Larry’s Pretty Good Journal

Books 869-872 of Complete Tang Poems is 谐谑, xiéxuè, banter/repartee—IOW, poems of humor and mockery. Do I want to dive deep into this? Yes—yes, I do. Duh. But for now, instead, here’s translations of a random handful that caught my eye.

I have even less standing to do this than I did the ghost poems. I can tell I’m missing wordplay and am even weaker on cultural context—and indeed, I failed to get anywhere with more than half the poems I tried. IOW, don’t make much of how three of the four are one specific genre—these were the easiest to make sense of, and Chinese humor ranges well beyond these examples.

Still, these few were fun.

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In Praise of the Hedgehog, Li or Zhu Zhenbai
Walking, he seems a shifting pin-cushion,
At rest, he’s curled like a chestnut-burr.
He can’t be bullied like us big folks:
Who dares to casually punch the guy?

( There’s three more where that came from, including two more praising animals )

Yyyyeah, there’s reasons why I didn’t do more of these. Much harder to understand, let alone render well, than even the ghost poems and children’s rhymes.

Index of Chinese translations

Subject quote from Catwings, Ursula K. Le Guin.

[Yes, more of this stuff, taking it almost exactly ⅓ of the way.]

The textual history of the Dao De Jing is complicated. It was initially passed down in several separate traditions known through a handful of incomplete texts that managed to survive the first Qin emperor’s censorship program of 212-213 BCE, which affected Daoist texts even worse than Confucian traditions. Eventually, in the 2nd century CE, a more-or-less complete reconstruction was put together by an unknown editor, which was preserved not as its own text, but rather by being embodied in two early 3rd century CE commentaries explaining it. This is the standard text I’m translating. (Note that not all texts found online match mine—there are several versions out there, incorporating various editorial emendations accreted over the millenia.)

And then there’s two complete manuscripts found 50 years ago in a tomb in Mawangdui, Hunan, which was sealed up in 168 BCE, recording a different textual tradition—with variations, as the two aren’t identical—my previously mentioned “other texts.” One of the more interesting, if not necessarily useful, differences are those of order. This covers everything from shuffling a few lines around to one huge difference: swapping the order of the two sections, putting dé before dào. Which, um, yeah, I don’t know what to make of, or not yet. I bring this up because one medium-sized change shows up in this installment: standard chapters 22-24 are Mawangdui chapters 24, 22, 23. This somewhat alters the progression of the argument, and I don’t know what to make of this either.

As of this installment, I’ve switched to rendering 德 dé as “potency” but consider it a token representing whatever final translation I land on. Still minimal comments. Is too much. Still can’t cope.

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Classic of the Way and its Potency (provisional title), chapters 20-28

( Discard learning and have no grief )

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And that is all I have for now—I haven’t even looked at the next chapter yays. It’s possible my obsessive brain will return to this, but I surely haven’t minded the break and a chance to work on other things.

Index of Chinese translations

---L.

Subject quote from Numb, Linkin Park.

[There is no excuse for this. None. There’s already waaay too many bad translations out there. I blame the first chapter on recovering from Covid and continuing it on rereading A Wizard of Earthsea.]

Originally, this was called Laozi after its supposed author. It has two sections, labeled in the most ancient complete manuscripts “dào” (way/path) and “dé” (virtue/power) after the (rather fuzzy) focus of each part, and when, during the Han Dynasty, it was raised to the status of a classic book, it was renamed Dào Dé Jīng after those labels: Classic of the Way and of Virtue.

It is old. Like, moldy ancient old, written in the Old Chinese used a thousand years before the Tang Dynasty, passed down over centuries in multiple traditions, some of them fragmentary, until it was finally standardized in a 2nd century CE recension preserved in two commentaries. This version (used as my base text) shaved off nearly every technically omittable grammatical particle from a philosophical-slash-mystical and so already hard-to-grasp text. We know the particles were dropped, rather than omitted from the start, because of those “most ancient manuscripts”: two copies found fifty years ago in a 168 BCE tomb in Mawangdui, Hunan, both of which have them. This makes the Mawangdui versions (they’re not identical) very helpful when puzzling through compressed grammar. They also have numerous other differences from the standard version—not just variant character forms, but sometimes substituting synonyms, which are useful for teasing out which meaning of a polysemous character the ancient copyists understood, as well as phrases with significantly different meanings, belonging to different textual traditions. The most important of these last I footnote as readings from “other text(s).”

My point being, it’s stupid hard to read, let alone understand. Do not assume my version has that quality the Ancients called “accuracy.”

