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67. The Road to Shu Is Hard | Li Bai

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English translation

Yi xu xi!

Three characters, all interjections, run together into a single gasp. The poem begins with a sound that carries no meaning at all.

How perilous! How high!

Two interjections give way to two adjectives, still with no subject. The subject waits until the next line.

The road to Shu is harder to travel than climbing to the blue sky!

Only now does the poem's main sentence land. The line occurs three times in all, each time in a different position.

Of Can Cong and Yu Fu founding the state, how blank the record is.

Can Cong and Yu Fu are two legendary kings of Shu. Entering the history through a blank record stretches time out first.

Four hundred and eighty centuries since then, and no smoke of human life has crossed to the passes of Qin.

Four hundred and eighty centuries is a made-up number. No smoke of human life has crossed is the point: what is hard is not the steepness but the severance.

To the west, facing Taibai, there is a bird track that can cross over the crown of Emei.

A bird track is a way only birds can take. Before any road for people exists, the poem gives the birds'.

The earth split, the mountain fell, the strong men died; and after that the sky ladders and stone walkways were linked together.

The line uses the legend of the Five Strong Men who cut the mountain. The road was bought with lives, and the sky ladders and stone walkways are named as a cost, not an achievement.

Above are peaks so high the six dragons of the sun must turn back; below are churning waters that fold back against their own current.

One couplet cuts both ways, up and down, and the space is stretched to its limit: as high as the sun, as low as a whirlpool.

Even the yellow crane, flying, cannot pass; the gibbon, wanting to cross, frets that it cannot climb.

First the highest flier, then the best climber; if neither gets through, the situation of a man needs no saying.

How the Qingni ridge coils — a hundred paces, nine turns, winding around the crags.

Everything so far has been about not getting through; these two lines are the first time someone is actually walking. The way he walks is by turning.

He touches the Shen star and passes the Jing, looks up and holds his breath; he presses his chest with his hand and sits, sighing long.

Shen and Jing are constellations. The mountain is so high he can touch the stars, and he is so pressed he dare not breathe; both lines are actions forced out by the surroundings.

I ask you, traveling west: when will you come back?

This is the poem's first question. What came before was description; from here there is someone on the other side.

The fearful road, the jagged rock — it cannot be climbed.

He answers himself. The answer is not that he does not know but that it cannot be climbed.

He sees only sorrowing birds crying in the old trees, the male flying and the female following, circling among the woods.

Male flying and female following is orderly. The birds have their own life, which makes human fear look excessive.

And he hears the cuckoo cry in the night moon, grief filling the empty hills; the road to Shu is harder to travel than climbing to the blue sky, and hearing it withers a man's fair face.

The longest line in the poem, running sound, grief, the main sentence and a man's face together without drawing breath.

Range on range of peaks less than a foot from the sky; dead pines hang upside down against sheer cliffs.

Less than a foot from the sky measures the sky with a ruler — the hyperbole made concrete.

Flying rapids and falling water wrestle in their din; water strikes the cliff, rolls the stones, and ten thousand gullies thunder.

All of it is sound — din and thunder. The lines before gave height; these give noise, and sight and hearing take a section each.

Such is its danger — alas, you who come from far away, why have you come at all?

The second question, heavier than the first: before he asked when you would return; now he asks why you came.

Jiange stands rugged and towering; one man holds the pass and ten thousand cannot open it.

The writing shifts from nature to fortification. Before, no one could get through; here, it can be held.

If the one who holds it is not one of your own, he turns into wolf and jackal.

This is a political line. The advantage of one man holding the pass is, turned around, its danger; the two sentences are one thing seen from two sides.

By morning you avoid the tiger, by evening you avoid the serpent.

The two lines split day and night. What is avoided is not literal tigers and snakes but the not-your-own people of the line before.

They grind their teeth and suck blood, killing men the way one cuts hemp.

Four words, four actions, all clipped short. Here the poem slows rather than speeds, each line heavier than the last.

Jincheng is called delightful, but better to go home early.

Though called delightful concedes the other's reason before overturning it. Early is the poem's only piece of advice.

The road to Shu is harder to travel than climbing to the blue sky; turning sideways to look west, he sighs long.

