Li Bai Quotes

You ask me why I dwell amidst these jade-green hills? I smile. No words can tell the stillness in my heart. Peach blossoms drift streamwater away deep in mystery. I live in the other world one that lies beyond the human.

It's long since I've gone to the East Mountains. How many seasons have the tiny roses bloomed? White clouds - unblown - fall apart. In whose court has the bright moon dropped?

And sorrows return, though we drown them with wine, Since the world can in no way answer our craving, I will loosen my hair tomorrow and take to a fishingboat.

THOUGHTS ON A STILL NIGHT Before my bed, the moon is shining bright, I think that it is frost upon the ground. I raise my head and look at the bright moon, I lower my head and think of home.

All this is gone forever - events, men. everything slips away, like the ceaseless waves of the Yangtze that vanish into the sea.

AUTUMN AIR The autumn air is clear, The autumn moon is bright. Fallen leaves gather and scatter, The jackdaw perches and starts anew. We think of each other- when will we meet? This hour, this night, my feelings are hard.

FOR WANG LUN Li Bai is already on the boat, preparing to depart, I suddenly hear the sound of stamping and singing on the shore. The water of Taohua pond reaches a thousand feet in depth, But still it's not as deep as Wang Lun's feelings seeing me off.

Since Life is but a dream, Why toil to no avail?

Tangled grasses lie matted with death, but generals keep at it. And for what? Isn't it clear that weapons are the tools of misery? The great sages never waited until the need for such things arose.

AMUSING MYSELF Facing my wine, I did not see the dusk, Falling blossoms have filled the folds of my clothes. Drunk, I rise and approach the moon in the stream, Birds are far off, people too are few.

STAYING THE NIGHT AT A MOUNTAIN TEMPLE The high tower is a hundred feet tall, From here one's hand could pluck the stars. I do not dare to speak in a loud voice, I fear to disturb the people in heaven.

I lift my goblet to melt away sorrow, but sorrow continues in sorrow. Man's life in this world may never find what satisfies the mind - Tomorrow at dawn let your hair flow down, For delight sail off in your tiny boat.

Buddha’s words are everywhere, in every sound of the universe.

QUIET NIGHT THOUGHT Before my bed the moonlight glitters, Like frost upon the ground. I look up to the mountain moon, Look down and think of home.

床前明月光 疑是地上霜 举头望明月 低头思故乡 《静夜思》 Moonlight spreads before my bed. I wonder if it’s hoarfrost on the ground. I raise my head to watch the moon And lowering it, I think of home. “REFLECTION IN A QUIET

Bears, dragons, tempestuous on mountain and river, Startle the forest and make the heights tremble. Clouds darken beneath the darkness of rain, streams pale with a pallor of mist. The gods of Thunder and Lightning Shatter the whole range

HEARING A FLUTE ON A SPRING NIGHT IN LUOYANG From whose home secretly flies the sound of a jade flute? It's lost amid the spring wind which fills Luoyang city. In the middle of this nocturne I remember the snapped willow, What person would not start to think of home!

QUESTION AND ANSWER ON THE MOUNTAIN You ask for what reason I stay on the green mountain, I smile, but do not answer, my heart is at leisure. Peach blossom is carried far off by flowing water, Apart, I have heaven and earth in the human world.

The living is a passing traveler; The dead, a person come home. One short journey between heaven and earth, Then, alas! we are the same old dust of ten thousand ages. The rabbit in the moon pounds out the elixir in vain; Fu-sang, the tree of immortality, has crumbled to kindling wood. Man dies, his white bones are dumb without a word While the green pines feel the coming of spring. Looking back, I sigh; looking in front of me, I sigh again. What is there to value in this life's vaporous glory?

It's Swatow lace, I believe-- beautiful, isn't it? The design is titled "The Disc of the Moon"-- apparently it was inspired by the poem "Midnight Song" by the Tang-era poet Li Bai. I looked it up, and it turns out it's about longing for someone who's a great distance away.

MIDNIGHT SONG OF WU In Chang'an city is the disk of the moon, The sound of pounding clothes in ten thousand households. The autumn wind is blowing without cease, All the time I think of Yuguan pass. When will we pacify the pillaging Hu, So my husband can end his long journey?

Chuang Tzu in dream became a butterfly, And the butterfly became Chuang Tzu at waking. Which was the real - the butterfly or the man ? Who can tell the end of the endless changes of things? The water that flows into the depth of the distant sea Returns in time to the shallows of a transparent stream. The man, raising melons outside the green gate of the city, Was once the Prince of the East Hill. So must rank and riches vanish. You know it, still you toil and toil - what for?

