《伊川擊壤集》Vol. 9
About this page. The original text of 《伊川擊壤集》 Vol. 9 (Taixuan 太玄部, 20 volumes) is shown in Classical Chinese as transmitted in the Kanripo (Kyoto University) edition. An English interpretation of the 10 passages on this page accompanies it: select a passage or press “Interpretation” to show it. All texts in English
Reading modes explained
- Horizontal: ordinary left-to-right reading; the interpretation can be shown.
- Scroll: vertical text running right to left; the wheel scrolls sideways (no interpretation in this mode).
- Wheel: columns of vertical text turn around a drum; use the wheel, drag or arrow keys, or auto-play.
- Pages: about 200 characters per page; use the buttons, swipe or arrow keys.
Source textInterpretation
These poems from Volume 9 of Yichuan Jirang Ji reveal Shao Yong's (courtesy name Yaofu) serene later years and philosophical reflections.
In "Verse at Sixty-Two," the sixty-two-year-old poet enjoys robust health while dwelling in peaceful Yongshu Village. He observes that good fortune is fleeting, so one might as well savor life with wine and song. Though time is vast and uncontrollable, he cherishes his finite vitality. He reflects on how many heroes chase fame and gain, only to be toyed with by fate in the end.
"Casual Affairs in the Grove" depicts his reclusive daily life: though called an idle man, he has his own "official duties"—four elegant pastimes each day—admiring flowers at dawn, willows at dusk, composing poetry beneath the moon, and sharing wine with friends. Twenty years of such leisurely contentment—who could rival it?
"Matching Rhymes with Wu Chuanzheng, the Temple Minister" speaks of fifty years spent immersed in books, perhaps earning him the world's ridicule as pedantic. Yet this devotion allowed him to grasp the patterns of rise and fall through the ages, understanding the Dao of urgency and patience. Though his learning remains imperfect and his life humble, he finds peace in living through peaceful times, his heart at ease.
"Poem for Li Taibo’s Garden in Yanfu Lane" celebrates the estate of his friend Li Taibo, a descendant of military leaders who earned merit nineteen times in battle. Now retired in old age, he enjoys his twilight years amid beautiful scenery—spring waters rippling, new melodies drifting, children and grandchildren gathered around, blessings and longevity abundant.
"Verse on Gold and Jade" uses these treasures as metaphors: fine gold and jade are precious, yet often invite calamity. Robber Zhi escaped war not through virtue, while Confucius, denied land, faced suspicion. The poem stresses that rather than chasing external things, one should cultivate inner nature, preserving clarity and radiance within.
"Southern Garden in Summer" sketches a summer scene in just four lines: beneath layered shade, a hundred birds sing—mostly the golden oriole’s liquid trills.
The final piece, "Gratitude for the Xiyi Wine Vessel from Temple Minister Ning," thanks a friend for the gift. "Xiyi" refers to the Daoist master Chen Tuan (styled Xiyi). The poet laments that since Chen’s passing, few remain who see through worldly illusions with such insight. Though "painting a tiger may yield a dog," and the qilin laments finding no worthy lord, those who awaken to the Dao need no words—all is understood in silence.
Winning the First Prize of Leisure
This passage describes the scene of sitting alone in a flower-covered hut for quiet cultivation. Meditation nurtures the harmonious Qi of nature, yielding abundant benefits. The towering eaves and lush vines complement each other delightfully, making one forget the rigid rules of the powerful and allowing a mountain recluse like me to pass through. Though worldly affairs are important, they ultimately need not be spoken of too much.
With Academician Wang Shengzhi Enjoying Peonies in the Western Garden
This depicts the peonies in Luoyang's Western Garden. Originally a specialty of Yangzhou, peonies are now especially treasured near Luoluo (around Luoyang). Knowing that their peerless beauty can move hearts, they carry a natural fragrance that secretly entices. Aspiring to reign supreme among summer blossoms, they claim their uniqueness without waiting for spring's warmth. Before departing, one leans against the vermilion railings for one last lingering gaze.
Playfully Thanking Chancellor Xie for the Gift of Striped Bamboo Shoots (Three Poems)
These are three humorous poems of gratitude. The first says that even crows are barred from flying over renowned gardens, yet now the chancellor has exceptionally invited me. The wealthy have always been particular about pomp, yet now even bamboo shoots and flowers are generously gifted. The second mocks myself: though honored with large bamboo shoots, my humble garden yields nothing. Despite earnest cultivation, my efforts remain fruitless. The third reflects that nurturing all things is a transcendent matter—how can it be forced by human effort? We overestimate ourselves, thinking a molehill (a small mound) could rival Mount Tai.
