Welcome everyone. I am so incredibly thrilled
that you decided to join us today. Yeah, it is
great to have you all here. Because if you're
listening right now, it means you've got a curious
mind and we have something truly special lined
up for you. We really do. Today's deep dive is
custom tailored to take you on a journey through
a single utterly fascinating source right we
are stepping way way back in time to ancient
china specifically to unpack a wikipedia article
all about a poetry collection known as the nine
regrets now the mission of this deep diet is
pretty simple we want to be your shortcut to
being genuinely well informed exactly we're not
just reading a list of old poems no Definitely
not. We are going to extract the most important
nuggets of knowledge. We're going to uncover
the layered linguistic secrets, the hidden historical
drama, and the profound emotional weight tucked
inside these ancient verses. It's a lot to cover.
It is. So settle in because this is going to
be quite the ride. It really is. And to give
you the 10 ,000 -foot view right out of the gate
so you have a solid foundation for everything
we're about to discuss. Please do. The Nine Regrets
is a highly significant piece of ancient literature.
Specifically, it is the 11th out of the 17 major
sections that make up the ancient Chinese poetry
anthology called The Choo Choo. The Choo Choo.
Right. Yeah. And depending on the translation
you're looking at, you might also see the Choo
Choo referred to as the Songs of the South or
sometimes the Songs of Choo. Oh, OK. It's this
massive, incredibly important anthology. And
our focus today, The Nine Regrets, is a very
particular, very intriguing puzzle piece within
that larger 17 part structure. OK, let's unpack
this, because right away. The history behind
how these verses came to be is just dripping
with character. It really is. The text points
out that these poems were written in what's called
the Han Dynasty literary revival style. Yes.
And this style was intentionally based on much
earlier pre -Han pieces found in that Shu Qi
anthology you just mentioned. Right. To put this
in a way that makes sense for us today, imagine
a modern musician. Let's say a massive pop star
today decides they're going to release a brand
new album. But they intentionally record it using
analog tape, vintage guitars, and the exact lyrical
style of classic 1960s rock. That's a great comparison.
They're doing it to honor the greats who came
before them. Right. To capture a specific legendary
vibe. Exactly. That's essentially what a literary
revival style is. They were looking backward
to create something new. That is an excellent
way to conceptualize it. It wasn't just writing
poetry. It was a deliberate stylistic choice
to echo a revered past. Right. And the author
who made this choice for The Nine Regrets is
attributed as a shoe poet named Wang Bao. Wang
Bao. Right. Drawing on the meticulous work of
the translator David Hawks, whose major analysis
was published in 1985 and then updated in 2011.
Got it. We know that Wang Bao flourished during
the reign of Emperor Xuan. To give you some precise
chronological grounding, Emperor Xuan's reign
spanned from 74 BCE to 49 BCE. Okay, wow. So
Wang Bao is writing these revivalist poems in
that specific window, deliberately reaching back
to an even older era. Wait, so he's sitting there
in the first century BCE, essentially writing
in the style of an era that was already considered
ancient history to him. Exactly. It was already
antiquity to him. That raises a question about
how his work was even categorized. There's this
quirky, almost funny detail about how the nine
regrets belongs to a broader group of collections
in the Chuchi that are all clustered under the
title of nine something or others. Yes, the nine
groupings. But the joke is, literal titles aren't
always what they seem. You'd naturally assume
a collection with nine in the title would have
exactly nine pieces of poetry. You would think
so. But apparently that's not always the case
with these ancient texts. Why would they group
them like that if the numbers don't add up? What's
fascinating here is the underlying linguistics
of the traditional Chinese characters used in
the title. Let's look at that first character,
which translates to nine. In modern Chinese,
that character simply denotes the quantity of
nine. If you have nine items, you use that character.
Makes sense. But in ancient times, the character
for nine was used much more symbolically. It
wasn't just about the numerical count. It represented
a quality of Nine. A quality of nine. Yes, it
carried a thematic weight. In the context of
the Han Dynasty literary revival, using nine
was a direct symbolic callback to the older,
revered sections of the anthology. Oh, I see
it. For example, there's a much older section
called the Nine Songs. But here's the brilliant
part. The Nine Songs actually consists of 11
verses, not nine. Huh. That is wild. It's like
calling a band the Jackson 5 when there are clearly
six of them standing on stage. Exactly. The math
is totally confusing if you look at it with modern
eyes. It's a symbolic brand name, not an inventory
list. Precisely. But knowing that, does the math
for Wang Bao's specific collection actually work
out? Or are we dealing with another mismatched
inventory? Curiously enough, for Wang Bao's nine
regrets, the math actually does happen to work
out, almost as a satisfying structural quirk.
