Ode to the Woshuo 握槊賦

The Woshuo is what people today call Changxing; it belongs to the category of board and strategy games.

By observing the movement of its pieces—whether they advance, retreat, slow down, or accelerate—one realizes that the great principles [of life and war] are contained within it. To adapt to changes at the opportune moment, it is imperative to carefully weigh the pros and cons from the very beginning.

If one applies these principles to human relations, justice and righteousness can be made to prevail.

The Ode says:

How is it that within the space of a single gameboard, the ways to seize victory are so diverse? Beyond the traditional Six Arts, bringing this task to fruition proves in truth to be quite difficult.

To deploy the four corners of the board is to see the geography of the Earth engraved upon it; to face the two dice is to observe the movement of the stars in the Heavens. There is no need to adorn the board with red lacquer, and what does it matter if it is not made of precious Langgan jade? The pieces part into groups, so that the dark and the yellow (the blacks and the whites) never intermingle. In this combat, one must inevitably encounter an enemy: but if we clash like the clam and the snipe, what joy can truly be found in it? How can one anticipate the thousands of changes to come? One simply relies on what is decided by the double-headed dice.

Thus, the ivory is in hand, and the pieces, carved like the bones of steeds, step onto the board. They are like those unbored blocks that must be hollowed out, or like a tortoise shell that is drilled, being far more than a mere toad. In all, its width is but a few inches, and the number of dots does not exceed six. The pieces rise and fall, crossing in undulating movements, turning in loops and repeating without end. The incompetent fails and brings trouble upon himself, while the skillful cultivates his play and reaps success.

Then, the forces hold each other by the flanks, and both head and tail find themselves pressed. The situation resembles the clash between the kingdoms of Chu and Han; the energy unleashed surpasses the strength of the great warriors Meng Ben and Xia Yu. Achieving the feat of capturing the enemy seven times depends entirely on a single roll of the dice, within the hollow of the hand. At times, the player slaps his thigh, his gaze startled and anxious; at times, he straightens his body to urge on the speed of fate. The game is akin to the banners and drums facing the enemy; it is like the eyes and ears of an army on the march. Gain validates what is right and loss condemns error, illustrating how good and bad fortune hide one behind the other. The game often turns the mind of the nobleman, while filling the stomach of the petty man.

Thus, you launch the offensive, pointing forward, confident in your own talent. Having crossed through the opponent's calculations unscathed, you tell yourself that your strategy has proven its worth. Yet how can one know that when the impasse reaches its end, everything collapses, and that the Way does not yield to borrowed shortcuts? By maintaining only a weak force that can no longer compete, one suffers the accumulated weight of a victory too sudden. The six gates close and nothing more can pass: because of a single piece, one finds oneself held hostage. Desiring to go too fast, one brings about one's own harm; conversely, he who took his time ends up reaping the benefit. There is no need to grieve for lack of support, nor to abandon oneself to despair because the path is difficult: in the blink of an eye (the turn of a hand), the situation reverses, and with a single gesture, the opportune moment changes entirely.

As for the hermit of moderate desires or the sage of profound designs, they do not let their aspirations stray, but maintain their minds in peace. They do not merely deploy their skill in the past; they transfer their sentiments to the present. One then understands that action requires constancy, and that affairs demand time. One plans with diligence, guiding the pieces systematically (in the manner of Xunxun Shanyou). Sometimes, wishing to retreat, one advances with a sharp move; sometimes, planning to go fast, one chooses to stay behind. Though there is an enemy, one responds to every blow; there is no dangerous terrain into which one does not venture. Sometimes, by using strength, one can attack; sometimes, by feigning weakness, one becomes elusive. One does not rejoice in the misfortune of others to glorify oneself: if the final outcome is fortunate, what blame could there be? Although this is a 'lesser way,' it is worthy of observation; but if one brings nothing to it but deception, what is there to be gained?

This explains why flexibility here is not cowardice, and why courage necessarily implies decisiveness. The pieces sometimes gather like an army, only to later divide into several sections. At first, they accumulate like mist and gather like clouds; suddenly, they dissipate like the wind and melt away like ice. Everything deploys or retracts according to the nature of things, assembling or separating as is fitting. Although the game expands by touching upon various categories, it is our Way (the Dao) that traverses it through and through.

This suffices to demonstrate that the game must be upright and not treacherous, and that seizing pieces must not be guided by greed. In this, it is entirely identical to Zuoyin (the Hidden Sitting), and deserves the name Shoutan (Hand Conversation). Everything must be dictated by the victory of reason: is this not a most gentle language? Although a small loss may briefly cause distress, a great reversal dissipates all shame.

Nevertheless, spending one's life upon this game often ends up consuming ambition. Alas! May the scholars not abandon themselves to it!