A dog's bark amid the water's sound, Peach blossom that's made thicker by the rain. Deep in the trees, I sometimes see a deer, And at the stream I hear no noonday bell. Wild bamboo divides the green mist, A flying spring hangs from the jasper peak. No-one knows the place to which he's gone, Sadly, I lean on two or three pines

ANCIENT AIR (39) I climb up high and look on the four seas, Heaven and earth spreading out so far. Frost blankets all the stuff of autumn, The wind blows with the great desert's cold. The eastward-flowing water is immense, All the ten thousand things billow. The white sun's passing brightness fades, Floating clouds seem to have no end. Swallows and sparrows nest in the wutong tree, Yuan and luan birds perch among jujube thorns. Now it's time to head on back again, I flick my sword and sing 'Taking the Hard Road'.

Passing One Night in an Old Woman's Hut at the Foot of Mount Five Pines I lodge under the five pine trees, Lonely, I feel not quite at ease. Peasants work hard in autumn old; Husking rice at night, the maid's cold. Wilce rice is offered on her knees; The plate in moonlight seems to freeze. I'm overwhelmed with gratitude. Do I deserve the hard-earned food?

《夜宿山寺》 危楼高百尺，手可摘星辰。 不敢高声语，恐惊天上人。

紫藤树 紫藤挂云木，花蔓宜阳春。 密叶隐歌鸟，香风留美人。

The firmament is blue forever, and the Earth Will long stand firm and bloom in spring But, man, how long will you live?

處世若大夢，胡爲勞其生？

MARBLE STEPS COMPLAINT White dew grows on the marble steps, And in the long night, soaks into my stockings. But now I let the crystal curtain down, And gaze through it at the autumn moon.

SITTING ALONE ON JINGTING SHAN HILL A flock of birds is flying high in the distance, A lonely cloud drifts idly on its own. We gaze at each other, neither growing tired, There is only Jingting Shan.

LONG YEARNING Long yearning, To be in Chang'an. The grasshoppers weave their autumn song by the golden railing of the well; Frost coalesces on my bamboo mat, changing its colour with cold. My lonely lamp is not bright, I’d like to end these thoughts; I roll back the hanging, gaze at the moon, and long sigh in vain. The beautiful person's like a flower beyond the edge of the clouds. Above is the black night of heaven's height; Below is the green water billowing on. The sky is long, the road is far, bitter flies my spirit; The spirit I dream can't get through, the mountain pass is hard. Long yearning, Breaks my heart.

How could it be you?” Li Wuxin’s face was as pale as dry wax. His silver tongue that had been flapping away a moment ago tied itself into a knot as he stuttered, “We haven’t heard a word from you since you left Rufeng Sect. Here we thought you went off to wander the world; yet who knew you—you were actually down here in the muck, casting pearls before swine!” Chu Wanning snorted, his eyes cool. “You think I’m a pearl? I’m flattered.

FEELINGS ON WATCHING THE MOON The times are hard: a year of famine has emptied the fields, My brothers live abroad- scattered west and east. Now fields and gardens are scarcely seen after the fighting, Family members wander, scattered on the road. Attached to shadows, like geese ten thousand li apart, Or roots uplifted into September's autumn air. We look together at the bright moon, and then the tears should fall, This night, our wish for home can make five places one.

The wu in wuxia means both “to cut” and “to stop.” It also refers to the weapon—usually a sword—carried by the assassin, the hero of the story. The genre became very popular during the Song Dynasty [960–1279]. These stories often depicted a soldier in revolt, usually against a corrupt political leader. In order to stop corruption and the killing of innocent people, the hero must become an assassin. So wuxia stories are concerned with the premise of ending violence with violence. Although their actions are motivated by political reasons, the hero’s journey is epic and transformative—physically, emotionally, and spiritually. In the Tang Dynasty, a prominent poet named Li Bai wrote some verses about an assassin. This is the earliest example I know of wuxia literature. Gradually, the genre gave shape to ideas and stories that had been percolating in historical and mythological spheres. Although these stories were often inspired by real events of the past, to me they feel very contemporary and relevant. It’s one of the oldest genres in Chinese literature, and there are countless wuxia novels today. I began to immerse myself in these novels when I was in elementary school, and they quickly became my favorite things to read. I started with newer books and worked my way back to the earliest writing from the Tang Dynasty.

CROWS CALLING AT NIGHT Yellow clouds beside the walls; crows roosting near. Flying back, they caw, caw; calling in the boughs. In the loom she weaves brocade, the Qin river girl. Made of emerald yarn like mist, the window hides her words. She stops the shuttle, sorrowful, and thinks of the distant man. She stays alone in the lonely room, her tears just like the rain.

Life and Death The living are but passers-by, And those are going home who die. The sky and earth are hotels just For all to grieve over age-old dust. The Moon Goddess lives long in vain; The sacred tree's cut down with pain. The bleached bones can nor speak nor sing. Could green pines feel the warmth of spring? Ancestors and posterity, Don't prize but sigh for vanity.

