Inscriptions

Red Cliff Rhapsodies, 1 and 2 (Su Shih 1037-1101)\r\nPages 438-442, Victor Mair’s The Columbia Anthology of Traditional Chinese Literature \r\nTranslated by Richard Strassberg\r\n1.\r\n\r\nIn the fall of the year jen-hsu in the seventh month on the day after the full moon, I traveled in a boat with some guests to the foot of Red Cliff. A light wind wafted by, and not a ripple was stirred. I poured wine for my guests as we chanted the poem about the bright moon and sang the song about the graceful maiden. Before long, the moon appeared over East Mountain and lingered by the constellations Dipper and Ox. White dew extended over the Long River; the water’s gleam mingled with the sky. We let our reed of a boat follow its course as it traversed myriad acres of expanse. I felt boundless, as if gliding through the void, not knowing where I might land; I felt as if I were soaring about, having left the world behind to stand alone as I sprouted wings to become a transcendent.\r\n\r\nThen we drank more wine and reached the height of joy. I beat out a rhythm against the side of the boat and sang:\r\n Cassia-wood oars\r\n Magnolia- wood rudder,\r\n Stroke the moon’s pure reflection\r\n As we glide upstream on its shimmering light.\r\n Ever distant, the object of my longings.\r\n I gaze at the beautiful one\r\n In a faraway corner of heaven.\r\n\r\nOne of the guests could play the flute and accompanied my song. Yet his sounds – wu-wu – were plaintive, yearning, weeping, accusing. The lingering notes meandered through the air, drawn out like silken threads. They would have aroused a submerged dragon to whirl around in the cavernous depths, and caused a widow to weep in her lonely boat.\r\nI was saddened. Straightening my clothes, I sat up and asked my guest, “Why are you playing this way?” He replied,\r\n “The moon is bright, star are few,\r\n Crows and magpies are flying south.\r\n“Isn’t this from the poem by Ts’ao Meng-te? Look westward and there is Hsia-k’ou. Look east and there lies Wu-ch’ang. The mountains and the river encircle one another; how dense the viridian growth! Yet is this not the place where Meng-te was trapped by Chou Yu? He had just conquered Ching-chou and sailed down to Chiang-ling as he followed the course of the river eastward. His fleet stretched bow to stern for a thousand tricents; his banners and flags blotted out the sky. As he drank wine by the bank of the river, he lay down his lance crosswise and composed this poem. Indeed, he dominated his age, yet where is he now? And what about you and me conversing here by the riverbank like a fisherman and a woodcutter, joined by fish and shrimp with the deer as our companions? We ride on a boat no bigger than a leaf as we drink to each other out of simple gourds. We exist no longer than mayflies between heaven and earth, and are of no more consequence than a kernel in the vast ocean. I grieve that my life is but a moment and envy the Long River’s endless flow. If only I could grasp hold of a flying transcendent and wander with him through the heavens to embrace the bright moon and live forever. But I realize this cannot be attained so I confide these lingering sounds to the sad autumn wind.”\r\nI said, “Do you really understand the water and the moon? Here, it flows by yet never leaves us; over there, it waxes and wanes without growing or shrinking. If you look at things as changing, then heaven and earth do not last for even the blink of an eye. If you look at them as unchanging, then I along with everything am eternal. So why be envious? Moreover, each thing within heaven and earth has its master. If I did not possess it, then I would not take even a hair of it. However, the pure wind over the river becomes sound when our ears capture it, and the bright moon between the mountains takes on form when our eyes encounter it. There is no prohibition against our acquiring them, and we can use them without ever consuming them. They are from the inexhaustible treasury of the Creator of Things, which you and I can enjoy together. \r\nMy guests became happy and laughed. We washed out the cups and drank again. Soon the food was gone, and the cups and plates were strewn about. We lay down in the boat, leaning against each other for pillows, unaware that it was becoming light in the east.