Oh, really? Yeah. According to Hawke's analysis,
the collection consists of exactly nine main
pieces of poetry, plus an extra final piece called
a Luan, which functions as an envoy or a concluding
sign -off. The sign -off. Got it. So you get
nine main poems plus the wrap -up. The math miraculously
aligns. Here's where it gets really interesting,
folks. We know the nine part of the title is
a symbolic brand name linking it to the past,
which makes me incredibly suspicious of the second
word in that title. With good reason. The translation
we're given is regrets. So, nine regrets. On
the surface, it sounds like a collection of sad,
reflective poems about feeling sorry for yourself.
But given how layered this literature is, is
regret just a simple emotion here, or does it
have a hidden agenda, too? You've hit on the
exact brilliance of the text. It is a masterful
piece of wordplay that carries immense historical
gravity. Okay, tell me more. I'll give you the
pinyin pronunciation for the title. It's Zhuhui.
While that second word, hui, absolutely translates
to the emotion of regret, it is also the exact
posthumous name of a very real, very important
historical figure. Who is it? King Hui of Chu.
His given name, also pronounced Huai, was represented
by a slightly different written character. But
the phonetic connection and the posthumous title
are identical in sound to the word for regret.
Wow. This means the title Jiu Huai is an incredible
double meaning. Wang Bao isn't just writing about
the abstract emotion of regret. He is literally
explicitly invoking the ghost of a specific king.
That is just... The title itself is a historical
monument. That just blows my mind. Imagine writing...
a book today where the title perfectly describes
the emotional tone of the story. But if you say
it out loud, it's also the exact name of a fallen
world leader. It changes everything. It adds
this incredible haunting layer to the whole thing.
You're reading about sorrow, but you're constantly
being reminded of King Wai. But for you listening
to really grasp the weight of this, we need to
understand the stakes. What exactly happened
to King Wai and his kingdom? Just how big of
a deal was the kingdom of Chu? If we connect
this to the bigger picture, you really start
to understand why the Han revival poets were
so obsessed with referencing this specific past.
Right. The Kingdom of Chu wasn't just a minor
province or a tiny village. It was a massive,
culturally rich state that covered a vast territory.
How big are we talking? To put it in perspective
for a modern listener, imagine a superpower comparable
to the Roman Empire at its height, boasting its
own distinct art, religion, and way of life.
Oh, wow. But it met a catastrophic end. The State
of Tew was entirely annexed by the rival State
of Kin in the year 223 BCE. 223 BCE. Yes. And
this annexation wasn't just a change in management.
It was a monumental, traumatic shift in the political
and cultural landscape. An entire world was swallowed.
Completely gone. So when poets centuries later
during the Han Dynasty are writing these revival
pieces, they are heavily utilizing historical
allusions to those past events. They're reaching
back to the trauma and the drama of a lost empire.
And from what I'm seeing in the sources, it is
pure, unadulterated political drama. Oh, absolutely.
The text highlights a specific story that is
alluded to in the older pieces, especially in
a famous older work called the Li Sao. The Li
Sao. Yes. Very famous. It's the story of a man
named Kua Yuan. Now, Kwa Yuan is basically the
archetype of the tragic hero. The text describes
him as a loyal minister. Right. He's the guy
who did everything right, who loved his country
and served his king faithfully. But then he is
brutally slandered at court and consequently
loses the favor of his lord. A classic tragedy.
And the lord who turned his back on this extraordinarily
loyal minister was none other than that very
same King Wai of Chu, whose name is hidden in
the title. Exactly. But what did that slander
actually look like? How did a loyal guy just
lose everything? The narrative of Kua Yuan, that
loyal, slandered minister you just mentioned,
is the central pillar of this entire poetic tradition.
In the treacherous environment of the royal court,
Kua Yuan's unwavering righteousness actually
made him a target. Of course it did. He advocated
for strong alliances to protect Shu against the
encroaching threat of Qin, but jealous, corrupt
officials whispered lies into King Huai's ear.
They set him on. They twisted Kua Yuan's loyalty.