CHANGGAN MEMORIES When first my hair began to cover my forehead, I picked and played with flowers before the gate. You came riding on a bamboo horse, And circled the walkway, playing with green plums. We lived together, here in Changgan county, Two children, without the least suspicion. When I was fourteen, I became your wife, So shy that still my face remained unopened. I bowed my head towards the shadowed wall, And called one thousand times, I turned not once. At 15 I began to lift my brows, And wished to be with you as dust with ashes. You always kept your massive pillar faith, I had no need to climb the lookout hill. When I was sixteen, you went far away, To Yanyudui, within the Qutang gorge. You should not risk the dangerous floods of May, Now from the sky, the monkeys cry in mourning. Before the gate, my pacing's left a mark, Little by little, the green moss has grown. The moss is now too deep to sweep away, And leaves fall in the autumn's early winds. This August, all the butterflies are yellow, A pair fly over the western garden's grass. I feel that they are damaging my heart, Through worrying, my rosy face grows old. When you come down the river from Sanba, Beforehand, send a letter to your home. We'll go to meet each other, however far, I'll come up to Changfengsha.

summed up his principle of poetic composition this way: “Lotus flowers come out of limpid water, / Natural without any decoration.

When Li Bai turned back to poetry, the clouds rose in formation to see him off, the river stood as witness, and the monkeys cheered for him. The landscape itself stood aside to make way for his passage. His increasingly weighty ship of life was transformed back to a light skiff.

Why did Du Fu write so many poems expressing his fondness for Li Bai, while Li wrote so few? Some have explained it by saying that many of Li Bai’s poems have been lost, and the lost works must have included many about Du Fu. This is a charitable interpretation, and it might even be true, but there is little point in us trying to impose equality on their friendship from our vantage point, centuries later. They were two very different personalities. Despite this, they were both great friends, models for generations to come. When a roc and a swan goose come together, their wing beats shred the air, and all creation looks up in wonder, but when they separate, the swan goose sings on and on of their encounter, while the roc has long since disappeared over the southern reaches or the northern oceans. It knows no bonds; it knows no obstacles. They are very different, these two, but they are both masters of the air, glories of the world.

对酒醉题屈突明府厅 陶令八十日，长歌归去来。 故人建昌宰，借问几时回。 风落吴江雪，纷纷入酒杯。 山翁今已醉，舞袖为君开。

Jean-Claude Dehmel II was born in Vallejo, California to an All-American mother of Anglo-Irish ancestry and a French immigrant who abandoned the family before Dehmel was out of the mother's womb. Despite great odds Mr. Dehmel went to college (Humboldt State University) where he studied Mathematics and later law school (University at Buffalo). In 2004 he moved to mainland China to take up a teaching position at Liaoning Institute of Technology in Jinzhou, China. It was there he met his wife Li Xiao Bai. The marriage lasted three years. Mr. Dehmel has no children. He is the happy owner of a Pit Bull/Black lab mix. He has been a licensed attorney in Connecticut since 2009 but has little to no interest in practicing law. He is the author of three other books: Poetry for the Lovelorn, Notes from an American Jail and The House that Vivian Built

When God was a little unhappy, it would result in droughts, floods, plagues of locusts, years of famine; when a person of high rank was a little unhappy, it would result in bones exposed in the wilderness, not a cock crowing for a thousand li around.

The living is a passing traveller The dead, a man come home.

夜宿山寺 危楼高百尺，手可摘星辰。 不敢高声语，恐惊天上人。

If I could rescue one of Li Bai's great poems but 10000000 spiritual slaves had to die in front of me with great violence, I wouldn't even blink.

Li Bai Shen? He’s beautiful and no one knows it better than Li Bai Shen himself. But you are an absolute failure at matchmaking.