The main sentence appears for the last time, and an action closes the poem. Nothing is resolved; there is only a sigh.

赏析 · Commentary

「蜀道之难难于上青天」为什么出现三次 · Why the Key Line Comes Back Three Times

主句在全诗出现三次：开头刚点出题目时就出现，中间写到子规啼夜月时出现，结尾侧身西望时又出现。三次的位置不一样：第一次是宣告，第二次夹在最长的句子里，是鼓动情绪，第三次收尾，是承认自己无力。李白不换字，连语气助词都保持原样，靠的是前后语境的差别来给它不同的分量。这种重复有个实际作用：全诗二十四句，段落之间跳得很厉害，从天上的星宿跳到地上的漩涡，再跳到朝廷的政治，有一句固定的话来回，读者才不至于丢掉方向。乐府本来就讲究复沓，李白把它用在了长篇上。

The main sentence appears three times: at the opening just after the title is named, in the middle at the cuckoo crying in the night moon, and again at the close as he turns to look west. The three positions differ. The first is a declaration; the second sits inside the longest line and stirs feeling; the third closes the poem and admits helplessness. Li Bai does not change a character, keeping even the tone particle, and relies on the shift in context to give it different weight. The repetition does practical work too: the poem runs twenty-four lines and jumps hard between sections, from the constellations overhead to whirlpools below to court politics, and one fixed sentence recurring keeps the reader from losing the thread. Yuefu has always favored refrain; Li Bai applies it to a long piece.

从天上的星到地上的政治 · From Constellations to Court Politics

全诗的空间一路往下走：先是噫吁戏的一口气，然后是蚕丛鱼凫的四万八千年，再是摸得到的参星井宿，接着跌到冲波逆折的回川、万壑雷的瀑布，最后落到剑阁和一个守关的人。前大半写的是自然的险，到最后三句突然变成政治：守关的人若不是亲信，就会变成豺狼，于是「朝避猛虎，夕避长蛇」。李白没有解释这个转折，但两段是相关的——自然再险，还有一个守得住的说法；人若不可信，连关都守不住。这也是《蜀道难》历来注家争论最多的地方，有人说是送友人入蜀，有人说是忧虑藩镇，李白自己没交代。

The poem moves steadily downward through space: first the single breath of yi xu xi, then the four hundred and eighty centuries of Can Cong and Yu Fu, then the constellations Shen and Jing within reach, then down to the churning whirlpools and the thunder of ten thousand gullies, and finally to Jiange and one man holding a pass. Most of it writes the danger of nature; the last three sentences turn suddenly political: if the one who holds the pass is not your own, he turns into wolf and jackal, and so by morning you avoid the tiger, by evening the serpent. Li Bai does not explain the turn, but the two parts are connected — nature may be perilous, yet it can still be held; if a man cannot be trusted, not even the pass can be held. This is also the most argued point among commentators: some read the poem as seeing a friend off into Shu, some as anxiety about military governors, and Li Bai himself says nothing.

开头两句没有主语 · The Opening Two Lines Have No Subject

「噫吁戏！危乎高哉！」六个字，前三个是叹词，后两个是形容词，都不是能作主语的东西。一直要等到「蜀道之难难于上青天」，才有了一件可以谈的事。这个开头的作用是把人先放进一个反应里：还没看见山，先听见有人被吓了一跳。乐府诗常常这样起头，像《箜篌引》的「公无渡河」，先给声音再给事。李白把这套用法推到极处，全诗第一句连一个实词都没有。后面因此可以随便铺排，因为读者已经被定在了「听人喊」的位置上。

Yi xu xi! How perilous! How high! — six characters: three interjections and two adjectives, none of them capable of being a subject. It takes until the road to Shu is harder to travel than climbing to the blue sky for there to be something to talk about. The opening works by putting the reader inside a reaction first: before the mountain is seen, someone is heard being startled by it. Yuefu poems often start this way, as the Konghou Yin begins with Do not cross the river — sound first, event after. Li Bai pushes the habit to its limit: the poem's first line contains no content word at all. Everything after can therefore sprawl as it likes, because the reader is already fixed in the position of hearing someone shout.

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