Friends came over for tea, and from Shui Xian the narcissus Water Fairy the subject drifted to the immortals in Chinese culture, so I mentioned my hero Liu Ling (221-300) the Wine Immortal.

Too bad that Liu Ling has not left too much legacy as topic for conversation, even in A New Account of Tales of the World (世说新语) published in 5^th century there were not many non-wine entries about Liu Ling. So all what I know about Liu Ling is his habit of being naked when at home and was drunk for three years before eventually ride the cloud to the mountain of immortals. According to A New Account of Tales of the World, all the other six of the Seven Sages in the Bamboo Grove have some outstanding talents, only Liu Ling’s son is an unknown nobody. Anthropologists and sexologists might have something to say about alcohol and the quality of offspring.

An oft-quoted folk tale shows that Liu Ling is the ultimate Taoist – living in the moment: wherever Liu Ling goes, his servant is always following him with a gourd of wine in one hand and a shovel in the other, therefore he can serve the master with wine semper paratus or bury him in equal preparation if he fall over dead.

Liu Ling is not very handsome either. Per A New Account of Tales of the World, Liu Ling’s was but six feet tall, and his appearance extremely homely and dissipate, yet detached and carefree. He treated his bodily frame like much earth or wood (刘伶身长六尺，貌甚丑顇，而悠悠忽忽，土木形骸).

And he wrote the Hymn to the Virtue of Wine, the manifesto of the eternal drunkard, it was the document to which he committed his whole heart and soul (刘伶著《酒德颂》，意气所寄).

Hymn to the Virtue of Wine

Liu Ling

Translated by John Minford

There was a certain Mr. Great Man, for whom

Heaven and earth were but a morning’s span,

A myriad ages but a flash of time;

The sun and moon, a door and window’s eye,

The eight directions like a country lane.

He travelled without leaving a track or trace,

And domiciled in neither room nor hut;

For curtain—sky, and for a mat—the earth;

He let his fancy wander where it would.

At rest he grasped a goblet or a cup,

And moving, always carried jug or pot.

For wine, and wine alone, was all his lot.

How should he know about the rest?

Now there was

A certain noble duke, Lord High-and-Great,

And a retired scholar, Sir Silk Sash,

Who, hearing rumors of our hero’s ways,

Came to discuss with him the hows and whys.

Waving their sleeves and baring wide their breasts,

With wildly glaring eyes and gnashing teeth,

They lectured loud and long on rites and laws,

While rights and wrongs rose up like spears.

At this the Great Man

Took the jar and filled it at the vat,

Put cup to mouth and quaffed the lees;

Shook out his beard and sat, legs sprawled apart,

Pillowed on barm and cushioned on the dregs,

Without a thought, without anxiety,

His happiness lighthearted and carefree.

Now utterly bemused with wine,

Now absently awake,

He calmly listened, deaf to thunder’s crashing roar,

Or fixed his gaze, unseeing of Mt. Tai’s great hulk.

Of cold or heat he felt no fleshly pangs,

Of profit or desire no sensual stir;

He looked down on the myriad things, with all their fuss,

As on the Jiang or Han with floating weeds.

And those two stalwarts, waiting by his side—

How like to blacktail flies their busy buzz!

酒德颂

刘伶

有大人先生者，以天地为一朝，万朝为须臾，日月为扃牖，八荒为庭衢。行无辙迹，居无室庐，暮天席地，纵意所如。止则操卮执觚，动则挈榼提壶，唯酒是务，焉知其余？

有贵介公子，缙绅处士，闻吾风声，议其所以。乃奋袂攮襟，怒目切齿，陈说礼法，是非锋起。先生于是方捧罂承槽，衔杯漱醪。奋髯箕踞[注]，枕曲藉糟，无思无虑，其乐陶陶。兀然而醉，豁尔而醒。静听不闻雷霆之声，熟视不睹泰山之形，不觉寒暑之切肌，利欲之感情。俯观万物，扰扰焉如江汉三载浮萍；二豪侍侧焉，如蜾蠃之与螟蛉。

While reading Minford’s translation, I thought about Charles Baudelaire le flaneur, hasn’t he written about the soul of wine and poetry and virtue when preaching be drunk? Would Liu Ling and Baudelaire be happy to meet each other in eternality and have a toast? What are they drinking there?

