《伊川擊壤集》

The Yichuan Jirang Ji is a collection of poems and essays by the Northern Song Confucian scholar Shao Yong (courtesy name Yaofu). This excerpt from "Grand Chant on Observing Chess" uses the metaphor of chess to profoundly explore the gains and losses, conflicts, and vicissitudes of human life.

The poet describes how he often observes people playing chess, from which he discerns the mysteries of cosmic creation. In the game, people's competitive desires know no bounds—driven by wealth and profit, their joy and anger are laid bare as they wield the power to decide life and death. The confrontation on the chessboard is like ice and fire refusing to coexist; even moments of harmony fall short of the perfect unity of ancient instruments like the xun and chi.

The ever-shifting chessboard resembles:

• Pearls and jade suddenly cast from one's bosom, as if dragons and serpents writhe between liver and spleen;
• Fortresses of metal and moats of boiling water built within a wine cup, blades flashing behind a screen;
• Ghosts and spirits summoned in broad daylight, flood dragons coiled upon flat ground;
• Thunder and hail echoing over empty rivers, whales and ni beasts slain on land and sea.

The alternation of cold and heat, light and shadow; the splendor of mountains and rivers; the trajectories of stars—all are revealed in the game.

Witnessing the tides of victory and defeat, one is startled by the winding path of glory and disgrace. High and low are easily judged, yet reversals are hard to grasp. Once intentions are laid bare, gain and loss can no longer be balanced. The wise are often wounded by cunning, while the sincere falter through bluntness. Truth and falsehood mingle, names and realities diverge—what is gained may be the root of loss, and fortune becomes the stairway to calamity.

The conflicts of heaven and earth resemble litigation; the transformations of Yin and Yang lead to discord. Words clash like weapons, victories and defeats persist, and rise and fall never cease. What was deemed right yesterday may be wrong today; those strong now may weaken tomorrow.

Surveying history—from the ancient era of Fuxi to the abdications of Yao and Shun, where the Four Fiends still wreaked havoc; from Tang of Shang and Wu of Zhou resorting to arms, drawing even the reproach of sages like Bo Yi and Shu Qi—even the wise counsel of Gao Yao or the admonitions of Yi Yin and the Duke of Zhou could not avoid side effects, like injuring muscle while curing illness. Benevolence and righteousness are often corrupted by fame and profit; order and chaos lie beyond one’s control; reforms merely drift with the current.

Passing the throne to the worthy rather than one’s descendants invites scrutiny of the chosen heir’s flaws; passing it to descendants rather than the worthy dooms them to ruin. History records the Miao people defying orders, the Youhu clan obstructing authority, Houyi inciting strife, the Guan and Cai uncles sowing distrust, Tang’s campaign against Ge, the Zhou’s punitive strike on Li, the rallying cry at Mingtiao, the banners raised at Muye—these triumphs and downfalls mirror how sunlight over Xia Terrace (the Xia prison) once heralded Tang’s rise, while moonlight at Youli (the Shang prison) could not thwart King Wen’s designs. Even King Li of Zhou was once driven into exile at Zhi.

Through the chessboard, the poet refracts profound truths of historical rise and fall, revealing his penetrating insight into the struggles of human affairs.

This passage chronicles a series of pivotal historical events from the late Western Zhou Dynasty to the early Eastern Han Dynasty, presenting a grand panorama of dynastic transitions and relentless warfare.

King You of Zhou (the last ruler of Western Zhou) was slain at Mount Li, forcing King Ping of Zhou (the first Eastern Zhou monarch) to relocate the capital to Luoyang. Later, King Nan of Zhou (the final Eastern Zhou king) suffered defeat near the Yi River, while feudal lords alternately convened alliances at Shaoling, met at Huangchi, clashed at Chang'an, and witnessed regicide at Ganxi. Armies variously stormed Yanying, retreated to Kuaiji, breached Daliang, and occupied Linzi. The Five Hegemons of the Spring and Autumn period devoured one another, while the Seven Warring States waged ceaseless campaigns.

After the tyrannical Qin annihilated the six states, the Chu-Han contention determined ultimate supremacy. The world became engulfed in continuous warfare as nations near and far were drawn into this complex struggle of alliances and stratagems. The well-field system was abolished in favor of commanderies and counties; private weapons were confiscated; books were burned and scholars buried alive; the enfeoffment system gave way to centrally appointed governors, strengthening imperial authority while weakening regional powers. Heavy garrisons were stationed at Shangjun, and the Great Wall was constructed to secure the frontiers—all measures intended to establish an eternal, unshakable empire.