Reply to Li Xichun, the Farmland Officer
This is a poem replying to a friend. Born in fortunate times yet unsure what to do, my natural talents and wisdom are limited. My nature can only bend like an inchworm—how dare I soar like a roc? Often, visiting old friends brings boundless joy; frequently, exploring secluded wonders keeps me out till dusk. I love admiring half-opened, dew-kissed blossoms, though helpless against the dampening dew on my sleeves.
Moss Coins
This object poem describes moss. After each rain, it renews itself, unlike copper coins that require minting. Though too plentiful to give away, it invites no suspicion. Covering the ground, it signifies no wealth; carpeting the steps, it relieves no poverty. Even if I wished to drown my sorrows in wine, where would I get the means? Scattered, it resembles counting rods; dense, it looks like coiled ropes. Barely sustaining myself, how could I spare any for kin?
Song of Sowing Grain
This farming poem expounds the principles of crop cultivation. When farmers sow grain, they intend to plant crops, not weeds. Yet before the seedlings grow strong, the weeds already flourish. If the weeds aren’t removed, the crops will struggle to thrive. Worse still, when rain falls, it nourishes the weeds just the same.
These poems from the Yichuan Jirang Ji reveal the leisurely contentment and philosophical reflections of a Song Dynasty recluse. The first poem addressed to friend Junshi says: I dwell in the quiet suburbs far from clamor—though lacking noble steeds like thousand-mile horses, my thatched cottage provides simple shelter. The moon rises behind cloud-wreathed mountains while clear breezes whisper through pine and bamboo. Do I stubbornly cling to this reclusive life merely to avoid others' mockery?
The autumn night verse describes: After scattered clouds fade, starry brilliance fills the sky. Crimson berries rest upon moss as white lotuses exude fragrance. Though autumn chills arrive, summer robes still clothe me—yet no cicada songs remain in my ears. Prolonged stillness makes all things seem hushed; nothing remains but boundless autumn silence.
Regarding everyday objects, he writes: My bamboo staff companions garden strolls, while autumn summons the sable fur mat. Both gifts from dear friend Jingren—seeing them summons his presence. The staff bears years of service, yet the fur remains pristine. The bamboo still carries snow traces from Min Mountain, the sable brushes off capital dust. Drunk homeward, the staff steadies my steps; wrapped in illness, the fur warms my frail frame. Leaning on these study objects, I constantly feel my old friend's affection.
The cloud poem muses: How can a lone cloud drift across water-blue skies? Gilded phoenix in sunlight, white robe dancing with wind. Arriving and departing without trace, neither hiding nor appearing with attachment. Who comprehends heavenly principles? Where do clouds finally return?
Leisurely observations reveal: In idleness I contemplate creation—everywhere reveals carefree joy. Fish bite hooks for greedy bait, moths immolate in flame. The phoenix stands hungry on paulownia, while sparrows gorge on grain. Who's that man twisting grass ropes? Chopping firewood while singing songs.
Of morning glories he writes: The trellis overflows with blooms—fresh at dawn, withered by sunrise. Their beauty cannot be detained. Afar like mountain mist congealed, up close like scattered kohl powder. Dew beads on gauzy petals, jade leaves brushing autumn haze. Less sun-tracking than sunflowers, swifter fading than hibiscus. Brief moments of admiration steal midday naps away.
Another autumn night verse: Enduring summer's lengthy heat at last brings cool night's reprieve. Sudden rain pelts tall bamboos, chill wind stirs evening lotuses. Who claims crickets in sedge grass rival willows' fading cicadas? Where might I find immortal cranes of Jiugao Marsh to hear their clarion cries?
Again of bamboo staff and sable fur: Noble minds cherish objects, but treasure more their memories. Bamboo grown in Shu's highlands, sable hunted on Yin Mountain's slopes. The staff steadies perilous paths, the fur comforts gaunt limbs. Never parted in motion or rest—as if the gifting friend stands near.
Final cloud contemplation: Across ten-thousand-mile azure curtains drifts a solitary cloud. Knowing its roots lie in stone yet never bound (the fragment suggests the cloud's freedom—aware of origins but unconstrained in wandering).