\r\n\r\n2.\r\nIn the tenth month of the same year on the day of the full moon, I walked from Snow Lodge back toward Lin-kao. Two guests accompanied me as we crossed over Yellow Clay Slope. Frost and dew had already fallen; the leaves had all dropped off from the trees. Our shadows lay on the ground as we gazed up at the bright moon. We looked around us, delighted by the scene, and sang songs for each other as we walked along.\r\nAfter a while, I sighed, “I have guests but no wine, and even if I had wine, there is no food to go along with it. The moon is white, the wind, gentle. But how can we enjoy such a fine evening?” One of the guests replied, “Today at twilight, I cast a net and caught a fish with a large mouth and fine scales. It resembles a Pine River perch. But where can we obtain some wine?” I went back and discussed this with my wife, who said, “I have some wine which I have stored for quite a while in case you should ever need it.”\r\nSo we took along the wine and the fish, and traveled once again to the foot of Red Cliff. The river flowed audibly, the cleaved banks rose a thousand feet. The mountain was high, the moon, small. The water level had fallen, rocks protruded. How long had it been since my last visit? The scene was no longer recognizable! I lifted up my robe and alighted. I made my way among sharp crags, parting the overgrowth to crouch on rocks shaped like tigers and leopards, and to climb up trees twisted like horned dragons. I pulled myself up to the precarious nests of falcons, and peered down at the hidden palace of the River God P’ing Yi. My two guests were unable to follow me this far. I suddenly let out a sharp cry. The plants and trees were startled and shook; mountains resounded, valleys echoed. Winds arose, and the water became agitated. For my part, I became hushed and melancholy, awed and fearful. Then I began to tremble so that I could no longer remain there. I returned, got back on board, and had the boat steered into the mainstream. We let it drift until it stopped and rested there.\r\n\r\nBy then, it was toward midnight. All around us it was serenely silent. Just then, a solitary crane came toward us across the river from the east. Its wings traced cartwheels in the air. It seemed as if dressed in a white jacket over a black gown, and let out a long, piercing cray as it swept past our boat and headed west.\r\n\r\nA short while later, the guests left and I fell asleep. I dreamed of two Taoists fluttering about in feathered gowns. As they passed below Lin-kao, they greeted me and asked, “Did you enjoy your journey to Red Cliff?” When I asked their names, they looked down without answering. “Oh! Now I understand! Last night, was it not you who called out as you flew by?” The Taoists turned back at me and laughed. And then I suddenly awakened. I opened the door and looked outside but saw no trace of them. \r\n\r\n\r\nFrom Stephen Owen’s An Anthology of Chinese Literature: Beginnings to 1911\r\nSu Shi, The Poetic Exposition on Red Cliff\r\nPart I (p. 292-294)\r\nIt was the autumn of 1082, the night after the full moon in September, when I, Su Shi, together with some companions, let our boats drift, and we were carried beneath Red Cliff. A cool breeze came gently along, but it raised no waves in the water. I lifted my wine and toasted my companions, reciting the piece from the Classic of Poetry on the bright moon and singing the stanza on the woman’s grace:\r\n The moon comes forth, glowing bright,\r\n comely woman, full of light,\r\n her motions slow, of gentle grace—\r\n heart’s torment, heart’s pain.