Brief bio sketch

Lloyd Haft (1946- ) was born in Sheboygan, Wisconsin USA and lived as a boy in Wisconsin, Louisiana and Kansas. In 1968 he graduated from Harvard College and went to Leiden, The Netherlands for graduate study in Chinese (M. A. 1973, Ph. D. 1981). From 1973 to 2004 he taught Chinese language and literature, mostly poetry, at Leiden. His sinological publications include Pien Chih-lin: A Study in Modern Chinese Poetry (1983/2011; published in Chinese translation as 发现卞之琳: 一位西方学者的探索之旅 in 2010) and Zhou Mengdie’s Poetry of Consciousness (2006). His most recent book, a liberal modern Dutch reading of Laozi's Daode jing, was published as Lau-tze's vele wegen by Synthese in September 2017.



He has translated extensively into English from the Dutch of Herman Gorter and Willem Hussem, and from the Chinese of various poets including Lo Fu, Yang Lingye, Bian Zhilin and Zhou Mengdie.



Since the 1980s he has also been active as a poet writing in Dutch and English. He was awarded the Jan Campert Prize for his 1993 bilingual volume Atlantis and the Ida Gerhardt Prize for his 2003 Dutch free-verse readings of the Psalms (republished by Uitgeverij Vesuvius in 2011). His newer poems are published (some republished) on this blog.



After early retirement in 2004, for a number of years Lloyd Haft spent much of his time in Taiwan with his wife Katie Su. In addition to writing and translating, his interests include Song-dynasty philosophy and taiji quan. He sings in the choir of a Roman Catholic church of the Eastern Rite in The Hague.



Sunday, September 29, 2013

On Translating Zhou Mengdie 周夢蝶 (Part 3 of 3)


On Translating Zhou Mengdie 周夢蝶[1] (Part 3 of 3)

by Lloyd Haft
(for Parts 1 and 2, see September 2013 archive on this blog)

6. What is what it says saying?

For another pun built into the Chinese language itself, we can consider the first four lines of ‘Moon River’ 月河 ( 4):

傍著靜靜的恆河走
靜靜的恆河之月傍著我走––
我是恆河的影子
靜靜的恆河之月是我的影子。


Walking alongside the quiet, quiet Ganges
the quiet, quiet moon on the Ganges walks alongside me –
I am the Ganges’ shadow;
the quiet, quiet moon on the Ganges is my shadow.
...

The problem here is that heng, the first syllable of Henghe which is the standard Chinese name for the River Ganges, means ‘permanent, enduring, eternal.’ Should we exchange the translation ‘Ganges,’ in itself so appropriate in view of its association with the Indian birthplace of Buddhism, for the equally appropriate word ‘eternal’ or ‘endless’? Perhaps we could try

I am a reflection on the eternal river;
the quiet, quiet moon on the eternal river is my reflection

The translator’s decision here amounts to: what do you want to prioritize in the translation: the specific time-and-place-bound ‘East Asian’ flavor of the Ganges (that is, reading it in terms of the Public Ambience), or the more general Realization implications of ‘eternal’ and ‘flow’? What does the pun have to say about the world of experience beyond this poem? Is the translation to be a modest contribution to academic sinology or a modest poem in itself?

A similar cultural-vs.-extracultural decision arises in ‘Someday the Flower’s Bound to Blossom’ 花,總得開一次 ( 140-142):

若路與走與未到同義,
若我不忍讀的過去
是由一行行仄韻和抝體吟成;
當知:我生之前
已有之後,更有之後
橫亙與之後之後-----
蹉跌,毋寧是不可免的!
然則,我將如何端正
端正我的視線;如何
以眼為路路為眼
而將後後與前前照徹?
...
...

世界坐在如來的掌上
如來,勞碌命的如來
淚血滴滴往肚裡流的如來
卻坐在我的掌上
...
...
冬已遠,春已回,蟄始驚:
一句「太初有道」在腹中
正等着推敲


...
...
If road and walk and failure to arrive
are synonyms; if my past’s
unreadable, chanted in harsh rhymes
line on grating line –
know that before I was born
there were already Afters and Thereafters
straight through till Thereafter and After.
No getting around the stumblings.
But how shall I right,
right my line of sight, how make
eyes the road, the road eyes,
see clear from after after to before before?
if there’s no getting around the stumblings.
...
...

The world rests in the palm of the Tathagatha,
but the Tathagatha, the arduous-fated Thusly-Come,
the Comer whose belly’s dripping full of blood and tears
rests in my palm.

Winter’s away; spring’s back; waking from hibernation
with in my belly the words ‘In the beginning was the Word’
ready to be pondered.

