Kai Lungs Golden Hours | Page 3

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KAI LUNG'S GOLDEN HOURS By Ernest Bramah
First Published 1922.
Etext prepared by John Bickers, [email protected].

KAI LUNG'S GOLDEN HOURS
BY
ERNEST BRAMAH

With a Preface by Hilaire Belloc

The Kai Lung stories have for many years been in high favour among
those who relish sophisticated humour. One of the first to recognize
their distinction was Hilaire Belloc, who, in his Introduction, records
the impact made upon him when he first made the acquaintance of
these masterpieces of narrative. Kai Lung is an itinerant story-teller in
ancient China. "I spread my mat," he says, "wherever my uplifted voice
can entice together a company to listen," and his powers of
enchantment are abundantly revealed in this volume. He incurs the
enmity of a sinister figure called Ming-shu, who is the confidential
agent of the Mandarin, Shan Tien, and has to defend himself in the
Mandarin's court against a series of treasonable charges. Kai Lung's
defence takes the original form of inducing the Mandarin to listen to a
recital of the traditional tales of China, and so well does he beguile the
capricious tyrant that he secures one adjournment after the other and,
finally, his freedom--as well as the love of the maiden Hwa-Mei.

PREFACE
/Homo faber/. Man is born to make. His business is to construct: to
plan: to carry out the plan: to fit together, and to produce a finished
thing.
That human art in which it is most difficult to achieve this end (and in
which it is far easier to neglect it than in any other) is the art of writing.
Yet this much is certain, that unconstructed writing is at once worthless
and ephemeral: and nearly the whole of our modern English writing is
unconstructed.
The matter of survival is perhaps not the most important, though it is a
test of a kind, and it is a test which every serious writer feels most
intimately. The essential is the matter of excellence: that a piece of
work should achieve its end. But in either character, the character of
survival or the character of intrinsic excellence, construction deliberate

and successful is the fundamental condition.
It may be objected that the mass of writing must in any age neglect
construction. We write to establish a record for a few days: or to send a
thousand unimportant messages: or to express for others or for
ourselves something very vague and perhaps very weak in the way of
emotion, which does not demand construction and at any rate cannot
command it. No writer can be judged by the entirety of his writings, for
these would include every note he ever sent round the corner; every
memorandum he ever made upon his shirt cuff. But when a man sets
out to write as a serious business, proclaiming that by the nature of his
publication and presentment that he is doing something he thinks
worthy of the time and place in which he lives and of the people to
whom he belongs, then if he does not construct he is negligible.
Yet, I say, the great mass of men to-day do not attempt it in the English
tongue, and the proof is that you can discover in their slipshod pages
nothing of a seal or stamp. You do not, opening a book at random, say
at once: "This is the voice of such and such a one." It is no one's
manner or voice. It is part of a common babel.
Therefore in such a time as that of our decline, to come across work
which is planned, executed and achieved has something of the effect
produced by the finding of a wrought human thing in the wild. It is like
finding, as I once found, deep hidden in the tangled rank grass of
autumn in Burgundy, on the