\r\nAfter a while, the moon did indeed come forth over the mountains to the east and hung there in between the Dipper and constellation of the Ox. A silver dew stretched across the river until the light on the water reached off to the very sky. We let this tiny boat, like a single reed, go where it would; and it made its way across thousands of acres of bewildering radiance. We were swept along in a powerful surge, as if riding the winds through empty air. And not knowing where we would come to rest, we were whirled on as if we stood utterly apart and had left the world far behind, growing wings and rising up to join those immortal beings.\r\nBy then, I had been drinking to the point of sheer delight. I tapped out a rhythm on the side of the boat and sang about it. The song went:\r\n Oars made of cassia, magnolia sweeps\r\n beat formless brightness, glide through flowing light,\r\n far off and faint, she for whom I care,\r\n I am gazing toward a lady fair there at the edge of sky.\r\nOne of my companions played the flute, accompanying me as I sang. The notes were resonant and low, as if expressing some deep wound, as if yearning, as if sobbing, as if declaring some discontent. The afterechoes trailed away, attenuating like a thread but not breaking off. Such notes made the dragons dance as they lay sunken in their dark lairs, and caused women who had lost their husbands to weep in their lonely boats.\r\nI too grew melancholy. I straightened my clothes and sat upright. And I asked my companion, “Why did you paly it like that?” My companion answered:\r\n “The moon is bright, the stars are few,\r\n and magpies come flying south.\r\nIsn’t that Cao Cao’s poem? Here facing Xia-kou to the west and Wu-chang to the east, where the mountains and the river wind around each other with the dense green of the forests – isn’t this the place where Cao Cao was set upon by young Zhou Yu? Once Cao Cao had smashed Jing-zhou, he came down to Jiang-ling, going east with the current. The prows and sterns of his galleys stretched a thousand leagues, his flags and banners blotted out the very sky; he poured himself some wine and stood over the river, hefted his spear and composed that poem – he was indeed the boldest spirit of that whole age, and yet where is he now? Consider yourself and I by comparison, fisherman and woodsman on the great river and its islands, consorting with fish and friends of the deer. We go riding a boat as small as a leaf and raise goblets of wine to toast one another. We are but mayflies lodging between Heaven and Earth, single grains adrift, far out on the dark blue sea. We grieve that our lives last only a moment, and we covet the endlessness of the great river. We would throw an arm around those immortal beings in their flight and go off to roam with them; we would embrace the bright moonlight and have it done with forever. And since I knew that I could not have these things immediately, I gave the lingering echoes of that desire a place in my sad melody."\r\nI replied, “And do you, my friend, indeed understand the water and the moonlight? As Confucius said as he stood by the river, “It passes on just like this,’ and yet it has never gone away. There is in all things a fullness and a waning to nothing, just as with that other thing, the moon; and yet it has never increased and never vanished altogether. If you think of it from the point of view of changing, the Heaven and Earth have never been able to stay as they are even for the blink of an eye. But if you think of it from the point of view of not changing, then neither the self nor other things ever come to an end. So then what is there to covet? Between Heaven and Earth each thing has its own master. If something is not mine, then I cannot take it as mine, even if it is only a hair. There is only the cool breeze along with the bright moon among the mountains. The ears catch one of these, and it is sound; the eyes encounter the other, and it forms colors. Nothing prevents us from taking these as our own. We can do whatever we want with them and they will never be used up. This is the inexhaustible treasure trove of the Fashioner-of-Things, and it serves the needs of both you and I alike.”