This last passage puts the translator into a true cross-cultural predicament. The words in the original that form a very widely known Chinese translation of ‘In the beginning was the Word’ in John 1:1, literally mean ‘In the beginning was the Dao’ – or as some would say, ‘In the beginning was the Way.’ Strange or even offensive as it might seem to non-ecumenical Christian readers, the word Dao has been used for the Word (or the Logos) by Protestant translators since the 1830s, when it was first used in print in the New Testament translation by Walter H. Medhurst and Karl F. A. Gützlaff. The Roman Catholic Church originally did not accept this term, but starting with the ecclesiastically approved New Testament version by John C. H. Wu 吳經熊 (1949 and later editions), some Catholic translators have used it as well.[2]
        In any case, since ZMD puts this phrase in quotes, it no doubt is to be taken as this very well-known quote from the Bible. Yet...in the context of this particular poem, following upon the important passage about the ‘road’ and the ‘walk,’ it would also seem appropriate to make a Formalist move and construe it as:

since the beginning, the Way has existed...

thereby shifting the focus from the Scriptural to the Realization Ambience. This would be all the more justified in that in the immediately following line, it is in ‘my’ belly, the womb-like belly of the speaking subject who walks the Road, that ‘the beginning’ is waiting to be considered. The concluding truth will rest with ‘me’: in ‘my’ palm. In the end it is all a matter of point of view: in the very act of quoting the words traditionally stipulated by the Scriptural Ambience to mean ‘Word,’ the poet assimilates them to the ‘Road’ of his personal Realization.


7. Who shall say?

For another example of the all-importance of point of view as implying agency, we now turn to ‘If You Look at Winter a Certain Way’ 用某種眼神看冬天. In this poem, the stunning last stanza depends for its interpretation on how we read an ambiguous phrase:

所有的落葉都將回到樹上,而
所有的樹都是且永遠是
我的手的分枝: 信否?[3]
冬天的腳印雖淺
而跫音不絕。如果
如果你用某種眼神看冬天

...
All the leaves that ever fell
will get back on the trees again;
all the trees are and will always be
branchings of my hand – do you believe it?
Though winter footsteps are shallow
their sound will have no end. If,
if you look at winter a certain way.

In the third-from-last line, the ‘winter footsteps’ are dongtian de jiaoyin. This could mean either ‘winter’s footsteps’ or ‘one’s footsteps in winter.’ The immediately preceding statement that the trees are ‘branchings of my hand’ seems to assert a large claim to the competence and role of the ‘I’ vis-a-vis the earth: insignificant as ‘I’ might seem, the trees I have seen will last forever, and they embody my body. Carrying on in this spirit, it seems logical to take dongtian de jiaoyin to mean ‘my footsteps in winter.’ Not winter’s agency but ‘my’ own is the point.
        At the beginning of the poem

用某種眼神看冬天
冬天,冬天的陽光
猶如一蔟簇惡作劇的金線蟲
在白雪的身上打洞

不呼痛,也從不說不的雪!

If you look at winter a certain way
winter, winter’s rays of sun
like crowds of beetles in a mood for pranks
punch holes in the snow’s body,

the snow that won’t cry ow! and never says no
...

Here, ‘winter’s rays of sun’ (literally just ‘winter sunlight’) seem to have agency and activity enough. The sun, as bringer of concrete sensory experience, gets footholds in the inhospitable abstract-truth realm of the snow. But the point is that even this supposed agency or initiative on the part of the external world – such that the snow ‘never says no’ to it – ultimately depends on my own agency in the sense that it only happens if I ‘look at winter a certain way.’
But to pronounce the truth of his experience, the speaking subject needs understanding. ‘You’ must know which ‘certain way’ to look. In ZMD’s book on the Dream of the Red Chamber, we read in several places how important it is to ‘know’ or ‘understand’ a person, and the understanding is contrasted favorably with ‘loving’ . The ‘two great needs of humankind’ are ‘to love and be loved’ and ‘to understand and be understood’ ( 241) .’ But ‘it is easy to love a person, difficult to understand them. I don’t much believe in claiming to love a person whom you have not been able to understand (147).’ And again, alluding to the common saying wei yue ji zhe rong 為悅己者容  (‘if a girl dolls herself up, it’s with an eye to her admirer’), ZMD says ( 117): ‘She’ll doll herself up for the one who admires her, but she’ll die for the one who understands her.’
ZMD brings out the importance but also the difficulty of understanding in his poem ‘Thorn Blossoms’ ( 80-81), whose title荊棘花is not so much a pun as a private allusion. In his book on the Dream of the Red Chamber ( 87), he uses the phrase jingkou jishe 荊口棘舌 (‘prickly on the mouth and tongue’) for poetry that is difficult to read. The first few lines of ‘Thorn Blossoms’ make use of a difficult compound, yi guang 異光, whose meaning is clinched, albeit with alternative possibilities, only at the poem’s end:

本來該開在耶穌的頭上的
卻開在這裡

每開必雙
愁慘而閃著異光
是赴死前那人
眼中的血吧?