Yet in the blink of an eye, the Mandate of Heaven shifted hands. The ruler who treated commoners as ants and squandered wealth like dirt saw his grand Epang Palace unfinished when Qin Shi Huang (the Ancestral Dragon) died. Before convicts at Mount Li could be released, Chen Sheng and Wu Guang rose in rebellion at Qixian. Liu Bang nurtured great ambitions at Bashang, while Xiang Yu exuded overpowering dominance at the Hongmen Feast. Xianyang became engulfed in war flames as Nanzheng (Hanzhong) gathered momentum. Mortals and spirits coexisted as winds and clouds shifted hue. Though Xiang Yu appeared stronger, Liu Bang remained undefeated—the empire's ultimate fate hung in the balance.

Eventually, Liu Bang established his Three Articles of Law, incorporated armies from five states, and strategized within temple halls. At Guangwu, soldiers raged in battle; along the Hong Canal, troops starved during stalemate. The Battle of Xingyang witnessed Ji Xin's feigned surrender, while Gaixia saw Xiang Yu's tragic farewell to Consort Yu. Three heroes—Zhang Liang, Xiao He, and Han Xin—displayed their brilliance, ushering in the Han Dynasty's millennium of prosperity. Mountains and rivers retained their majesty as sun and moon regained radiance. Unified calendars and measurements, standardized axle widths and written scripts eliminated regional divisions, bringing even remote territories under central rule.

Yet imperial relatives monopolized power while armies fractured. With no capable ministers to assist, how could crises be averted? Just as a century of foundation seemed secure, warfare again shook heaven and earth. Unexpectedly, the witchcraft scandal erupted, claiming victims like Liu Quli (Chancellor under Emperor Wu) among others. Loyal ministers faced danger without shirking their guardianship duties, while treacherous subjects bullied orphans with vulpine cunning. Palace halls witnessed widows humiliated and child rulers expelled. When would the dragon-tiger struggles cease? Three feet of ice forms not in one day. Though dikes collapse due to floods, should water control neglect reinforcement?

After the Eastern Han's establishment, Emperor Guangwu (Liu Xiu) achieved miraculous victory at Kunyang against overwhelming odds, amidst flying roof tiles. Wang Mang's Xin Dynasty collapsed, leaving Jian Terrace strewn with corpses. Liu Xiu ascended the throne at Haoyi and incorporated surrendered troops at Xin'an.

This poetic passage depicts the turbulent era from the late Eastern Han to the Sui-Tang transition, weaving historical allusions to portray the vicissitudes of dynastic changes. The verses mention the Red Eyebrows Rebellion followed by the Han restoration, only to see court politics corrupted by powerful consort clans. When Dong Zhuo seized power, Luoyang lay in ruins with bleached bones littering the fields—the line "a collapsing mansion cannot be propped by a single beam" symbolizes the inevitable decline of the Han house.

The narrative then turns to the Three Kingdoms division: Cao Cao (Mengde) first raised armies, Sun Quan (Zhongmou) inherited his father and brother's foundation, while Liu Bei (Xuande) saw his lofty ambitions unfulfilled. The Western Jin's indulgence in "pure conversation" philosophy weakened the state, leading to court interference by empresses and fratricidal conflicts that invited the Five Barbarians' invasions. The poet laments the absence of statesmen like Guan Zhong (Guan Yiwu) during this crisis.

Subsequent verses describe the Northern-Southern Dynasties split: Emperor Xiaowen of Northern Wei's reforms remained incomplete, Erzhu Rong's usurpation fractured the state into Eastern and Western Wei, eventually replaced by Northern Qi and Zhou. Though the Sui achieved unification, its disastrous Liaodong campaigns exhausted the people, breeding widespread resentment. The phrase "a thousand days' peace cannot predict one day's chaos" alludes to Emperor Yang's disastrous Daye reign, criticizing imperial mothers' interference and treacherous ministers corrupting the court.

The poem concludes with the An Lushan Rebellion: Emperor Xuanzong's indulgence in music and dance (the "Embroidered Ridge" referencing Huaqing Palace) led to war drums shaking the earth from Yuyang. The poet observes it's unfair to blame Lady Yang alone, vividly portraying Tong Pass's fall and both capitals' occupation. After regional warlords gained autonomy, commanders maintained private armies under pretext of "suppressing rebels," while the court could only tolerate these abuses—monarchs losing military control completely. Through this historical panorama, the poem reveals the eternal tragedy of civilian suffering amidst power transitions.