These poems reveal the leisurely contentment and philosophical reflections of Song Dynasty recluse Shao Yong (also known as Master Yichuan). The first poem employs natural imagery as metaphor: Heaven's garments bear no artifice, and since clouds cannot transform into timely rain to nourish all things, why yearn for imperial courts? In his quiet dwelling, observing the myriad phenomena, he discovers the principles governing all existence lie not far away—just as a lean horse can still serve as mount, a tortoise shell scorched in divination will blacken, while the eloquent parrot invites misfortune, yet the contented wren lives freely. He cherishes the misty waves of the Yi and Luo Rivers (twin waterways of Luoyang), preferring the simple life of fisherman or woodcutter.
"Morning Glories Before My Thatched Hut" depicts lush vine leaves forming natural curtains, blossoms clustered like emerald hairpins, morning dew glistening, and hazy sunlight filtering through mist. As flowers bloom in succession, their host lingers in admiration, often delaying his morning rest—a testament to his intoxication with nature's beauty.
The two poems "To Old Friends in Three Cities" describe his vigorous spirit despite advancing years, with chrysanthemums blooming by the fence and crisp autumn weather perfect for visiting companions. In good health beneath fair skies, riding a small carriage through fragrant meadows, he finds refined pleasure everywhere. "Autumn Day Ascending the Stone Pavilion" portrays early autumn vistas from a monastery tower: leaning on railings amid eighth-month scenery tinged with melancholy. Seeking higher vantage points to observe human affairs, he finds deep autumn's climate agreeable, valuing only tranquility in old age. He tells distant mountains not to frown ("knit their dark brows"), for such sentiments have long faded.
"In Response to Academician Li Shenyan" celebrates brilliant autumn light while anticipating joyful reunion with wine—though the Double Ninth Festival has passed, large cups stand ready. "Ode to Breeze and Moon" declares cool winds refreshing and bright moons luminous; these faithful companions never fail to bring joy. Whether suffering repeated humiliations or frequent honors, keeping such matters off one's mind prevents distress.
"To Duke Fu" praises statesman Fu Bi's unparalleled devotion to the realm's welfare. Having served three reigns as chancellor before retiring to Luoyang's four waterways, his insight penetrates ancient and modern affairs while returning to primal simplicity. The poet wonders why Fu shows him particular warmth. "Brush-Play Verses" offers philosophical distillation: Human life values spiritual vitality, yet impure spirit proves worthless. Counterfeits masquerading as truth remain false; diligence compensating for clumsiness never equals true diligence. Eating to sate hunger breeds illness; seeking comfort denies true peace. While ordinary men misunderstand sages, sages never misjudge ordinary men.
Finally, "Inviting Sima Guang to Summer Gardens" (fragmentary) shows these two thinkers' refined camaraderie. Collectively, these works embody Shao Yong's transcendent detachment and his hermitic contemplation of nature's patterns to apprehend the Dao.
Selections from the Yichuan Jirang Collection: A Modern Interpretation
The autumn scenery after the rain is exceptionally beautiful, and though it is already late autumn, the chill is not yet felt. Is such weather suitable for an impromptu outing? Why not stroll leisurely through the summer gardens?
On clear autumn days, gazing into the distance, the water is cool, the clouds sparse, and the frost arrives early. Though the season is late, the chrysanthemums still bloom splendidly. The distant mountains encircle the view, yet the autumn light is fading. Heaven nurtures all things without bias, but the realm of sages is beyond ordinary comprehension. There is no need to chase ornate words—maintaining a balanced ability allows one to live with clarity.
Early autumn in the eighth month feels like a brief return of spring, with small flowers blooming vividly. After a light evening rain, even the small carriage rests idle. I often seek joy as my pursuit, but what brings me joy does not contradict the Dao (the Way). I delight in following the pleasures of the seasons, admiring the beauty of all things on earth, rejoicing in the good deeds of others, and taking joy in my own contentment. Beyond these joys, I also savor a slight tipsiness.
The difference between good and evil lies not in outward appearance but in the heart—this is what separates petty people from noble ones. Correcting one’s faults makes one a noble person, while stubbornness keeps one petty. Effective medicine cures illness; flawless white jade is truly precious. To become a fine vessel requires carving—why not start anew when mistakes are made?
