But every cathedral needs a shadowy, wine-soaked tavern across the street—where the rules don't apply, the heroes are flawed, and the dialogue cuts deeper than any sword.
When most people think of Chinese martial arts fiction (wuxia), one name towers above the misty peaks like a Shaolin temple bell: Louis Cha (Jin Yong). His novels are the epic, historically-grounded cathedrals of the genre.
And then there was the alcohol. Kulong was legendary for his drinking. He once claimed he could drink five bottles of XO cognac in a night. He wrote best while drunk, often paid his bills with manuscripts scribbled on napkins, and ultimately, his liver gave out. He died in 1985 at just 47 years old, leaving behind a legacy of over 70 novels and a void in the wuxia world that has never been filled. If you open a Jin Yong novel, you get 1,200 pages of dense history. If you open a Kulong novel, you often get this: "Cold wind. The moon is like a knife. A man stands on the roof. He has no name. Or perhaps he has too many." Kulong mastered the art of the fragment . He wrote in short, staccato sentences. He used white space like a sword uses its edge—to create tension. kulong
He studied English literature at Tamkang University, and you can see it. Unlike the classical, quartet-heavy prose of his predecessors, Kulong’s style was lean, fractured, and influenced by Western hard-boiled detective fiction (think Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett).
If Jin Yong is the Beethoven of wuxia—structured, grand, and classical—then Kulong is the Jim Morrison: poetic, rebellious, self-destructive, and brilliant in a way that burns bright and fast. Today, let's step into the rain-slicked alleyways of his imagination. Born in 1938 in Hong Kong and raised in Taiwan, Kulong’s life was as turbulent as his plots. His parents’ divorce when he was a young man left him scarred, leading him to run away from home and live as a gang-affiliated teenager on the streets of Taipei. But every cathedral needs a shadowy, wine-soaked tavern
So pour yourself a glass of something strong (he would insist), turn off the lights, and listen to the wind. Somewhere out there, a nameless swordsman is walking toward you, and he is smiling.
Kulong told the best stories. They are dark, cynical, beautiful, and deeply lonely. They are the stories of the man who sleeps with one eye open, who trusts no one but yearns for connection, who knows that the sharpest blade is the one you never see coming. And then there was the alcohol
In his world, martial arts isn't about physical strength; it’s about psychology, speed, and certainty. The greatest swordsman isn't the one who knows 1,000 techniques. It's the one who believes his one technique is unbeatable.