Framing his passionate advice as arrogance or
treason. And the tragedy is that King Huai listened
to the whispers. He believed them. He believed
the slander and cast Kua Yuan out. It's the ultimate
narrative of righteous loyalty destroyed by corrupted
authority. Wang Bao writing The Nine Regrets
centuries later. is channeling that exact specific
tragedy. But what is equally important to understand
is how this heavy dramatic history was packaged
musically for the audience. Musically. Yes. The
text notes these poems were written in the Shijing
Song style. I know a bit about poetry, but what
does the Shijing style actually sound like in
practice? It's very distinct. Because when we
hear ancient political poetry about a slandered
minister, It's easy to picture something incredibly
dry, like a dusty old political manifesto that
you have to slog through. It is the exact opposite
of dry. The Shai Jing style is defined by a rigorous
driving rhythm. Technically speaking, it utilizes
a quadruple meter and the poems are generally
composed in rhyming quatrains. A quadruple meter.
Yes. Meaning there are four beats or four main
rhythmic pulses to every single line. And a quatrain
is a stanza made up of four lines. Right. When
you combine a steady driving four beat rhythm
with a predictable rhyming structure at the end
of the lines. you create something that is highly
musical. It's rhythmic, it's driving, and it
is deeply memorable. I think that's such a crucial
point for you listening to Grasp. This wasn't
meant to be read silently in a library. No, not
at all. It was meant to be heard, meant to be
felt in the chest. A quadruple meter is a walking
beat, a marching beat, a heartbeat. Very much
so. It makes the deep sorrow of Kuo Yuan and
the grand political drama of the lost kingdom
of Chu feel incredibly musical. You can almost
hear the steady rhythmic chanting of these verses
echoing through the halls. It takes the intellectual
idea of regret and turns it into a physical auditory
experience. It absolutely elevates the historical
grievance into high art. And we can actually
trace the emotional trajectory of that art by
looking at the specific titles of the poems within
the collection. The Ark of the Bones. Yes. When
you lay them out sequentially, they form a very
clear narrative and emotional arc detailing the
psychological journey of the exiled minister.
Let's read the map, so to speak. Let's walk through
these titles because even translated into English,
they are incredibly evocative. They really are.
Let's start with the first three. The journey
begins with a piece titled, I Release from Worldly
Contrivings. Then we move to the second piece,
To a Road to Beyond. And then the third, Third
Dangerous Heights. The First Steps of Exile.
Just those first three titles paint such a vivid
picture of someone hitting their breaking point.
Release from worldly contriving sounds like the
exact moment a person decides they can no longer
participate in the toxic, slanderous environment
of the court. Exactly. I'll provide the opinion
for those first three so you can hear the original
phrasing. They are Kwanji, Tonglu, and Weijun.
Beautiful. Your reading of them is spot on. The
imagery here is profound. The road to beyond
and the dangerous heights reflect a physical
exile into the wilderness, but more importantly,
a spiritual distancing from the corrupted court
of King Huai. Getting as far away as possible.
The speaker is removing themselves from the toxic
environment. The wilderness in ancient Chinese
poetry often serves as a metaphor for purity,
a harsh but clean place far from the rot of politics.
Which brings us perfectly into the middle section
of the collection, where it seems like the poet
is trying to figure out how to survive out there
in the wilderness. Oh, yes, the survival phase.
I'll read the next batch of translated titles.
We get Fivey, A Light on the World, then V Honoring
the Good, and Six Stored Blossoms. It feels like...
Having escaped the dangerous heights, the poet
is desperately trying to hold on to their virtue.
A light on the world and honoring the good sound
like the core principles Kua Yuan refused to
give up. He refused to compromise. But what exactly
does a title like Stored Blossoms evoke in this
context? The pinyin for those middle verses are
Zhaoshi, Zunjia, and Zhuying. That last one,
Zhuying, or Stored Blossoms, is a beautiful,
tragic metaphor. Okay, lay it on me. Think of
a blossom. It represents talent, beauty, and
virtue. In the natural order, a blossom should
be displayed, it should bear fruit. For a minister,
that means serving the kingdom and guiding the
king. But because the court is corrupted, Kua
Yuan must store his blossoms away. Oh, I see.
He is tending to his own moral garden in exile,
keeping his virtue safe from the rod of the kingdom,
but also lamenting that his talents are hidden
away and useless to the world. It is a profound
expression of preserved virtue in a dark time.