Upon hearing of the collapse of Mount Shaohua, I realized how swiftly heaven and earth change—even altering mountains and rivers is no great feat for such immense power. If the divine hand were to stretch forth, could it not make Mount Shaohua stand tall again? Six villages suffered disaster, and boulders flew from beneath the earth. If the advice of common folk were heeded, perhaps an era like that of Yao and Shun could return.
Since ancient times, even great sages have found certain things difficult—how much more so for later generations? What seems arduous in pursuit is often simple once attained. The hearts of countless people all stem from the same root.
Thirty years have passed since I last met an old friend, and now we reunite with white hair. Once we drank together by the sea, and later wandered the streets of Luoyang. Now, far from turbulent waters, we open our hearts amid the fragrance of pines and osmanthus in autumn. From this day forward, there should be no idle sorrow between our brows.
With each drop in temperature, I add another layer to my quilt. I do not dwell on past words, nor do I act excessively. I hold myself to strict standards but do not demand perfection from others. Only the greatest sages can stand in a place beyond fault.
The rooster’s duty is to herald the dawn; the dog’s duty is to guard the home. Each fulfills its role with merit, yet all ultimately return to the natural Dao (the Way).
Here is the translation of the modern Chinese interpretation of the classical Daoist poetry collection:
On Repayment and Merit
When hungry, I have food; when cold, I have clothes—yet I’ve contributed nothing to repay this era. It’s like discarding my own sacred tortoise (a divination tool) and instead staring at how others eat. Those who abandon the Dao (the Way) to chase profit have narrow vision. Some withdraw to rural gardens (qiu yuan), carrying only meager cloth (jianjian), yet they plan great deeds. Like an old ox birthing a red-haired calf or an aged mussel concealing a pearl—even if people try to bury them, Heaven and Earth won’t allow it. The world’s affairs are unpredictable; relying solely on subjective guesses will blind us to both the subtle and the obvious.
On Critical Moments
During a drought, rain is most desired; at death’s door, medicine is most craved. In such moments, no persuasion is needed—understanding comes naturally. Crisis reveals true character; hardship tests genuine hearts. Those who hide their nature in ordinary times will expose it now—so choose companions carefully.
On Words
A single phrase can bring joy, while a thousand may provoke anger. Though friendships form through shared words, they can also break from discord. Like ornamentation bordering on emptiness—once emptiness takes hold, trouble follows. Hunger demands food; drought calls for rain—solutions must match the problem.
On Life
Before us stretch billions of years; behind us, billions more. A human life barely spans a century. How much can one truly accomplish? And how many live even that long? Why torment yourself, wasting away in sorrow?
Poem in Thanks for a Stone Bamboo Shoot
Who split the Heavenly Pillar Peak (legendary sky-propping column) in half with a swift blade? The stone bamboo still bears water’s marks, wreathed in clouds. The powerful cannot move it; the wealthy cannot buy it. For someone like me, it’s just a gift for the King of Hell.
Three Poems on Snow
The first snowfall was light, soon giving way to sun. The world turned white; the woods grew bitterly cold. A poor scholar shivers; the destitute fear winter’s lack. New laws restrict wine—so how can we still drink freely?
Snow at the Chancellor’s Estate
Auspicious snow suddenly graces the high terrace—the earth whitens, yet the chill is mild. It heralds a bountiful year; the snow nourishes parched soil. Old farmers won’t forget, singing praises like the ancient “Striking the Clods” plowmen’s chants.
Viewing Snow on Tianjin Bridge
The clear Luo River flows skyward; cold clouds skim the earth. Standing on the bridge, I watch the snow—my poetry soars with the flakes.
The translation preserves Daoist cultural references (e.g., "Heavenly Pillar Peak," "sacred tortoise") while rendering the interpretations in natural English paragraphs. Technical terms like Dao follow the glossary, and the tone balances accessibility with the original’s reflective depth.
These poems from The Collection of Yichuan's Rustic Songs depict the author's leisurely, contented life in his "Nest of Peace and Joy" (referring to his hermitage) and his inner reflections.
The first poem, Returning in Snow, describes enjoying snowfall in his retreat: gazing at the overcast sky and swirling snowflakes outside his window, he's first astonished to see the backyard trees transformed into jade-like splendor, then marvels at how the level ground resembles the mythical Jasper Pool. This scenery arrives earlier than the pear blossoms before Cold Food Festival, without waiting for spring breezes to stir willow catkins. Half-drunk, he rolls up the bamboo curtain to admire the view, cherishing this carefree mood he'd rather keep from outsiders. The snowscape makes even his humble dwelling appear magnificent, yet he believes such beauty is best appreciated quietly, not flaunted. Warming himself with a pot of wine and thick quilts, why bother with worldly calculations?
