Canonical Classics ← 第六十七回
第六十七回
zhěngjiùtuóluóchánxìngwěn
tuōhuìdàoxīnqīng

Rescuing Tuoluo, the Meditative Nature Is Stilled · Escaping the Filth, the Heart of the Way Is Clean

春深花放
模式 Mode Read Study
拼音 Pinyin Off
字體 Script
原文 Original text 繁體 Traditional Reader's edition

春深花放 Spring Deep And Blossom Open

huàshuōsānzàngzhòngduǒlexiǎo西tiānxīnránshàngxíngjīngyuèchéngzhèngshìchūnshēnhuāfàngzhīshíjiànlechùyuánlínjiēànfānfēngyòuhuánghūnhuàshuōsānzàngzhòngduǒlexiǎo西tiānxīnránshàngxíngjīngyuèchéngzhèngshìchūnshēnhuāfàngzhīshíjiànlechùyuánlínjiē绿ànfānfēngyòuhuánghūn


逐句解 Line by line

huàshuōsānzàngzhòngduǒlexiǎo西tiānxīnránshàng huàshuōsānzàngzhòngduǒlexiǎo西tiānxīnránshàng

The tale goes that Tripitaka and his three disciples, having slipped clear of the Lesser Western Heaven, took to the road in good spirits.

The party is leaving the last chapter behind, and the phrasing is brisker than a translation can easily show. 躲離 is not "departed" but "got clear of" — they dodged out. And 四眾 counts four: the master is inside the number, not a fifth party travelling with three disciples. in the monk's name reads zàng, the store or treasury, not the cáng of hiding something.

xíngjīngyuèchéngzhèngshìchūnshēnhuāfàngzhīshíjiànlechùyuánlínjiēànfānfēngyòuhuánghūn xíngjīngyuèchéngzhèngshìchūnshēnhuāfàngzhīshíjiànlechùyuánlínjiē绿ànfānfēngyòuhuánghūn

They travelled a month's stage of road. It was the season when spring runs deep and the blossom is out: they passed several plantations where the green had already darkened, and a single squall of wind and rain brought the dusk on again.

A month of travel, dismissed in six characters — 行經個月程途 — and then the story stops dead to look at the scenery. 綠暗 is the specific green of late spring, when the leaf has thickened and darkened and the woods have stopped being bright. reads xíng, to go or travel, every one of its eighty-three appearances in this chapter.


總評 Commentary

The chapter opens on 話說 — "the tale goes" — which is the storyteller clearing his throat, the Ming equivalent of "so anyway." Then the party is moved out of last chapter's trouble without a word of recap. The Lesser Western Heaven gets one clause and is dropped, though it will come back shortly in the mouth of a man who lives next to it.

Notice the gearing. A month of road takes six characters; a hedge with the light going off it takes twenty. This book does that constantly — distance is cheap, but the moment there is something worth looking at, everything slows down.

The last clause falls into a seven-beat shape that would sit happily in a poem, and it is not one. The edition marks its verse by indenting it, and this line is not indented, so it stays prose. The printer's layout decides, not the rhythm.