Regarding the form, in our best reconstructed pronunciations of Old Chinese during Laozi’s supposed era, about three-quarters of the lines rhymed—so, yeah, it’s poetry. That said, I’m not even attempting meter or rhyme, or anything verse-ish beyond line breaks. Achieving coherence is difficult enough.

As far as annotations, there’s so many ambiguities and interpretations and layered commentaries here, I can’t even. Is too much. So Imma shut up as much as possible.

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Classic of the Way and of Virtue, chapters 1-9

( A way that can be described is not the constant Way. / A name that can be named is not the constant Name. )

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That’s enough, more than enough, for a first installment. [Yes, ugh, I’ve got more. Stupid obsessive brain.]

Index of Chinese translations

---L.

Subject quote from Closer, The Chainsmokers feat. Halsey.

Glancing through chapter 878 of Complete Tang Poems, devoted to 谣 (yáo), popular rhymes, I noticed some are called 童谣 (tóngyáo), literally “children’s rhymes,” modern meaning “nursery rhymes.” So I’m, like, duh Imma sample them —ancient lullabies FTW!

Well, not so much. This was an object lesson in language drift and being careful with idioms—these aren’t songs from the nursery but chants from the playground.

Which, yes, were collected and preserved. There’s a long tradition of collecting folksongs: scholar-officials were interested because they believed, following Confucius, folksongs measured the mood of the common people and so the health of the realm. The Han Dynasty had an imperial department devoted to collecting adult folksongs, in the style that came to be called yuefu (“music bureau”) after the department. I didn’t figure out these were more of the same till I’d already picked four at random and started translating them.

These all have a historical moment attached by the editors or their sources, so I’ll put them in chronological order.

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Children’s Rhyme of 682

In the Seventh Month of 682, there was heavy rainfall in Luoyang and many people starved to death. At this time, a children’s rhyme went:

Fresh rice did not go in the basket,
Fresh wheat did not go on the floor—
And when the Eighth and Ninth Months came
The dog barked in the empty yard.

( There’s three more where that came from, though only one’s about death )

That was interesting, and I hope somewhere out there social historians are mining this stuff. But honestly, despite my interest in schoolyard lore (glances at his collection of Opie) this is a bit far out of my wheelhouse. Especially when there’s poems by ghosts, specters, fairies, and other supernaturals to work on, not to mention courtesans. And, yanno, the rest of 3TP.

---L.

Index of Chinese translations

Subject quote from Shine On You Crazy Diamond, Pink Floyd.

Three-Character Classic (三字经) is a just-post-Song Dynasty (late 13th century) pedagogical poem, used for centuries as an early reader with bonus Confucian indoctrination—one of the three standard textbooks of elementary education. I say “attributed” to Wang Yinglin because though his name is traditionally attached, some of its views are at odds with his other published works, and while scholars have suggested a few alternatives they’ve come to no consensus. It’s usually presented as a continuous text, but the three-character lines can readily be divided, based on syntax and rhymes, into stanzas for ease of digesting (to which I’ve added numbers for ease of reference).

Note that the Literary Chinese, steeped in 1500 years of Confucian tradition and shorthand, is often way compacted. More compact, sometimes, than English can manage—which means my translation sometimes strains my form of three-beat lines. Especially hard to render: 仁 “benevolence” and 义 “righteousness” —watch out for those characters. For the record, my base text is (as usual) that of Chinese Text Project cross-checked against Wikisource (which has valuable links to relevant Wikipedia articles by way of glossing). This seems to be close to the original version, without later additions that, for ex, update its speedrun through history to bring it to current times.

CW: This goes hard on Confucianism. Expect period-, culture-, and doctrine-typical attitudes towards women.

(That said, the author’s attitudes and omissions are both fascinating.)

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Three-Character Classic, attrib. Wang Yinglin

( People at their birth / By nature start out good— / In nature they are close, / Through habits they diverge / If people aren’t taught, / Their natures will degrade. / The way that’s to be taught / Is “Value staying focused.” )

Now imagine learning to read from that …

Index of Chinese translations

Subject quote from Love Is Bigger Than Anything in Its Way, U2.

This poem appears four times in Complete Tang Poems, attributed to three different authors—I stumbled first across the Li Bai version, given as the second of a two poem set, the first being the famous “Changgan Ballad” aka 3TP #43 aka Pound’s “The River Merchant’s Wife.” Given that auspicious pairing, I translated this as well:

A Changgan Ballad, Li Bai or Li Qi or Zhang Chao

Recall this one within her quarters
With “smoke and dust” still unacquainted,
Married to a Changgan man
And from a sandbank watching the winds.
When Fifth Month comes, the south winds rise—
Consider, sir, descent to Baling.
When Eighth Month comes, the west winds start—
Remember, sir, your growing son.
My sorrows come and go, and why?
You’re rarely seen, departing often.
How many days to reach Xiangtan?
This one yet dreams of wind and waves.
Last night, the wild winds gusted through,
Snapping a tree on the river bank—
Dark waters flooded boundlessly—
The travelers there, what happened to them?
Good carriage pulled by Floating Clouds,
A wedding east of Orchid Isle,
Paired mandarin ducks above green reeds,
Within the kingfisher brocade screens—
I pity that me, once barely fifteen,
Complexion once peach-flower red.
The work of being a merchant’s wife:
Worried by water, worried by wind.

