一些瑕縫 Not The Smallest Flaw
卻說行者合在金鐃裡,黑洞洞的,燥得滿身流汗,左拱右撞,不能得出。急得他使鐵棒亂打,莫想得動分毫。他心裡沒了算計,將身往外一掙,卻要掙破那金鐃。遂捻著一個訣,就長有千百丈高;那金鐃也隨他身長,全無一些瑕縫光明。卻又捻訣把身子往下一小,小如芥菜子兒;那鐃也就隨身小了,更無些些孔竅。却说行者合在金铙里,黑洞洞的,燥得满身流汗,左拱右撞,不能得出。急得他使铁棒乱打,莫想得动分毫。他心里没了算计,将身往外一挣,却要挣破那金铙。遂捻着一个诀,就长有千百丈高;那金铙也随他身长,全无一些瑕缝光明。却又捻诀把身子往下一小,小如芥菜子儿;那铙也就随身小了,更无些些孔窍。
逐句解 Line by line
Now Pilgrim, shut inside the golden cymbals, was in pitch darkness, so parched that he was running with sweat all over. He shoved left and butted right and could not get out.
Pitch dark, no air, and sweat running off him — the chapter's first look inside the trap. Watch the two 得 in one sentence take opposite jobs: de in 燥得, linking the parching to what it produced, and dé in 得出, heading a claim of its own — to manage to get out.
In desperation he laid about him with the iron cudgel, but there was no hope of shifting the thing a hair's breadth.
分毫 is the smallest unit the language keeps for this purpose, a tenth and a hundredth — the Chinese equivalent of not a hair's breadth. It turns up twice in this stretch, three hundred graphs apart, both times about the same failure. 莫想得動 parses as 莫想 plus 得動, so the linking de falls between them.
He was at the end of his devices. He gave one heave outward, meaning to burst the cymbals apart.
He is out of ideas, so he tries brute force. 掙 reads zhèng: the Kāngxī dictionary carries only two spellings for the graph, 初耕切 and 側迸切, and the second — glossed 剉也, to snap or break off — is this one. There is no first tone in the entry at all. That in turn forces 一 to yí rather than yì, because the graph after it now falls in the fourth tone.
So he made a sign and grew a thousand zhàng and more in height;
A zhàng is ten chǐ, a little over three metres, so a thousand of them is a formula for immensity rather than a measurement anybody is expected to add up. 長 is zhǎng, the verb of growing, which this stretch uses three times against a single cháng.
but the cymbals grew with his body, and there was not the smallest flaw or seam to let light through.
瑕縫 pairs a blemish with a join, and 光明 is what would come through one if there were one. The sentence is the exact mirror of the one before it, which is why the source cuts them apart with a semicolon instead of running them together.
Then he made another sign and shrank himself downward, small as a mustard seed;
芥菜子, a mustard seed, is the standard figure for the least visible thing there is — the same seed the Gospels use for the same purpose. It comes back nine hundred graphs later, when he needs to be that small a second time. 小 is used first as a verb and then at once as an adjective: shrank small, small as.
and the cymbals shrank with him, and there was not the least little opening.
些些 doubles a word that already means a little, which is about as small as prose can be made to go. 更 is gèng, the adverb of degree, answering 全無 in the matching sentence two units back.
The problem is set out as two experiments and two failures, in matched sentences. He grows enormous and the cymbals grow with him; he shrinks to nothing and the cymbals shrink with him. Both halves end on the same finding: no crack, no hole.
That symmetry is the chapter's real subject. The Great Sage's entire repertoire is transformation, and he has walked into an object that transforms with him. Neither size nor strength is any use against something that has no relative size at all.
The prose does something quiet with scale as well. A thousand zhàng and a mustard seed are the two ends of the available range, and the sentence closing each attempt shrinks its own vocabulary to match — 全無一些 after the growing, 更無些些 after the shrinking.