The second poem replies to Duke Han of Fu (referring to Han Qi), mentioning his seventy years of age and desire to emulate Tang dynasty scholars' virtues rather than follow Duke Wen of Jin's return to politics.
Harmonizing with Junshi the Court Advisor, the third poem, portrays the serenity of reclusive life: cultivating one's nature in peaceful contentment, letting white hairs multiply freely. Freed from official duties, he escapes worldly suspicions. Content in his thatched cottage with simple meals, his greatest joy comes from basking in sunlight beneath the eaves.
Four Long Chants in the Nest of Peace and Joy, the fourth poem, celebrates his joyful existence: leisurely accompanied by four companions—poetry and books nurture his spirit, incense purifies his mind, and fine wine returns him to primal simplicity. Grateful to live in peaceful times, he prays only for the emperor's longevity.
The fifth poem describes composing verse for personal delight in his retreat: spontaneous chanting brings effortless joy. Versifying passes the hours pleasantly—when inspiration strikes, it's like riding a thousand-mile steed soaring to the ninth heaven. Drunken revisions make him wonder if he's transcended mortality to become a grotto immortal. His brush captures all things' essence while his body remains free of ailments. Writing feels divinely assisted, with some lines widely recited. He envies no aristocrat's luxury nor feels shame in poverty. Finally he muses: why don't censors impeach him for these "transgressions"?
The sixth poem concerns books in his retreat: this text titled Supreme Principles (Shao Yong's philosophical work Supreme Principles Governing the World) explores profound truths akin to Spring and Autumn Annals recording history or Rites codifying rituals.
These two poems from the Yichuan Jirang Collection embody the Daoist ideal of reclusive living, using the daily acts of incense burning and wine drinking to convey profound philosophical contemplation.
The first poem on incense describes morning reflections while burning incense: Lighting a single stick in the "Nest of Peace and Bliss" is no ordinary act. The poet suggests that if calamity is predestined, no amount of flattery can avert it; if fortune must be forced, Heaven has its own measure. This attitude differs both from the temple prayers of Buddhist and Daoist devotees and the worldly adornments of ordinary folk. Sincerity of heart naturally builds trust, making deliberate prayers unnecessary; unavoidable disasters cannot be warded off, so it's better to maintain emptiness and stillness. When the mind becomes clear, one may revel like Liezi riding the wind in Zhuangzi's tales or sit in self-forgetting stillness like Yan Hui. The poem employs "pearls held in the Red River" as a metaphor for the divine marvel of creation, while "the mud-pellet void of substance" describes the unobstructed flow of primordial spirit (Shen). As a man, one should preserve health; living in prosperous times makes the years feel abundant. The sun and moon shine by nature's grace, while ruler and ministers demonstrate governance's efficacy. Those who truly understand the Dao (the Way) know that halls filled with gold and jade are but external possessions.
The second poem on wine depicts the experience of enlightenment through drinking: A cup of wine in the "Nest of Peace and Bliss" not only nurtures vital energy (Qi) but also aligns with one's true nature. In mild intoxication, one feels brimming with spring's vitality—an experience akin to the harmony of a wise ruler meeting virtuous ministers or the misty state of Heaven and Earth at creation's dawn. This tipsy delight defies description, and its fermentation process is equally ineffable. The depth of the pour subtly mirrors the regulation of Yin-Yang, while the measure of consumption embodies principles of governance. The poet likens himself to a carefree wanderer beneath the Phoenix Tower or an untrammeled soul within the walls of Jiaru. Ascending heights reveals blossoms like brocade; venturing forth finds fragrant grasses lush as mats. Grasping the patterns of rise and fall across ages, he transcends the constraints of layered clouds and waters. After rain, he quietly contemplates the true essence of mountains; before the wind, he leisurely admires the moon's luminous spirit (Shen). Such self-cultivation stands apart—even the heroic figures of antiquity may not have fully comprehended it.
Through the recurring image of the "Nest of Peace and Bliss," both poems reveal the Daoist pursuit of inner tranquility and spiritual transcendence, elevating daily life to the realm of cosmic understanding. They reflect the Song Dynasty Neo-Confucian tendency to harmonize Confucian and Daoist thought.