( some scrolling hanzi )

… I am disappoint. Unlike the first Changgan Ballad, this is a genre-typical complaint, at length, by the homebound wife of a river merchant. I know even Homer nods, but I have no hesitations asserting that a) it’s probably by either Zhang Chao (张潮) or Li Qi (李益) and b) I don’t care which.

Obligatory annotations: Changgan was a city, now a district of downtown Nanjing, particularly associated with Yangzi river merchants and freighters. The “smoke and dust” is that of the world, or worldly affairs. The point of the months is that the Three Gorges were passable only part of the year, depending on seasonal water levels and (when heading upstream) winds. Baling is part of modern Yueyang, Hunan, downstream of the Gorges, and Xiangtan is a little upstream of that. Floating Cloud was the name of Han Emperor Wen’s horse, so a type for a really fine steed.

---L.

Index of Chinese translations

Subject quote from Good Girls, CHVRCHES.

As you may have noticed, some of these episodes of ghostly poets from Complete Tang Poems chapter 866 (headnotes) consist of more than one poem—some are poetry exchanges, which can get pretty lengthy. Since the total number of ghost poems isn’t a multiple of 13, I’m stuffing the five (5) longest ones into this Part V (五) remainders post, to keep other installments from getting Simply Too Long. All of them are interesting—which isn’t surprising, given they have more material than usual. Some nice psychological nuance here.

This round includes conjugal love continuing after death, a marriage to a dead imperial princess (who claims a male-only title), a one-night stand with a legendary beauty, a stupid-messy breakup with an after-death makeup, and an object-lesson on the dangers of famous peonies. IOW, lots of sex with dead women.

… I’m not selling that very well, am I. I should just let the ghosts speak for themselves:

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Replying to Her Husband: Two Poems, née Zhang

Tang Xuan of Jinchang married a young woman of the Zhang family who had considerable good looks and virtue. In 730, when Xuan had gone to Luoyang, his wife expired at Weinan Manor. After several years, he had to return there. He recalled his feelings about the events of the past and composed (two) poems, which he sadly recited. [TN: read the third and fourth poems] Suddenly his wife came forward, saying, “It is moving, your cherishing our memories, and the Netherworld Officials have specially released this one to come here.” They paid their respects to each other with cordial words and let down the curtain to her quarters, then expressed their loving bonds just as they had all their lives. Xuan composed a poem for her [TN: fifth poem], so she took off her belt and also inscribed (two) poems on it in reply. [TN: first and second poems] When the sky brightened, she departed.

1.
I’m not content, that secret and seen are sundered—
But how’s enduring different, then and now?
We’re shadowed, sunlit—it follows that we’re parted.
Meeting, dispersing, both are hard on the heart.

2.
Upon the orchid stair, Moon Rabbit’s tilted,
The silver candle’s burnt out half its time.
I pity me, a long night’s visitor—
The Netherworld, I must treat it as home.

( One day he saw a beautiful woman driving a golden carriage arrive at his gate, age possibly 16 or 17, with a beautiful and refined appearance, who called to Ao, saying, “I heard this place is famous for its flowers, and because of this I came so that we can drink this wine-jar together.” He naturally asked who she was, and she replied, “You understand I’m not human, yet calmly ask such a question?” )

Which is enough for now, if not more than enough. Back with the final installment in two weeks or so.

---L.

Index of Chinese translations

Even more ghost poems? Even more! Since my last installment, my translations have slowed down a little, in part because the entries are getting longer—as in not just longer poems but more of them, as part of a fuller story. Highlights this time include the most gloriously arrogant slam against brick-robbers ever, shamanism in action, and poems written on such places as a window and a pillar. (The poem on banana leaf will have to wait till the next installment.)

This installment rounds out Complete Tang Poems chapter 865 (headnotes), poems and exchanges given with historical dates, and continues into chapter 866 (headnotes), those without. The latter, honestly, are often more interesting. There’s also more of them, so the transition between chapters is not actually halfway through the collection, but more like just over a third.