That is heartbreaking. Yeah. You have all this
talent and loyalty and you just have to pack
it away in a box because the world is too corrupt
to accept it. Precisely. And unfortunately, this
narrative of the loyal minister who has lost
favor does not have a happy ending. The final
sequence of the nine regrets really brings the
tragedy home. It does. It gets very dark. Let's
look at the final dissent. We have seven thoughts
on loyalty bent. Then eighth. raising barriers,
and the final main piece, Ajax quenching the
light. The shift in tone there is devastating.
The pinion for that final descent is Cizong.
Tao Young. And finally, Zou Zhao. Zou Zhao. Let's
dive deep into the thematic weight here, particularly
that final piece, Quenching the Light. Thoughts
on loyalty, Ben, speaks directly to the core
trauma, the realization that true loyalty has
been twisted and rejected by the ruler. It's
all been for nothing. Raising barriers implies
the ultimate severing of connection, the final
insurmountable walls between the exiled minister
and the court he once served. Complete isolation.
But Quenching the Light is the masterstroke.
It sounds so final. exactly does the poetry capture
that extinguishing of hope? To paraphrase the
metaphorical weight of that section, imagine
watching a solitary, brilliant candle fiercely
burning in the middle of a gathering storm. That
candle is Kwayuan's righteous loyalty, his hope
for Chu and his own life force. As the lies of
the court and the armies of Qin close in, you
aren't just watching the candle burn down, you
are watching it be violently, deliberately snuffed
out. Wow. Quenching the light perfectly captures
that tragic fate. The light of his virtue, the
light of his service to King Huai, and ultimately
the light of his own life is finally extinguished.
It is the ultimate expression of the regret that
gives the collection its title. It's incredibly
heavy. It leaves you with this profound sense
of loss. It does. And yet there's that one extra
piece we talked about at the beginning, the Luan
or the envoy. Yeah. What role does that play
after such a dark conclusion? The Luan acts as
a vital concluding section, a wrap -up. It's
almost like the poet Wang Bao, having guided
us through this dark, rhythmic, mathematical
journey of a slandered minister, steps out from
behind the curtain one last time. Say goodbye.
He offers a final bow, summarizing the tragedy
and cementing the emotional weight of everything
that preceded it. It brings the whole structural
puzzle, the nine thematic qualities of regret,
plus one final sign -off, into perfect, crystal
-clear focus. So what does this all mean? We
started this deep dive with a Wikipedia article
about a relatively obscure ancient poetry collection.
True. But what we've unpacked together is so
much richer. We've learned that The Nine Regrets
isn't just an old poem gathering dust in a library.
It is a profound act of literary revival by Wang
Bao. reaching across centuries to honor a lost
era. Definitely. It's a mathematical puzzle where
nine represents a quality of reverence rather
than a strict count. It is a brilliant linguistic
pun hiding the very real ghost of King Huai of
Chu right there in the title. Which is still
my favorite part. And above all, it's a rhythmic
musical tribute to Kuoyuan, the ultimate loyal
minister whose kingdom was swallowed by history,
whose story of slander and exile was captured
in the steady marching beat of the Shijing style.
This raises an important question. One that bridges
the massive gap between the first century BCE
and our lives today. Exactly. When we look at
Wang Bao writing The Nine Regrets, we are seeing
a person using art, structure, and historical
illusion to process the monumental political
traumas of the past. Right. He's processing his
world. He used the medium of his time to preserve
history and to express the painful realities
of loyalty and betrayal. It encourages us to
look critically at our own culture. How do modern
people use art, music, or literature to process
the political events of our time? How do we preserve
our history and express our deepest values when
the world around us feels like it's shifting
or entirely falling apart? That's a great point.
The impulse that drove Wang Bao to write the
Zhuhui is a fundamentally human impulse, one
that we still deeply rely on today. That is such
a powerful thought to end on. It truly shows
how these ancient texts are never really dead.
They're just waiting for us to uncover their
secrets and connect them to our own modern experiences.
Absolutely. I want to thank you, the listener,
for being here and for bringing such a rich...
layered, and complex source material to the table.
It has been an absolute joy to unpack the math,
the history, and the deep emotional resonance
of The Nine Regrets with you. It's been a great
conversation. Before we officially sign off,
I want to leave you with one final provocative
thought to mull over as you go about the rest
of your day. We talked at length about how ancient
poets used the number nine symbolically, not
to count things, but to represent a specific
quality that linked their modern work to a legendary
past right think about your own life your own
culture the media you consume what modern symbols
numbers or phrases do you use every day that
carry a hidden historical weight you might not
even realize keep being curious keep digging
deep we'll see you next time