This passage illustrates historical lessons on the rise and fall of dynasties, infused with wisdom for navigating life. It begins with metaphorical imagery: those who once rode in grand carriages (symbolizing power) find their retinues scattered in turbulent times, just as an oversized tail becomes unmanageable (尾大不掉). A long whip cannot control distant lands, and prolonged indulgence of treacherous ministers breeds disaster—like nurturing a tiger that later turns on its master.

The text then depicts the decline of a dynasty: when fortune falters, the ruler can only retreat in shame. Prosperity blooms like radiant flowers, while collapse resembles withered leaves adrift. The heartland is carved up by rival clans (十姓分中夏), and regimes rotate as if at a crossroads (五家递通逵). What seems like bright stars may herald a dawn that never comes (东方未晞).

Historical events are invoked: military defeats at Changlu Town and Huliubei, the self-destruction of the Vermilion Palace (绛霄宫, a Daoist celestial abode here symbolizing the court), and the folly of infighting at the Xuanwu Gate (玄武门, alluding to the Tang dynasty coup). The disgrace of surrender at Zhongdu, the absurd collapse at Luancheng. Loyalty in Taiyuan at dawn turns to rebellion by dusk (刘子夕闻啼). The situation shifts like smoldering embers beneath ashes, or rotting bones worshipped as divine tortoises (a metaphor for false omens).

The author distills patterns: deceit lurks in shadows, calamity often springs from within. Surface issues are easily resolved, but root causes defy remedy. Disaster strikes abruptly, and careless words invite catastrophe. Those who strive to rise may fall, while those on the brink are sometimes rescued—such paradoxes reveal a universal truth: chaos is despised, peace is yearned for. Only those who cure grave ills deserve the name of true healers.

The discourse shifts to statecraft: long-neglected fields turn barren (磽确), and treacherous paths abound (險巇). Without enlightened rulers, how can talent flourish? When dynastic fortunes reach their nadir, the bond between ruler and minister becomes precious. Heaven lent its hand to the Song dynasty’s founding, its brilliant strategies drawing heroes to its cause. A century of warfare subsided, yet triumph and defeat remain subject to fate; rise and fall follow their own seasons.

The conclusion resonates with Daoist thought: the mechanisms of Heaven (天机) are not constant, and master strategists (国手) do not reign forever. History is but fleeting clouds; past records offer mere reference. Like observing a chess game, victory and defeat hinge on the finest margins. The waxing and waning of all things follow the Dao’s movement, as Yin and Yang (阴阳) transform by their own laws. Fortune and misfortune stem from shifts in human hearts; action and stillness pivot on critical junctures. The swiftest runners stumble first, the lushest growth withers last. Better to forget mutual harm than perpetuate strife.

To catch fish, one needs a basket (筌); to snare rabbits, a net (罤)—yet clinging to tools after their purpose is served is folly. A sheep clad in tiger’s skin remains a fraud (mocking empty bravado). The Dao (道) is supremely simple (a Laozi tenet), and true talent is rare (as Confucius noted). Grasping the essence of things brings clarity—why be lost in the midst of play? How can black-and-white judgments taint you? Why fret over life and death? Seize opportunities like arrows striking the bullseye; unravel problems like a blade splitting silk. Pay no heed to others’ mockery, nor guard against sidelong glances. If you comprehend subtle workings, why fear divergence? Walk with the Dao, and the Dao will embrace you; act ahead of Heaven’s timing, and Heaven will not oppose. Exhaust principles to perfect your nature; speak freely to refine expression—observe the outer world to grasp simplicity, listen to lingering echoes to discern truth.

The Yichuan Jirang Collection passage expresses the author's pursuit of a simple life and detachment from worldly fame and wealth. The opening employs metaphors: "The grand sacrificial broth needs no seasoning, the dark wine [clear water] cannot be diluted," illustrating how the most authentic and simple state requires no embellishment. True military strategy lies not in technique, just as calendar calculations cannot fathom the truth of wise words—like a swift horse that cannot be overtaken, certain realms remain beyond deliberate pursuit.

Between brothers, love should be fundamental; between father and child, kindness should prevail. The author suggests that one who follows such principles could even be entrusted with governing the world. Here, we see the Confucian thread of "cultivating oneself, regulating the family, ordering the state, and bringing peace to the world."

The following sections depict the author's reclusive life in Gong County (modern-day Gongyi, Henan). By the scenic Jade Stream, though close to immortal realms, the author remains apart due to differing status—a metaphor for dwelling in the mundane world while aspiring to purity. His new dwelling lies deep along bamboo paths, where willows cast shade over murmuring waters. While others seek visually pleasing landscapes, the author finds joy in nurturing his mind.