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On the Topic of a Small Mound in the Outskirts, Xiao Wei

Around 832, Xiao Wēi was a Middle Minister. After there was a death, Wéi Qixiu, the deputy militia commander west of the Zhe, frequently saw spirits strange. One day, alas, his servant said, “Third-rank official Xiao has come.” This third-rank official was indeed Wēi, who had just died that very day. Wēi was suddenly heard to sigh and say, “I arranged several days ago to descend to a small tomb in the outskirts (with) a single random-topic poem,” whereupon this newly made ghost recited the poem. Qixiu replied, “Sir, this poem concealed what was surely a prophecy.”

A new-set cover of rushes, east of a country stream—
Pine and catalpa shadows mix in a mournful manner.
In the world of man, the months and years are flowing water:
Why do we travel over and over this middle road?

( Jing is an outstanding wandering spirit—receive the benefit of the palm of this Netherworld Official. Strive to build ten-thousand crenelated walls, but avoid this one you took from. If this mane-shaped tomb stays entirely sealed, I shall venture to overlook your boss’s shadow. )

And with that shivery note, I’ll end this installment of ghost poems. Back with more in a bit. Including that above-mentioned poem written on a banana leaf.

---L.

Index of Chinese translations

Moar Tang Dynasty ghost poems! You can’t stop me from translating ghost poems bwahaha! Or more to the point, I can’t stop myself from translating poems attributed to ancient Chinese ghosts. I’m obsessed, I am. I regret nothing, though. This installment starts at the beginning of Complete Tang Poems chapter 865 (headnotes) and marches forward, skipping ones already posted. Highlights this time include a ghost who can’t deliver a final message to his beloved older brother and must use an intermediary, the boastful papa of a dead prodigy, and a former emperor crankily telling a current emperor to get off his lawn tomb.

Of note: the poems in this chapter are organized chronologically, with almost all of them at least approximately dateable based on the headnote. (Note that the named poets in CTP’s main section are also ordered chronologically by poet.) In case you’re wondering, so far none of the poems I’ve translated from ch866 have unambiguous dates, except insofar as a couple involve historically attested people. [ETA: Some do have specific dates, actually, but are more fantastic than these stories.] Interestingly, and not too surprisingly, almost all the poems by female ghosts are in that second chapter.

Anyway, onward to the datable ghosts. Er, that didn’t come out right—I mean, if you want to date a ghost, that’s fine, no judging, but I meant ghost stories with historical dates.

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Replying to Taizong from Upon His Burial Mound, Murong Chui

During (Tang Emperor) Taizong’s invasion of Liaoning, he arrived at Baoding. Beside the road, standing on a high burial mound, was a ghost in yellow robes. The spirit’s bright color was unique and different, so he dispatched a messenger to inquire about it. It replied with this poem, and when it finished speaking it disappeared. Thus it was the tomb of Murong Chui.

I formerly defeated former rulers—
The rulers of today defeat me today.
Glory is different in each generation:
What are you doing, bitterly hounding the old?

( The Dark Road’s deep, obscure, and people cannot know it— / I will not use the bitter words that give you people grief. )

And that’s enough for now—more to come, of course, with the next installment finishing out this chapter and starting the next, including some with an entertainment quality that almost matches that poem thrown at a losing general.

---L.

Index of Chinese translations

Offered without commentary (but one footnote):

Opening of Journey to the West

The poem goes:

Ere primal chaos parted, heaven and earth were mixed—
In boundless vastness, there was not a man to see;
But ever since Pangu broke up that mistiness,
Both clear and muddy’s been distinguished separately.
The crowded, overflowing lives all aim for humaneness,
Ten-thousand creatures ’neath the sun tend towards the best.
If you would know how Nature gathered its first merit,
Read “Tales of Woes Resolved upon the Journey West.”

( 诗曰 )

Opening of the Three-Character Classic

People at birth
Are naturally good.
In nature they’re close,
Through habits they part.

If they aren’t taught,
Their natures degrade.
The right way of teaching
Is valuing focus.

Old Mencius’s mother
Picked a good neighborhood.
When the boy wouldn’t learn
She cut shuttle from loom.

( 人之初 )

Opening of Dao De Jing

A way that can be described is not the constant Way.
A name that can be named is not the constant Name.
Without a name, it’s the origin of heaven and earth^[1-1];
With a name, it’s the mother of the ten-thousand things.
Thus, those constantly without desires see its mysteries,
While those constantly with desires see its surface^[1-2].
These two things, coming forth the same yet having different names, together are meaning’s Mystery.
The Mystery’s most mysterious [part] is the gate to all subtlety.

[1-1] Other texts have “the ten-thousand things”
[1-2] Other texts have “what they want”

( 道可道，非常道 )

---L.

Index of Chinese translations

Subject quote from Bitch, Meredith Brooks.