Prime Minister Fu Bi (a renowned Northern Song statesman) showed me a scroll of newly composed poems, which read as if written amidst carefully selected pines and bamboos by the bustling thoroughfare. This elder statesman chose to retire at the pinnacle of his career, filling his verses with descriptions of exquisite blossoms. When expressing sentiments through objects, he always accompanied them with fine wine, revealing an uncontrived natural charm. The former Grand Councilor who once stood among the Three Dukes has now become an immortal figure dwelling in grotto-heavens and blessed lands. These twenty new poems shine with every word, radiant as the gentle spring sunlight.
All literature under heaven is a public vessel, yet poetry is the quintessence within it. Only by returning to one's innate nature can one grasp its genuine flavor, and only by reaching the realm of spiritual transformation can one perceive its subtlety. In leisure, observe the passage of seasons; in stillness, contemplate the presence and absence between heaven and earth. These poems possess a warmth and elegance surpassing the Li Sao, though they lack the latter's brooding melancholy.
In the Nest of Comfort (referring to his hermitage), it's fitting to follow one's whims—such whimsy should match one's appropriate age. During bitter cold or scorching heat, stay mostly behind closed doors; only when spring warms or autumn cools does one stroll the streets. Clear breezes and bright moonlight stir the brush, while orioles' songs and floral shadows accompany the wine cup. Asked how such carefreeness is possible? It's simply understanding how to nourish seemingly useless leisure with one's talents.
Composed while ascending a stone pavilion with Sima Guang (courtesy name Junshi):
Viewing scenery from flat ground seems ordinary—
Who knew climbing high would make all things appear anew?
Upon this hundred-foot tower,
A different springtime hides in view.
Another drinking exchange with Sima Guang:
When Luoyang's blooms fill the city walls,
Eastern Capital wine arrives once more.
It makes this idle man grow wilder still—
Alas, the red sun sinks as before.
Chanting before spring blossoms:
When spring comes, flowers vie in splendor;
When spring departs, their petals fade.
Lovely blooms won't linger long,
Nor can dear friends stay unmoved.
Drinking before flowers,
One should admire them cup in hand.
Better to fill the goblet full
And revel in this joy while we can.
Sent to Li Xichun in Chengdu:
Missing you, yet you don't return—
So you linger for Sichuan's official post.
Though white hairs bring weariness,
A noble heart finds its own ease.
When flowers bloom, we seldom meet,
Yet silkworm markets promise cheer.
Don't sigh that reclusion comes too late—
Life's long road isn't finished here.
Penned on behalf of Li Zundu of Guangxin Army:
Jibei lies a thousand miles away,
A frontier since Han and Tang.
Yet now these lands we call our own
No longer match those ancient bounds.
The tiger-tent army prizes strategy,
Carved bows passed to sons with care.
When future feasts honor their deeds,
May descendants never face war's snare.
Self-reflection on reclusive life:
In the Nest of Comfort, I follow whims,
Knowing well I lack outstanding gifts.
Old and ill, I quit taking herbs;
Youthful ambitions long since dimmed.
Weeds cleared from the courtyard sprout anew,
Like unfinished matters in the heart.
The passage describes a transcendent sense of joy beyond worldly concerns. The poet observes flowers by the railing—despite careful tending, they struggle to bloom—while a gentle breeze stirs his half-drunken haze. This delight seems to arrive effortlessly, as if carried from the distant heavens.
"Yichuan" refers to a place name, and "Jirang" originally denoted an ancient throwing game but here serves as the title of a poetry collection, subtly conveying carefree spontaneity. Through observing ordinary scenes (flowers, wind, wine), the poet experiences a natural joy surpassing mundane existence. Such happiness requires no forced pursuit—it arrives as naturally as a breeze from beyond the skies.
The depiction of "half-drunken wine" is particularly vivid: neither fully intoxicated nor completely sober, this liminal state of mild inebriation best facilitates the Daoist ideal of forgetting both self and object. The entire passage embodies the Daoist philosophy of revering naturalness and pursuing spiritual liberation.
(Note: Following your guidelines, I've preserved key Daoist concepts like "naturalness" and "spiritual liberation" without parenthetical pinyin, as they're interpretive rather than technical terms from the provided glossary. The translation maintains the original's reflective tone while clarifying cultural references for English readers.)
Source text: Kanripo 漢籍リポジトリ（KR5d0065）; Licence: CC BY-SA 4.0 · Report an error / feedback