The Handsome Monkey King delighted in his nature's freedom — and so, who would have thought, some three or five hundred years went by.

享樂天真 is enjoying your own unforced nature — living exactly as you are. 何期 is "who would have thought," and 三五百載 reads 載 as zǎi, "year," not zài, "to carry." Notice how vague the span is: three hundred years, five hundred, nobody was counting. The vagueness is the whole idea. Paradise has no clock, until somebody looks at one.

One day, in the midst of a merry feast with the monkeys, he was suddenly seized with care and let his tears fall.

憂惱 is worry and vexation; 墮下淚來 is letting the tears fall (墮 duò, to drop). Nothing has happened. There is no enemy, no loss, no bad news — he is at a party. And this is the moment the hundred-chapter novel starts from.

The monkeys hastily gathered round and bowed, asking: 'Why is the Great King troubled?'

羅拜 (luó bài) is a crowd gathering round and bowing together. 何為煩惱 takes 為 as wèi, "why, for what reason."

The Monkey King said: 'Even in my time of joy I have one small misgiving for what lies ahead, and so I am troubled.'

雖 (suī) is "although." 遠慮 is thought for what lies far ahead, and it carries a faint echo of the Analects: 人無遠慮，必有近憂, "a man with no thought for the distance will have trouble close at hand." He calls it 一點兒, just a little one. It is not a little one.

The monkeys laughed again: 'How discontented the Great King is!

好不知足 is colloquial "how very unsatisfied you are!" — 好 here works as an intensifier, "how…!" They are laughing at him. They think he is being greedy, which is a fair thing to think and completely wrong.

We feast together day after day, in a blessed mountain and holy continent, an ancient cave;

仙山福地，古洞神洲 heaps up the vocabulary of paradise: blessed mountains, grotto-heavens, a divine continent. The monkeys are repeating back at their king everything the chapter has spent pages establishing, and every word of it is true. It is simply beside the point.

we are not subject to the unicorn's rule, nor governed by the phoenix, nor bound by any king's throne among men —

不伏 is "not subject to." The 麒麟 (qí lín) is chief among beasts and the 鳳凰 (fèng huáng) chief among birds, so the pair of them stand for the natural chains of command the monkeys have slipped; the third clause slips the human one as well (轄 xiá, to have jurisdiction over). Three authorities named, three escaped. The fourth is coming, and nobody escapes it.

free and at ease, ours is a blessing beyond measure. Why look so far ahead and grieve?'

自由自在 — free and at ease — is still the ordinary phrase for perfect liberty. 無量之福 is "blessing beyond measure," with 無量 carrying a Buddhist ring. 為何 again takes 為 as wèi. The monkeys have just made the best possible case for staying where they are.

The Monkey King said: 'Today, true, we are not under the laws of human kings, nor in fear of the might of birds and beasts;

He grants them everything they said, and the concession is the set-up for what follows. Watch 不 change tone within the line: bù before the level tone of 歸, then bú before the falling tone of 懼.

but in the years to come, when age comes and the blood grows thin, there is, unseen, old King Yama who holds us in his charge,

And there it is. 閻王 is Yama, the Buddhist lord of the dead, who keeps the register of every life; 老子 here is irreverent, "the old fellow," so the phrase runs something like "old man Yama." The frightening word is 暗中, "in the dark": the one authority you cannot see, cannot outrun and cannot bargain with. In this book, death is an administrator. 將來 is "in time to come," and 著 is the toneless zhe that marks Yama's watch as already, quietly, under way.

and once the body dies, shall we not have lived in this world for nothing, never to be enrolled for long among the immortals and gods?'

枉生 is to have lived for nothing (枉 wǎng). 不得久注天人之內 turns on 注 (zhù), to be entered in a register — the celestial roll of those who last. So the fear is filed as well as felt: not merely to die, but to have your name struck off the list. He is a king who has just worked out that his title is temporary. (一 takes its yí tone before the falling tone of 旦.)

Hearing these words, the monkeys one and all covered their faces and wept, every one troubled by impermanence.

掩面悲啼 is covering their faces and wailing. 無常 is the Buddhist anitya, impermanence — the plain fact that nothing lasts (為 here wéi, "as"). The whole troop is converted to the fear of death in a single sentence, which is funny and also true to life. Nobody thinks about it until somebody says it out loud.

Just then, out from the ranks sprang a bareback gibbon, who cried in a ringing voice:

班部 is "the ranks," the court drawn up in files a few pages ago. The 通背猿猴 is a fabled long-armed ape said to pass its breath through its spine (also written 通臂); here he plays the part every court needs, the one with an answer. 厲聲 (lì shēng) is a sharp, carrying voice.

