Classical Prose
前赤壁赋
苏轼
壬戌之秋，七月既望，苏子与客泛舟游于赤壁之下。
清风徐来，水波不兴。
举酒属客，诵明月之诗，歌窈窕之章。
少焉，月出于东山之上，徘徊于斗牛之间。
白露横江，水光接天。
纵一苇之所如，凌万顷之茫然。
浩浩乎如冯虚御风，而不知其所止；
飘飘乎如遗世独立，羽化而登仙。
于是饮酒乐甚，扣舷而歌之。
歌曰：“桂棹兮兰桨，击空明兮溯流光。
渺渺兮予怀，望美人兮天一方。”
客有吹洞箫者，倚歌而和之。
其声呜呜然，如怨如慕，如泣如诉，余音袅袅，不绝如缕。
舞幽壑之潜蛟，泣孤舟之嫠妇。
苏子愀然，正襟危坐而问客曰：“何为其然也？”
客曰：“‘月明星稀，乌鹊南飞’，此非曹孟德之诗乎？
西望夏口，东望武昌，山川相缪，郁乎苍苍，此非孟德之困于周郎者乎？
方其破荆州，下江陵，顺流而东也，舳舻千里，旌旗蔽空，酾酒临江，横槊赋诗，固一世之雄也，而今安在哉？
况吾与子渔樵于江渚之上，侣鱼虾而友麋鹿。
驾一叶之扁舟，举匏樽以相属。
寄蜉蝣于天地，渺沧海之一粟。
哀吾生之须臾，羡长江之无穷。
挟飞仙以遨游，抱明月而长终。
知不可乎骤得，托遗响于悲风。”
苏子曰：“客亦知夫水与月乎？
逝者如斯，而未尝往也。
盈虚者如彼，而卒莫消长也。
盖将自其变者而观之，则天地曾不能以一瞬。
自其不变者而观之，则物与我皆无尽也，而又何羡乎？
且夫天地之间，物各有主，苟非吾之所有，虽一毫而莫取。
惟江上之清风，与山间之明月，耳得之而为声，目遇之而成色。
取之无禁，用之不竭。
是造物者之无尽藏也，而吾与子之所共适。”
客喜而笑，洗盏更酌。
肴核既尽，杯盘狼藉。
相与枕藉乎舟中，不知东方之既白。
Translation
In the autumn of the year Renxu, in the seventh month after the full moon, Suzi and his guests drifted in a boat beneath Red Cliff. A clear breeze came slowly, and the water was smooth. Raising a cup, he urged his guests to drink and recited the poem of the bright moon, singing the chapter of the fair one. Soon the moon rose above the eastern mountain, lingering between the Dipper and the Ox. White mist stretched across the river; the light upon the water touched the sky. They let the reed-thin boat go wherever it pleased, crossing the vast expanse of ten thousand acres — floating as if riding the wind through empty space, not knowing where to stop; drifting as if they had left the world behind, standing alone, turned into immortals and ascended to paradise. Drinking and growing merry, the master tapped the gunwale and sang: 'Cassia oars and orchid paddles, striking the moonlit water, sailing against the flowing light. Far, far away my thoughts — I gaze toward the fair one in the corner of the sky.' A guest played the bamboo flute, accompanying the song. Its sound was mournful: like longing, like devotion; like weeping, like complaint. The lingering notes wove like unbroken thread, making the hidden dragon dance in the deep gorge, making the widowed woman weep in her lonely boat. The master's face darkened. Straightening his robe and sitting upright, he asked the guest: 'Why does it sound so?' The guest replied: 'The moon is bright, the stars are few; crows and magpies fly south — is this not Cao Mengde's poem? Westward lies Xiakou; eastward lies Wuchang. Mountains and rivers coil together, thick and green. Was this not where Mengde was trapped by Zhou Yu? When he broke Jingzhou, took Jiangling, and sailed east with a thousand-mile fleet, his banners darkening the sky, pouring wine on the river, reciting poems with his horizontal spear — truly he was a hero of his age. But where is he now? You and I fish and gather firewood on the river islets, keeping company with fish and shrimp, befriending deer. We sail a leaf-thin boat and raise gourd cups to toast each other. We are but mayflies lodged between heaven and earth, a single grain of millet in the vast ocean. I grieve that our lives are but a moment; I envy the endless river. I long to wander with flying immortals and embrace the bright moon forever. But knowing this cannot be had in haste, I entrust my sigh to the sad wind.' The master replied: 'Do you know the water and the moon? What passes is like this river — yet it never truly goes. What waxes and wanes is like that moon — yet it neither grows nor diminishes. Seen from the perspective of change, heaven and earth do not last a single blink. Seen from the perspective of constancy, all things and I are without end. What is there to envy? Everything in this world has its owner. If it is not mine, I take not even a hair. Only the clear wind on the river and the bright moon among the hills reach my ears as sound and meet my eyes as color. There is no limit to taking them; they are never exhausted. This is the inexhaustible treasure of creation — and it is what you and I may enjoy together.' The guest rejoiced and smiled. They washed the cups and drank again. When the dishes were finished and the cups and plates lay in disorder, they fell asleep pillowed against each other in the boat, unaware that the eastern sky had already grown white.
Analysis
The Former Red Cliff Rhapsody is Su Shi's most famous prose work, written during his exile in Huangzhou. Structurally it follows the tradition of the fu rhapsody with a dialog between host and guest, but Su Shi transforms the form into a philosophical meditation on transience and permanence. The opening description is among the most beautiful in Chinese prose: a clear autumn night, a boat drifting beneath Red Cliff, a rising moon, white mist spreading across the river. The scene is pure and luminous. The guest's flute playing shatters this calm with a mournful sound — 'like longing, like devotion; like weeping, like complaint.' This leads the guest to reflect on Cao Cao, the great hero who once fought at Red Cliff but has now vanished. If a hero like Cao Cao is gone, the guest laments, how much more insignificant are we — mere mayflies in the vast universe, a single grain of millet in the ocean? This expression of cosmic insignificance is a classic response to the human condition. Su Shi's reply is the philosophical center. Using water and moon as metaphors, he argues that things neither truly pass away nor truly change — they only appear to do so from a limited perspective. From the perspective of constancy, 'all things and I are without end.' This reframes the problem: if we are part of the eternal process, there is nothing to envy. The most famous passage follows: the wind on the river and the moon on the mountain are inexhaustible treasures freely given by creation. Su Shi's solution is not to achieve immortality or possess the unpossessable, but to find joy in what is freely available — natural beauty, companionship, the present moment. This is a philosophy of acceptance and joy. The guest is comforted, and the essay ends with them drinking and falling asleep together, 'unaware that the eastern sky had already grown white.' The structure — joy, sorrow, philosophical resolution, renewed joy — reflects the essay's deepest purpose: not to deny suffering but to find a way through it.
About the Author
Su Shi, courtesy name Zizhan and literary name Dongpo Jushi, was a Northern Song writer, poet, calligrapher, painter, and statesman from Meishan in Meizhou. He is one of the 'Eight Great Masters of the Tang and Song' and one of the most accomplished literary figures in Chinese history. His political career was marked by repeated exile, including his banishment to Huangzhou after the 'Crow Terrace Poetry Case,' and later to Huizhou and Danzhou. Su Shi excelled in poetry, ci lyrics, prose, calligraphy, and painting. His works are known for breadth of spirit, clarity, humor, resilience, and profound insight into life.