He compares himself to Yan Hui (Confucius' disciple who found contentment in humble circumstances), living simply with a thatched roof and wild vegetables, yet revering parents above and cherishing wife and children below, accepting life as it comes. Though others might find such a life unbearable, the author remains at ease. Through studying history, he discerns the patterns of rise and fall; through classics, he grasps the source of the Dao (the Way).

Someone advises him: "Why not employ strategic arts? The sage ruler thirsts for talent—virtue and righteousness shouldn't be empty words. Achievements must be timely—why not seek high office?" This outlines worldly success: grand mansions, fertile fields, gold-trimmed robes, ornate carriages, and audiences hushed in admiration.

Yet the author likens himself to a "dried fish," steadfast in his way of life. Dwelling by water, cherishing a few bamboo stalks—though such ordinary integrity goes unappreciated by the world, it represents his highest aspiration. The abrupt ending with "how dare I" suggests his courage to stand by his choices, countering conventional values. Through contrast, the text highlights the author's contentment in poverty while upholding the Dao (the Way), preserving his inner truth.

Facing my guest, I say: There are indeed matters in life that defy clear explanation. It is not that I prefer tattered garments, nor that I disdain delicacies. Do I not know the stability of being content like a gourd tied securely? Yet I persistently decline high positions and generous emoluments, for I dread witnessing others' insatiable greed.

I have always kept in mind my original aspiration of reclusive rural life. Like deep pools with their layered ripples or towering peaks with their overlapping ridges—yet walking through them feels as steady as level ground—this is not what people commonly call hardship. Poverty and lowliness are what ordinary people detest, while wealth and honor are what most pursue. To remain composed amidst these is truly rare and commendable.

To advance is to practice one's Dao (the Way); to retreat is to nourish one's nature. Since the necessity of altering circumstances is not yet clear, why not remain steadfast to one's original heart? Forgive my bluntness, but your suggestions, dear guest, hold little merit.

Alas! Fine jade comes from Mount Jing (in present-day Hubei). Though Bian He recognized its worth, the Chu court initially dismissed it. The world has its cycles of prosperity and decline; life has its advances and retreats; timing has its precedence and succession. If one does not follow this principle, whose fault is it when the jade is destroyed? When ideals remain unfulfilled, perhaps it is the will of Heaven.

Recently, I traveled through three cities (possibly Luoyang, Kaifeng, and others), lingering for a while. The renowned ministers and high officials of our time have all received me with exceptional warmth. Sometimes we discuss Daoist teachings on quiet nights; other times we boat on the ponds in the rear gardens. Several evenings of poetry and wine gatherings have brought endless joy. In the early chill of the tenth lunar month, all trees are draped in clear frost. Returning to my humble dwelling, I nap beneath the bamboo window on sunny days. Grateful for the understanding of these noble gentlemen, I write this piece in response.

Composed in the rhyme scheme of Zhang Yuanbo's "Year's End" (written in the first year of the Jiayou era):

Past forty-six years of age, ashamed of lacking talent in old age.

The lingering winter's cold just recedes, yet spring's flying ash (willow catkins) reappears.

Not only have I forgotten fame and fortune,

I've already transcended the body's constraints.

White hair marks half my life—

Let time rush by as it will.

In gratitude to Governor Wang Mìxué of Zhengzhou for the fine wine:

The grand office sends new brew;

The quiet garden blooms with fine flowers.

When shall we drink beneath red trees?

Such generosity overwhelms this mountain recluse.

"Small Garden Greets Spring":

A hundred flowers in my reclusive garden

Sprout anew with spring's arrival.

The Spring God (Dongjun) lends me warmth,

Making this place no less splendid than a noble's estate.

Exchanging verses with Zhang Er Shaoqing on "White Chrysanthemums":

Morning light, pure and frosted,

Fits best at autumn's fading edge.

Knowing it can preserve its whiteness,

Who remembers its lone fragrance?

Not that jade lacks brilliance—

But who knew snow could hold such subtle scent?

Petal-white dew floats as one,

Like jade cups filled with immortal wine.

"Ode to Bearing a Son" (written in the second year of the Jiayou era):

This year I turn forty-five,

Just becoming a father.

Raising and teaching my son,

I finally grasp my parents' toil.

These poems from The Collection of Yichuan Striking the Earth reveal the tranquil, carefree attitude toward life and philosophical reflections of the Song Dynasty literatus Shao Yong.

The first poem expresses an elder’s earnest hopes for the younger generation: "The length of my life is determined by Heaven, but whether you can achieve greatness depends on yourself. If I live to seventy, I may yet see you at twenty-five. I long for you to become a person of both virtue (De) and talent, though I do not know if Heaven will grant this wish."