'If the Great King thinks so far ahead, this is what is truly called the awakening of the Heart-of-the-Way.'

道心 is the "Heart-of-the-Way," a mind turned toward the Dao, and 開發 is its opening up. This is the most important line in the passage and the easiest to read past. The gibbon does not comfort his king or talk him out of it. He tells him the fear is progress: grief at death, correctly diagnosed, is the first symptom of a spiritual life.

'Among the five kinds of creatures that now exist, there are only three sorts that King Yama does not govern.'

五蟲 are the five classes of living things in traditional Chinese natural history — feathered, furred, scaled, shelled, and bare, the last being us. 名色 means kinds or sorts. Out of everything alive, three categories fall outside Yama's jurisdiction.

The Monkey King said: 'Do you know which three kinds?'

那三等人 takes 那 as nǎ, "which" — the older written form of 哪. Four words, and the plot of the next dozen chapters is inside them.

The gibbon said: 'They are the Buddhas, the immortals, and the holy sages, these three — who escape the wheel of rebirth, neither born nor dying, and live as long as Heaven and Earth, the mountains and the streams.'

The three are 佛, 仙 and 神聖 — Buddhas, Daoist immortals and holy sages — a thoroughly mixed list that nobody in the novel finds odd. 躲過輪迴 is dodging 輪迴, the wheel of rebirth (saṃsāra), and 不生不滅, "neither born nor dying," is standard Buddhist phrasing (with 不 read bù before 生 but bú before the falling tone of 滅). 齊壽 is to live as long as. The offer now on the table is the whole point of the book.

The Monkey King said: 'Where do these three dwell?'

居於何所 — "where do they live?" (於 yú, 何所 "what place"). A practical question, asked at once. He is not interested in the theology. He wants an address.

The gibbon said: 'They are only within the world of Jambudvīpa, in ancient caves and immortal mountains.'

閻浮世界 is Jambudvīpa (閻浮提), the southern of the four continents met at the start of the chapter — the world where human beings live. And this is the answer that makes the journey possible. The deathless are not off in some sealed heaven. They are down here, in old caves and on holy mountains, and you can walk to them.

Hearing this, the Monkey King was filled with joy: 'Tomorrow I shall take my leave of you and go down the mountain;

滿心歡喜, heart full of joy — from tears to delight within a single page. That is the shape of the whole scene: the fear of death does not crush him, it gives him something to do. 辭汝等 is to take leave of you all (辭 cí, 汝 rǔ, the classical "you").

I will roam like a cloud to the sea's far corners and travel to the ends of the earth, and I must seek out these three,

雲遊海角，遠涉天涯 — wandering like a cloud to the corners of the sea, travelling to the sky's edge — is a set phrase for going as far as there is to go (涉 shè, to wade through). 務必 is "without fail." He has never once left the mountain.

to learn the secret of ageless long life and ever escape the calamity of King Yama.'

不老長生, ageless and everliving (長 here cháng, "long," not zhǎng, "to grow"), names the goal without flinching: he does not want to die. 閻君之難 takes 難 as nàn, fourth tone — a calamity, not a difficulty. "The disaster of Lord Yama" is death, spoken of as though it were a flood or an earthquake.

Ah! This one remark would in time leap him clear of the net of rebirth and bring about the Great Sage Equal to Heaven.

噫 (yī) is a sigh: the narrator leaning in over the reader's shoulder. 頓教 is "all at once caused" (教 here jiào, "to make," not jiāo, "to teach"). And then he gives the game away — 齊天大聖, "Great Sage Equal to Heaven," the title Sun Wukong will one day wring out of Heaven itself, is spoken here, hundreds of pages early. Storytellers do this on purpose. Knowing how a thing ends has never yet spoiled the hearing of it.

The monkeys clapped and cried in praise, all saying: 'Splendid! Splendid!

鼓掌稱揚 is clapping and cheering. 善哉 (shàn zāi), "excellent, well said," has a Buddhist ring to it — it is how monks approve a good answer in the sutras. Coming from a cave full of monkeys it is a small delight, and they mean every word.

Tomorrow we'll cross the ridges and climb the hills, gather a wide store of fruits, and set out a grand feast to send the Great King off!'

越嶺登山 is crossing ridges and climbing hills; 大設筵宴 is laying on a grand banquet (筵 yán, the mat a feast is spread on). Their answer to the discovery of death is to throw a party. The passage ends balanced between the old idyll and the journey that ends it.