行者辭去 Old Sun Is Off
原來這猴子一生受不得人氣。他見三藏只管緒緒叨叨,按不住心頭火發道:「你既是這等,說我做不得和尚,上不得西天,不必恁般絮聒惡我,我回去便了。」那三藏卻不曾答應。他就使一個性子,將身一縱,說一聲:「老孫去也!」三藏急擡頭,早已不見。只聞得呼的一聲,回東而去。撇得那長老孤孤零零,點頭自歎,悲怨不已道:「這廝這等不受教誨,我但說他幾句,他怎麼就無形無影的徑回去了?罷罷罷,也是我命裡不該招徒弟,進人口。如今欲尋他無處尋,欲叫他叫不應,去來,去來。」正是:原来这猴子一生受不得人气。他见三藏只管绪绪叨叨,按不住心头火发道:「你既是这等,说我做不得和尚,上不得西天,不必恁般絮聒恶我,我回去便了。」那三藏却不曾答应。他就使一个性子,将身一纵,说一声:「老孙去也!」三藏急抬头,早已不见。只闻得呼的一声,回东而去。撇得那长老孤孤零零,点头自叹,悲怨不已道:「这厮这等不受教诲,我但说他几句,他怎么就无形无影的径回去了?罢罢罢,也是我命里不该招徒弟,进人口。如今欲寻他无处寻,欲叫他叫不应,去来,去来。」正是:
逐句解 Line by line
Now this monkey had, all his life, been unable to bear being slighted.
The narrator stops the scene to name the flaw, which he rarely does: this monkey has never in his life been able to swallow a slight. Everything that follows comes out of that one sentence. 猴子 takes the light 子 (zi); 受不得 reads 得 as dé.
Seeing Sanzang go on and on nagging, he could not hold down the fire in his heart, and burst out:
And note what breaks him: not the accusation but its length. 緒緒叨叨 is nagging on and on, the sound of a lecture that will not end. 三藏 reads 藏 as zàng.
"If that is how it is — if you say I cannot be a monk and cannot reach the Western Heaven — then there is no need to keep scolding and despising me. I will go back, and that is that!"
He throws the master's own words back at him — no monk, no Western Heaven — and quits. 做不得 and 上不得 both take 得 as dé.
Sanzang made no answer.
And here is the line that finishes it. Sanzang says nothing at all — no protest, no hand on the sleeve. 那三藏 reads 那 as nà; 答應 reads 應 as yìng.
So the monkey lost his temper; with a single bound of his body he cried out, "Old Sun is off!"
One bound, one shouted line, and he is gone. 性子 takes the light 子 (zi); 將身 reads 將 as jiāng.
Sanzang looked up in haste, but he was already gone.
The monk looks up a second too late, which is roughly the speed of everything Wukong does. 三藏 reads 藏 as zàng.
Only a whistling sound was heard as he made off eastward.
A whistle in the air, and it is going east — back the way they came, toward Flower-Fruit Mountain. The direction is the whole message. 只聞得 takes 得 as de.
Left all alone, the elder nodded to himself and sighed, grieving without end:
And here is the chapter's low point: an old man alone on a road, nodding to himself and sighing. 撇得 reads 得 as de; 那長老 reads 那 as nà and 長 as zhǎng.
"So this is how he takes correction! I say but a few words to him, and off he goes without form or shadow, straight back the way he came.
'I said a few words to him' — the self-pity is doing some quiet editing of what just happened. 教誨 reads 教 as jiào.
Enough, enough! It must be that it is not my fate to gather a disciple, to add to my company.
Then resignation, and the very Chinese comfort of blaming fate: perhaps I was never meant to have a disciple at all.
Now, though I would seek him, there is nowhere to seek; though I would call him, he does not answer. On, then; on." And so it was:
Nowhere to look, and 叫不應 — call, and no answer comes — so on he goes. 應 is read yìng. Then 正是, 'and so it was', the tag that cues a closing couplet.
Cast off self and stake your life, and go toward the West; lean not on others, but be your own master.
The couplet draws the lesson out of his plight and turns it into a maxim: cast off self, stake your life, go west; lean on nobody, be your own master. It is stirring, and the narrative immediately makes a fool of it. He cannot go it alone — he cannot even get on his horse without help — and Guanyin is already on the road with the disciple he cannot do without.
The break comes fast and grows straight out of character. The narrator says so outright: the monkey's undoing is his pride, his lifelong inability to bear a slight. Sanzang's rebuke was just in substance and merciless in delivery, and it is the nagging — not the killing, not even the accusation — that finally has Wukong flinging the words back and vanishing eastward in a single bound.
Sanzang's silence at the one moment that mattered completes it. He makes no move to keep his disciple, and the passage then lingers on him alone: an abandoned monk nodding and sighing on an empty road, working his way round to the idea of travelling by himself. It is the chapter's emotional floor, a fellowship broken almost as soon as it was made.
The closing couplet answers with a brave moral — cast off self, stake your life, rely on no one — and the story undercuts it in the very next line. The monk plainly cannot proceed alone, and even as he resolves to try, Guanyin is coming down the road with the remedy. The lesson of self-reliance is real; so is its limit. On this journey, discipline has to be supplied from outside before it can ever be owned from within.