對月懷歸 Gazing at the Moon, Longing for Home
唐僧舉步出門小解，只見明月當天，叫：「徒弟。」行者、八戒、沙僧都出來侍立。因感這月清光皎潔，玉宇深沉，真是一輪高照，大地分明。對月懷歸，口占一首古風長篇。詩云：唐僧举步出门小解，只见明月当天，叫：「徒弟。」行者、八戒、沙僧都出来侍立。因感这月清光皎洁，玉宇深沉，真是一轮高照，大地分明。对月怀归，口占一首古风长篇。诗云：
逐句解 Line by line
Tripitaka stepped out the door to relieve himself, and, seeing the bright moon filling the sky, called: "Disciples."
Note what he steps outside to do. The great lyric moment of the chapter begins with a trip to relieve himself, which is very much this novel's way. 小解 is to make water; 當天 is high overhead, 當 read dāng.
The Pilgrim, Bajie, and Sha Monk all came out and stood in attendance.
侍立 is to stand in attendance. 行 is xíng, 都 is dōu.
Moved by the moon's pure, bright radiance and the deep serenity of the jade heavens — a single orb hung high, and the whole earth was distinct beneath it —
玉宇 is the jade firmament; 一輪 is a single wheel or orb; 大地分明 is the earth laid out distinctly, 分 read fēn.
gazing at the moon and longing for home, he composed aloud a long poem in the old style.
口占 is to compose aloud on the spot, without writing — a genuine accomplishment and a standard one for an educated man. 占 is zhàn. 古風長篇 is a long piece in the old, unregulated style, which allows him to run on instead of stopping at eight lines; 長 is cháng.
The poem ran:
The tag that introduces the poem.
The bright disc hangs in the void, a jewelled mirror suspended; mountains and rivers shake their reflections, whole and complete.
It opens with two of the moon's stock names. 皓魄 is the "bright soul"; the jewelled mirror is the second. Chinese moon-poetry has a whole cupboard of these and this poem is going to open all of it. 當空 takes 當 as dāng; 十分全 is utterly entire, 分 read fēn.
Jade towers and halls brim with its clear light; an icy mirror, a silver platter, the crisp air wheels about it.
Three more. 瓊樓玉宇, towers of jasper and halls of jade, is the palace on the moon; 冰鑑 is an ice-mirror and 銀盤 a silver salver, both the moon itself.
For ten thousand lǐ, this hour, all share its purity; of the whole year, this night it shines most fresh and bright.
The line every Chinese reader recognises the shape of: the same moon over everyone at once. 萬里 is ten thousand lǐ, meaning the whole world, and the couplet marks this out as a mid-autumn moon, the brightest of the year.
Just like a frost-cake risen from the grey sea, or an icy wheel hung in the sapphire sky.
And two more figures: a frost-cake and an ice-wheel. 似 is sì.
By a cold window in a strange lodging, the lone traveller frets; in a hill-village wayside inn, the old man sleeps.
Now the poem turns to people, and to the standard cast of a moonlit night. 別館 is a lodging away from home; 孤客 is the solitary traveller — which is, of course, the man composing.
Falling of a sudden on the Han gardens, it startles autumn temples grey; just reaching the towers of Qin, it hastens the evening toilet-case.
Moonlight silvers grey hair and calls women to their mirrors. 漢苑, the gardens of Han, and 秦樓, the towers of Qin, are poetic settings rather than places; 晚奩 is the evening dressing-case, 奩 read lián.
Yu Liang left verses that pass down in the Jin annals; Yuan Hong, unsleeping, drifted in his river-boat.
Two Jin-dynasty men famous for looking at the moon on water: Yǔ Liàng, who held a moonlit gathering on a tower with his officers, and Yuán Hóng, who was overheard reciting his own verses from a boat and made his name by it. Tripitaka is placing himself in a long line of people who have watched this moon and felt this. 傳 is chuán.
Its light floats on the cup's face, cold and without force; its clarity shines in the courtyard — vigorous, as though a spirit were there.
The moon on a wine-cup and on a courtyard floor. 庭中 takes 中 as zhōng.
Everywhere at lattice and window they chant the 'White Snow'; in every courtyard they finger icy strings.
And on music. 白雪 is the "White Snow," from 陽春白雪, a pair of ancient airs so lofty that almost nobody could sing along — which is where Chinese gets its phrase for art over the audience's head. 冰弦, icy strings, is a zither.
Tonight I quietly savour it, come to this mountain temple; on what day, all together, shall we return to the old garden?
And it ends where it began, on the ache of being far away. 相同 is together, in company, 相 read xiāng; 故園 is the old home-garden. Every stock image in the poem has been arranged to arrive at this question.
The chapter turns from farce to lyric, and it does so with a characteristic lack of ceremony: Tripitaka steps out of the hall to relieve himself, looks up, and is moved to compose a long poem in the old style. What follows is a set-piece of mid-autumn moon-verse in the received tradition, thick with the conventional names — the bright soul, the jewelled mirror, the ice-wheel, the silver salver — and the conventional scenes: the lone traveller at his cold window, the villager asleep, hair silvered, women called to their mirrors.
It is a learned poem. Summoning the Jin moon-gazers Yu Liang and Yuan Hong places the pilgrim in a long line of men who have watched this same moon and felt this same thing, and its frame is emotional rather than doctrinal. The moon here is beauty and occasion, and it draws his thoughts, as moonlight in this tradition always does, toward home. The poem opens and closes on the old garden.
That homesick reading is exactly what Wukong is about to answer. Tripitaka sees the moon as a poet; Wukong will see it as an adept, reading its waxing and waning as a working diagram. Lyric feeling set against esoteric doctrine is the chapter's philosophical heart, and the poem is composed to be the beautiful, insufficient thing that the discourse then deepens.