\r\nMy companion laughed in amusement, and washing out his cup, he poured himself another. The snacks and fruits had been finished, with plates and cups scattered all around. We all leaned against one another in that boat, unaware that the east was brightening with day.\r\n\r\nThe Second Poetic Exposition on Red Cliff (p. 675-676)\r\nIt was the night of the full moon in December of the same year. I was walking back from my Snow-Viewing Lodge on my way to Lin-gao. Two companions were with me as we passed Brown Mud Slope. A frost had fallen and the trees had all lost their leaves; our shadows were there on the ground, and I looked up and saw the bright moon. Then I looked around and saw that it had delighted the others. We went our way singing songs in response to one another.\r\nEventually, I sighed, saying, “I have companions but no wine, or wine but nothing to eat along with it. The moonlight is silvery and the breeze is cool. What can we do on a wonderful night like this?” One companion said, “Today as it was getting dark, I pulled up my nets and had caught a fish with a very large mouth and tiny, delicate scales, which look like a Pine River bass. But then where will we get some wine?” When we got back, we consulted with our wives, and my wife said, “I have a gallon of wine which I’ve kept put away for a very long time in anticipation of just such an unforeseen need.”\r\nThereupon we took the wine and the fish and again went to visit the base of Red Cliff. You could hear the sound of the river’s current, and the shore rose up sharply for a thousand feet. The mountains were high and the moon small; the water level had fallen, and rocks had emerged from the surface. It had not been all that many months and days since the first time we came here, yet the mountains and the river had become unrecognizable. Then I gathered up my robes and stepped onto the bank, finding my footing up the steep slope and pushing back the undergrowth. I crouched on a tigerlike boulder and climbed a dragon-twisting tree. I pulled my way up to the precariously perched nest of the roosting hawk and looked down into the hidden palaces of Ping-yi, the river god. My two companions were not able to follow me there.\r\nThen there came a long, piercing screech. The trees shuddered; the mountains resounded and the valleys echoed; the wind came up and the waters were seething. I too was struck dumb and distressed, shivering and afraid, and I felt such a chill that I could not stay there long. I went back and got in the boat, and we pushed off to midstream, to come to rest wherever the boat might take us. It was then about midnight and all around us was a forsaken gloom. It happened then that a solitary crane was coming over the river from the east. Its wings seemed like wagon wheels, and it had a black lower garment with a pure white jacket. It gave a long, shrill cry, and, making a close pass over our boat, it went off to the west.\r\nSoon afterward my companions left, and I too went to go to sleep. I dreamed of a Daoist wizard, soaring lightly in his feathered robes, and as he was passing by Lin-gao, he descended. He bowed to me and said, “Did you enjoy your visit to Red Cliff?” When I asked him his name, he bowed his head and would not answer me. But ah! – then I understood. “Wasn’t that you this last night who flew past us and cried out?” The Daoist looked around smiling, and I woke up with a start. When I opened the door and looked for him, I couldn’t see him anywhere. \r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n壬戌之秋七月既望蘇子與客泛舟遊於赤壁之下清風徐來水波不興舉酒屬客誦明月之詩歌窈窕之章少焉月出於東山之上徘徊於斗牛之間白露橫江水光接天縱一葦之所如凌萬頃之茫然浩浩乎如馮虛御風而不知其所止飄飄乎如遺世獨立羽化而登仙於是飲酒樂甚扣舷而歌之歌曰桂棹兮蘭槳擊空明兮溯流光渺渺兮予懷望美人兮天一方客有吹洞簫者倚歌而和之其聲鳴嗚然如怨如慕如泣如訴餘音裊裊不絕如縷舞幽壑之潛蛟泣孤舟之嫠婦蘇子愀然正襟危坐而問客曰何為其然也客曰月明星稀烏鵲南飛此非曹孟德之詩乎西望夏口東望武昌山川相繆鬱乎蒼蒼此非孟德之因於周郎者乎方其破荊州下江陵順流而東也舳艫千里旌旗蔽空釃酒臨江橫槊賦詩固一世之雄也而今安在哉況吾與子漁樵於江渚之上侶魚蝦而友麋鹿駕一葉之扁舟舉匏樽以相屬寄蜉蝣 於天地渺滄海之一粟哀吾生之須臾羨長江之無窮挾飛仙以遨遊抱明月而長終知不可乎驟得托遺響於悲風蘇子曰客亦知夫水與月乎逝者如斯而未嘗往也盈虛者如彼而卒莫消長也蓋將自其變者而觀之則天地曾不能以一瞬自其不變者而觀之則物與我皆無盡也而又何羨乎且夫天地之間物各有主苟非吾之所有雖一毫而莫取惟江上之清風與山間之明月耳得之而為聲目遇之而成色取之無禁用之不竭是造物者之無盡藏也而吾與子之所共食適客喜而笑洗盞更酌餚核既盡杯盤狼籍相與枕藉乎舟中不知東方之既白\r\n