The next set of leisurely verses depicts the author’s outlook on life: "Life is like holding office—one must inevitably weather storms. What has been lost is beyond counting; what has been gained, how much is it? Since I have already abandoned ambitions of governing the world, why not preserve the natural serenity of my spirit (Shen)? When wine is at hand, drink and sing while you may."

At forty-five, the author reflects: "I have only just come to understand the Mandate of Heaven, yet Heaven has granted me a child in my later years. To keep my lute and books from scattering is contentment enough—how could I dare hope for glory to shine upon my household? All things follow their destined course—why fret excessively?"

During eight or nine years of dwelling in Luoyang, his heart held only two or three kindred spirits. When they reunited, their hair had turned white, and they passed the hours in quiet conversation. "Human affairs have long been fated; worldly sentiments, long seen through. No need to urge one another to drink—better to savor the slow pleasure of mild intoxication."

Though he yearned for the simple joy of "a single gourd of water," he lacked even two meager acres of land. "My sincerity in refining the elixir (Neidan) has yet to reach perfection, yet white hairs already creep at my temples. Watching clouds, my thoughts grow ever more serene; gazing at pines, my resolve strengthens with age. In recent years, I’ve grown increasingly idle, often longing for the old life among mountain forests and spring rocks."

In a poetic exchange with Zhang Shaoqing, he writes: "Once a guest of youthful years, today I return a white-haired elder. The contrast between past and present feels like another world—how many rises and falls are contained within?"

A series of poems on bamboo conveys his sentiments through imagery: "A hundred tall bamboo stalks seem to exist solely for me; in leisure, I often wander among them. Though I trust my understanding is not yet complete, nor my self-awareness thorough, compared to the ancients, I still feel ashamed."

"Tall bamboo leans over a clear stream; my small pavilion is exceptionally tranquil. Though it is summer, wind and dew already carry autumn’s breath. Moonlight filters through the grove; spring water murmurs below the steps. The emotions of this night—how profound, beyond words."

"Tall bamboo is lovely in itself, but even more so with willow tendrils as companions. A recluse seeks no official rank—such scenery is surprise enough. Since I cannot bend my will, why refuse gifts? Had Jia Yi [a Han Dynasty scholar] understood this, he might not have died of sorrow."

"Emerald bamboo stands in harmony, naturally exuding a pure rhythm. When a breeze passes, ten thousand leaves sound as one. Clearing away the turbid, returning to stillness—only an empty mind can fathom the profound. How serene and joyful is the heart of one strolling idly before the steps."

"Tall bamboo forms a curtain of jade; green willows droop like a canopy. The recluse’s window and couch, morning and evening, keep company with bamboo." These verses reveal the author’s contentment with poverty and devotion to the Dao (Dao), his reclusive spirit finding solace in nature, contemplating life’s truths amid bamboo shadows and clear breezes.

In the tranquility of a quiet courtyard, the heart-mind (Shen) naturally unfolds, leisurely savoring the joys of the true Dao (the Way). Rather than losing one's authentic self, it is better to follow the genuine preferences of the inner heart.

Tall bamboos stand interspersed with upright phoenix trees, making one suddenly realize that early autumn has arrived. The evening cool is exceptionally pleasant—this is the perfect time to unfold an old book and read. A gentle breeze wafts from the pavilion by the pond, while the twilight deepens in the garden. When life offers such simple pleasures, why bother with trivial gains and losses?

Bamboo shoots several feet tall still rise proudly above the blooming flowers. The rustic gate remains unlatched all day, as the green bamboo and azure sky face each other from dawn till dusk. Such a life not only allows the body to rest but also grants the mind expansive freedom. Those who understand the joy of leisure find it a happiness that rivals high rank and wealth.

Bamboo is even greener than wintergreens, only shedding its old leaves by the fourth lunar month. New shoots emerge like weapons laid down, and their sheaths fall away like armor being removed. The serene beauty of these slender bamboos is truly delightful—one could circle them endlessly without tiring. Alas, how pitiable are the common plants that waste the labor of hoe and plow!

(Note: This is a series of bamboo poems from The Yichuan Jirang Collection by Northern Song Neo-Confucian philosopher Shao Yong. Through depictions of bamboo's noble character, it expresses the Daoist attitude of revering nature and pursuing spiritual freedom. "Jirang" alludes to the legend of an old man in Emperor Yao's era who sang while tapping the earth, symbolizing a return to simplicity and authenticity.)