Collection of classical famous quotes that everyone must know

Author: Shao Xunqian
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-10-01
Features: As the saying goes, "A mind enriched with books naturally exudes elegance." Classical quotes are timeless masterpieces that have endured for thousands of years, representing the most representative cultural heritage of Chinese civilization that has been passed down for 3,000 years. Classical quotes are the brightest wisdom of the Chinese nation, and at the same time, their strong artistic appeal has nurtured generations of Chinese people. These more than 200 classical quotes, imbued with profound philosophy, are the brightest wisdom of the Chinese nation. Reading them will benefit you for life! This book selects more than 200 classical quotes rich in profound philosophy, explaining their origins and backgrounds through historical stories behind each quote, tracing their sources, providing colloquial interpretations, presenting the full text of the original works, and sharing the legendary life stories of the creators of the quotes. Let you gain knowledge, broaden your horizons, and enjoy the enlightenment of wisdom in an engaging and enjoyable reading experience.
The gate is desolate, the horses and chariots grow scarce①;
At an advanced age, I married a merchant’s wife②.
— Bai Juyi, The Ballad of the Pipa
[Notes]
① Desolate: Few people visit.
② Advanced age: Already old.
[Translation]
The gate grows desolate, with fewer and fewer horses and chariots passing by; At an advanced age, I married a merchant’s wife.
[Original Work]
At night on the Xunyang River, I bid farewell to a guest;
Maples and reeds rustle in the autumn breeze.
The host dismounts, the guest remains aboard;
Raising a cup to drink, no music plays.
Drunkenness fails to bring joy, sorrow leads to parting;
At parting, the vast river is lost in the moonlight.
Suddenly, the sound of a pipa comes from the water;
The host forgets to return, the guest does not depart.
Seeking the sound, I ask, “Who is playing?”
The pipa stops, hesitating to speak.
Moving the boat closer, inviting her to meet;
Adding wine, relighting the lamp, reopening the banquet.
After much urging, she finally appears, still half-hiding her face behind the pipa.
Turning the tuning peg, plucking a few notes;
Before the melody takes shape, emotion fills the air.
Every string suppresses, every note expresses longing;
As if recounting a lifetime of unfulfilled dreams.
Bowing her head, she plays on, telling all her heart’s sorrows.
Gently embracing, slowly plucking, rubbing and picking,
First the Nixiang dance, then the Liuyao tune.
The low strings thunder like rain, the high strings whisper like secrets.
Thundering and whispering, intertwined in harmony,
Like pearls falling on jade.
Melodiously, like orioles singing beneath flowers;
Melancholy, like a stream blocked by ice.
The ice spring is cold, the strings harden, the sound stops;
Silent sorrow now surpasses sound.
Suddenly, a jar breaks, water splashes;
Iron cavalry charge, swords clash.
At the end, the plectrum strikes the center, a single string cracks like silk.
On the east and west boats, all fall silent,
Only the white moon in the river remains.
Sighing, she places the plectrum back, adjusts her dress, and rises, composed.
She says, “I was once a girl in the capital;
Lived below the Hama Hill.”
At thirteen, I mastered the pipa;
My name was registered in the Jiaofang bureau.
After the performance, the skilled players praised me;
After dressing, the jealous Qiuniang envied me.
Young men of the five fought to adorn me;
A single tune earned countless red silks.
Silver combs shattered as they beat the rhythm;
Red skirts stained with wine.
Joyful this year, joyful next year,
Autumn moon and spring breeze pass by in vain.
My brother left for the army, my mother passed away;
Day by day, my youth fades.
The gate is desolate, the horses and chariots grow scarce;
At an advanced age, I married a merchant’s wife.
Merchants value profit over parting;
Last month, they bought tea in Fuliang.
They left, guarding an empty boat by the river;
Moonlight shines around the boat, the river is cold.
Late at night, I dream of my youth, weeping in my dreams;
Tears stain my painted face.
When I heard the pipa, I sighed;
Hearing her words, I wept again.
Fellow wanderers in this world,
Why must we have known each other before?
Last year, I left the capital;
Now exiled, I lie sick in Xunyang.
Xunyang is remote, with no music;
All year, I hear no silk or bamboo.
Living near the Pian River, the land is damp;
Yellow reeds and bitter bamboo grow around my home.
What do I hear day and night?
The cuckoo cries blood, the monkey mourns.
On flower-filled spring days and moonlit autumn nights,
I often drink alone.
Why do I lack mountain songs and village tunes?
They are harsh, hard to listen to.
Tonight, hearing your pipa, it’s like hearing celestial music;
My ears are momentarily bright.
Don’t refuse to sit longer, play another tune;
For you, I compose The Ballad of the Pipa.
Moved by my words, she stands still for a long while;
Then sits again, tightening the strings, the melody grows faster.
Sorrowful, no longer like before,
All in the hall weep again.
Who weeps the most?
The Jiangzhou Marshal’s robe is soaked with tears.
[Author’s Biography] (See page 50)
[Story] In the late autumn of the eleventh year of Emperor Xianzong’s Yuanhe era (816), Bai Juyi, exiled as the Marshal of Jiangzhou (Jiujiang City, Jiangxi Province), was preparing to take a boat to bid farewell to a friend on the Xunyang River. In the evening, they arrived at the guest boat by the river and were enjoying a hearty drink when suddenly, with the autumn wind, the sound of a pipa filled the air. After one song ended, they remained quietly immersed in the moving music. Another song began. Bai Juyi shouted to the boat where the pipa player sat, “Who is playing the pipa?” The music stopped, but no one answered.