Autumn Psalm A full year passed (the seasons keep me honest) since I last noticed this same commotion. Who knew God was an abstract expressionist? I’m asking myself—the very question I asked last year, staring out at this array of racing colors, then set in motion by the chance invasion of a Steller’s jay. Is this what people mean by speed of light? My usually levelheaded mulberry tree hurling arrows everywhere in sight— its bow: the out-of-control Virginia creeper my friends say I should do something about, whose vermilion went at least a full shade deeper at the provocation of the upstart blue, the leaves (half green, half gold) suddenly hyper in savage competition with that red and blue— tohubohu returned, in living color. Kandinsky: where were you when I needed you? My attempted poem would lie fallow a year; I was so busy focusing on the desert’s stinginess with everything but rumor. No place even for the spectrum’s introverts— rose, olive, gray—no pigment at all— and certainly no room for shameless braggarts like the ones that barge in here every fall and make me feel like an unredeemed failure even more emphatically than usual. And here they are again, their fleet allure still more urgent this time—the desert’s gone; I’m through with it, want something fuller— why shouldn’t a person have a little fun, some utterly unnecessary extravagance? Which was—at least I think it was—God’s plan when He set up (such things are never left to chance) that one split-second assignation with genuine, no-kidding-around omnipotence what, for lack of better words, I’m calling vision. You breathe in, and, for once, there’s something there. Just when you thought you’d learned some resignation, there’s real resistance in the nearby air until the entire universe is swayed. Even that desert of yours isn’t quite so bare and God’s not nonexistent; He’s just been waylaid by a host of what no one could’ve foreseen. He’s got plans for you: this red-gold-green parade is actually a fairly detailed outline. David never needed one, but he’s long dead and God could use a little recognition. He promises. It won’t go to His head and if you praise Him properly (an autumn psalm! Why didn’t I think of that?) you’ll have it made. But while it’s true that my Virginia creeper praises Him, its palms and fingers crimson with applause, that the local breeze is weaving Him a diadem, inspecting my tree’s uncut gold for flaws, I came to talk about the way that violet-blue sprang the greens and reds and yellows into action: actual motion. I swear it’s true though I’m not sure I ever took it in. Now I’d be prepared, if some magician flew into my field of vision, to realign that dazzle out my window yet again. It’s not likely, but I’m keeping my eyes open though I still wouldn’t be able to explain precisely what happened to these vines, these trees. It isn’t available in my tradition. For this, I would have to be Chinese, Wang Wei, to be precise, on a mountain, autumn rain converging on the trees, a cassia flower nearby, a cloud, a pine, washerwomen heading home for the day, my senses and the mountain so entirely in tune that when my stroke of blue arrives, I’m ready. Though there is no rain here: the air’s shot through with gold on golden leaves. Wang Wei’s so giddy he’s calling back the dead: Li Bai! Du Fu! Guys! You’ve got to see this—autumn sun! They’re suddenly hell-bent on learning Hebrew in order to get inside the celebration, which explains how they wound up where they are in my university library’s squashed domain. Poor guys, it was Hebrew they were looking for, but they ended up across the aisle from Yiddish— some Library of Congress cataloger’s sense of humor: the world’s calmest characters and its most skittish squinting at each other, head to head, all silently intoning some version of kaddish. Part 1

SEEING OFF A FRIEND Green hills above the northern wall, White water winding east of the city. On this spot our single act of parting, The lonely tumbleweed journeys ten thousand li. Drifting clouds echo the traveller's thoughts, The setting sun reflects my old friend's feelings. You wave your hand and set off from this place, Your horse whinnies as it leaves.

VIEWING HEAVEN’S GATE MOUNTAINS The River Chu cuts through the middle of heaven's gate, The green water flowing east reaches here then swirls. On either bank the blue hills face towards each other, The flatness of a lonely sail comes from by of the sun.

VISITING THE TAOIST PRIEST DAI TIANSHAN, BUT NOT FINDING HIM A dog's bark amid the water's sound, Peach blossom that's made thicker by the rain. Deep in the trees, I sometimes see a deer, And at the stream I hear no noonday bell. Wild bamboo divides the green mist, A flying spring hangs from the jasper peak. No-one knows the place to which he's gone, Sadly, I lean on two or three pines.

LAO LAO TANG PAVILION What place under heaven most hurts the heart? Laolao Ting, for seeing visitors off. The spring wind knows how bitter it is to part, The willow twig will never again be green.

SENT TO DU FU BELOW SHAQUI CITY What is it that I've come to now? High before me: Shaqiu city. Beside the city, ancient trees; The sunset joins the autumn sounds. The Lu wine cannot make me drunk, Qi's songs cannot restore my feelings. My thoughts of you are like the Wen's waters, Mightily sent on their southern journey.

SEEING OFF MENF HAORAN FOR GUANLING AT YELLOW CRANE TOWER My old friend's said goodbye to the west, here at Yellow Crane Tower, In the third month's cloud of willow blossoms, he's going down to Yangzhou. The lonely sail is a distant shadow, on the edge of a blue emptiness, All I see is the Yangtze River flow to the far horizon.

Питаш защо правя дома си в планинските дебри, защо се усмихвам, защо мълча и дори душата ми е притихнала: тя обитава другия свят, който никой не притежава. Кайсиевите дървета цъфтят. Водата тече.

There was a time when Mingyu had been young and vying for notoriety. She had dreamed of catching the attention of a gentleman like that, but she’d since learned that it was better to rely on her own skills for protection. Mingyu’s heart had left the quarter when her sister had left. What remained was her warrior self, which was more than capable of handling Lord Bai, General Deng and any man who sought to challenge or possess her.

Forget about debt and duty for a moment, fool. There are more important things in life.’ For once, Bai Shen cast aside his usual humour and bravado. ‘The sun rises in the west today. Li Bai Shen is lecturing me,’ Fei Long said. ‘Snow falls in the summer. Chang Fei Long is making a joke.