadhi, their nails growing, hair lengthening. Others like Nian An, Zai Guang, or Ding Tang were like deep orchids in empty valleys: though supremely fragrant, no one recognized them. I could not name them all. So I resolved to exhaust my life searching to settle this karmic account.
At that time, remnants of snow still clung to the road, hungry crows were drab. I set forth through the desolate landscape, my heart heavy with parting and bound in solitary longing. And you, my friend, you went your way. It wasn't long before you returned. At Iron Mountain, I met Elder Xian Liao first. The teacher was delighted, composing a verse: "Your sandal prints have nibbled away Fujian's snow; your patched robe has kissed away Zhejiang's clouds." Who could have known that countless patriarchs had already been swept into one bag? How many old monks throughout the land had been weighed, sorted, and measured one by one? It's a pity that after that, both of us fell into the rut of scholarly explanation and had no time for this. Regarding the monks, both past and present, and the accuracy and losses of our selections, we could not fully decide; they awaited further discussion. This book could be called incomplete.
Alas! Now you are dead. What can be done about our loss? I too approach old age. Carrying a sack of provisions and grasping my staff, can I help but sigh at the road ahead? This book once threatened to be stored away, forgotten; your lifetime of hardship would have become nothing. Should I submit it to the world, it may still fall short. After repeated reconsideration, I decided that it is better to preserve it than to let it vanish. So I discussed the matter with layman Mao Zijin and entrusted it to the printer. If I incur blame from all quarters, I must also bear the responsibility. In the depths below, I will be no small debtor to my good friend. What more can I say? Fortunately, as you were about to leave this life, you entrusted the task fully to Dao Kai, expressing all its hardships. Now the work is complete. When I tell you in the realm of eternal light—"He can read his father's writings; he can fulfill his father's will"—among your disciples, does it not still refer to Dao Kai alone?
後住中峰 讀徹 拜撰
Composed with reverence by Du Che, who later resided at Zhongfeng.