35Qiannü and Her Soul倩女離魂

五祖問僧云。倩女離魂。那箇是真底。

Wuzu asked a monk: "Qiannü split off from her soul. Which one is the real Qiannü?"

Wumen's Comment 無門曰

若向者裏悟得真底。便知出殼入殼。如宿旅舍。其或未然。切莫亂走。驀然地水火風一散。如落湯螃蟹七手八腳。那時莫言。不道。

If you wake up to which one is real, you'll know that leaving one body and entering another is like checking out of one inn and into the next. But if you haven't gotten it yet, don't go thrashing around. The day your elements scatter — earth, water, fire, wind — you'll be like a crab dropped in boiling water, all those legs and claws flailing. Don't say I never told you.

Verse 頌曰

雲月是同
溪山各異
萬福萬福
是一是二

The clouds, the moon: the same.
Each stream, each hill: its own.
Blessings, blessings.
Is it one, is it two?

Pointer

Wuzu is leaning on a famous Chinese ghost tale. Qiannü loves a man her father refuses her; when he leaves town heartbroken, her spirit floats out of her sick body and runs off to live with him for years and bear children, while her physical self lies in bed at home the whole time. When the couple returns, the runaway spirit and the bedridden body walk together and merge back into one woman. Now Wuzu asks which Qiannü was the real one, the one who left or the one who stayed, and the question comes pre-broken: any pick assumes she was ever two. The commentary widens it past the story, comparing leaving and entering bodies to checking out of one inn and into the next, and warning that if you haven't settled this you will flail like a crab in boiling water when your own elements scatter at death. So the case is not really about the legend; it is asking who you take yourself to be when the body in the bed and the life being lived come apart.