The Soul of Wine

Charles Baudelaire, Fleurs du mal

Translated by William Aggeler

One night, the soul of wine was singing in the flask:

“O man, dear disinherited! to you I sing

This song full of light and of brotherhood

From my prison of glass with its scarlet wax seals.

I know the cost in pain, in sweat,

And in burning sunlight on the blazing hillside,

Of creating my life, of giving me a soul:

I shall not be ungrateful or malevolent,

For I feel a boundless joy when I flow

Down the throat of a man worn out by his labor;

His warm breast is a pleasant tomb

Where I’m much happier than in my cold cellar.

Do you hear the choruses resounding on Sunday

And the hopes that warble in my fluttering breast?

With sleeves rolled up, elbows on the table,

You will glorify me and be content;

I shall light up the eyes of your enraptured wife,

And give back to your son his strength and his color;

I shall be for that frail athlete of life

The oil that hardens a wrestler’s muscles.

Vegetal ambrosia, precious grain scattered

By the eternal Sower, I shall descend in you

So that from our love there will be born poetry,

Which will spring up toward God like a rare flower!”

L’Ame du Vin

Charles Baudelaire

Un soir, l’âme du vin chantait dans les bouteilles:

«Homme, vers toi je pousse, ô cher déshérité,

Sous ma prison de verre et mes cires vermeilles,

Un chant plein de lumière et de fraternité!

Je sais combien il faut, sur la colline en flamme,

De peine, de sueur et de soleil cuisant

Pour engendrer ma vie et pour me donner l’âme;

Mais je ne serai point ingrat ni malfaisant,

Car j’éprouve une joie immense quand je tombe

Dans le gosier d’un homme usé par ses travaux,

Et sa chaude poitrine est une douce tombe

Où je me plais bien mieux que dans mes froids caveaux.

Entends-tu retentir les refrains des dimanches

Et l’espoir qui gazouille en mon sein palpitant?

Les coudes sur la table et retroussant tes manches,

Tu me glorifieras et tu seras content;

J’allumerai les yeux de ta femme ravie;

À ton fils je rendrai sa force et ses couleurs

Et serai pour ce frêle athlète de la vie

L’huile qui raffermit les muscles des lutteurs.

En toi je tomberai, végétale ambroisie,

Grain précieux jeté par l’éternel Semeur,

Pour que de notre amour naisse la poésie

Qui jaillira vers Dieu comme une rare fleur!»

“Get Drunk!”

Charles Baudelaire

One should always be drunk.

That’s all that matters;

that’s our one imperative need.

So as not to feel Time’s horrible burden

One which breaks your shoulders and bows you down,

You must get drunk without cease.

But with what?

With wine, poetry, or virtue

as you choose.

But get drunk.

And if, at some time, on steps of a palace,

in the green grass of a ditch,

in the bleak solitude of your room,

you are waking and the drunkenness has already abated,

ask the wind, the wave, the stars, the clock,

all that which flees,

all that which groans,

all that which rolls,

all that which sings,

all that which speaks,

ask them, what time it is;

and the wind, the wave, the stars, the birds, and the clock,

they will all reply:

“It is time to get drunk!

So that you may not be the martyred slaves of Time,

get drunk, get drunk,

and never pause for rest!

With wine, poetry, or virtue,

as you choose!”

Enivrez-Vous

Charles Baudelaire

Il faut être toujours ivre.

Tout est là: c’est l’unique question.

Pour ne pas sentir l’horrible fardeau du Temps qui brise

vos épaules et vous penche vers la terre,

il faut vous enivrer sans trêve.

Mais de quoi?

De vin, de poésie ou de vertu à votre guise.

Mais enivrez-vous.

Et si quelquefois, sur les marches d’un palais,

sur l’herbe verte d’un fossé, dans la solitude morne de

votre chambre, vous vous réveillez,

l’ivresse déjà diminuée ou disparue, demandez au vent,

à la vague, à l’étoile, à l’oiseau, à l’horloge, à tout ce qui fuit, à tout ce qui gémit, à tout ce qui roule, à tout ce qui

chante, à tout ce qui parle, demandez quelle heure il est;

et le vent, la vague, l’étoile, l’oiseau,

l’horloge, vous répondront:

Il est l’heure de s’enivrer!

Pour n’être pas les esclaves martyrisés du Temps, enivrez-vous;

enivrez-vous sans cesse!

De vin, de poésie ou de vertu, à votre guise.