血有傳染性的----
紅過,只要有誰曾經
耿耿,向人或背人的
紅過 ; 這淚光
孤懸於天上的
終將潺湲,散發為天下
無盡止的仰望

直到有一天這望眼
已彼此含攝; 直到
天上的與天下的
已彼此成為彼此:
不即不離,生於水者明於水

They were supposed to blossom on Jesus’ head
but they blossomed here.

Wherever they blossom they’re in twos:
desolately flashing that Radiance of the Other.
Is it the blood in the eyes
of a willing martyr?

Blood is contagious:
where it’s reddened, wherever someone’s
warmed and reddened for, against another,
this radiance of tears
that hovered lonely in the sky
will finally come gushing, shed
for all the endless longing under Heaven

till someday the longing eyes
be caught up in each other; till
Heaven’s and what’s under Heaven’s
keeping their distance
mutually end up mutual:
and what was water-born
be water-minded.

In the fourth line, the expression I have translated ‘Radiance of the Other’ is yi guang 異光. Readers’ immediate reaction to this term would be to take it as ‘strange’ or ‘unusual radiance.’ Traditionally, in the Scriptural Ambience this could have been the halo or extraordinary radiance of a spiritual leader. Nowadays in the Public Ambience, yiguang can refer to an eery or unexplained aura or light said to have been perceived somewhere under water or in the sky. In short, there are various two-syllable compounds in which yi has this simple adjectival sense of ‘different.’
In this poem, however, I hear it as not just ‘other’ but ‘of the Other’: the poem’s last line is about something being seen by or in the light of a related something or someone else. The very last three words in the original, ming yu shui 明於水, could mean ‘gleam distinctly upon the water’ or ‘be discernible in the water,’ but also ‘understand the water’ or even ‘be well versed in the water.’[4]
They could also very well be read to mean that ‘what was water-born’ (or ‘born of water’)

is cognized by
is seen in
is seen through
is discerned by virtue of
gets light on
sheds light on
dawns on
shines upon
is clear on
gets clear on
shines even brighter than
is wiser than
is more aware than

...the water.

The expression ming yu shui 明於水 occurs in one of the above-mentioned senses in a widely read Buddhist treatise, the Zongjing lu 宗鏡錄 (Records of the Mirror of the Schools) by Yongming Yanshou 永明延壽 , dating from the tenth century.[5] And ZMD is familiar with Yongming Yanshou, in any event quotes him in his book on the Dream of the Red Chamber ( 29). The term I have translated as ‘caught up in,’ hanshe 含攝 , is certainly not a common or ordinary term in either spoken or written Chinese, but again, it occurs in the Zongjing lu.[6]
        So, when the lyrical subject ‘understands the water’ or ‘comes to understanding vis-a-vis water,’ presumably he or she will at last be able to speak out the truth, not according to Public platitude or Scriptural preachment, but by the light of actual experience. This will be a truth that supersedes by comprising, overtrumps by being cognizant of, previous forms of truth.


8. The only thing...

        This ultimate primacy of the Realization voice, superseding the Scriptural and daring to compete with the supposed authority of the Public (‘human’), comes out well in the poem ‘Wild Geese II’ 雁之二 ( 131). Once again the poem turns on the ‘writing’ of birds in the sky: this time wild geese, whose spread wings visually suggest an overturned Chinese character for ‘man’ or ‘human.’ (Note well: it is an ‘overturned’ or ‘reversed’ human: again an example of ZMD’s beloved ‘reversal’ or ‘palindrome’ motif.)
       
人人人人人人

隻或雙,成行或不成行
在江心,在天末
秋風起時:
秋風有多瘦多長
你的背影就有多瘦多長

是你在空中寫字,抑
字在空中寫你?

人人人人人人
何日是了? 除非
(秋在高處高高處自沉吟)
除非水流有西向時;
水流幾時西向?
! 除非你寫得人人人人盡時。

Human human human

Singly or in pairs, forming lines or not
at the heart of the river, the end of the sky
when the autumn wind arises:
however lean and long the autumn wind is
that’s how lean and long your shadow is.

Are you writing words in the air, or
are words in the air writing you?

Human human human –
When endeth the same? only if
(moans the autumn wind in the highest heights of height)
only if the river’s flow reverses, goes back West:
and when will the river’s flow go West?
Ay! only if you can write the human human to the full.

So, the ultimate truth would be, could be, may be the one written by the poet. The all-determining and all-unifying meaningful ‘stroke of the writing brush’ which he has seen in the flight pattern of geese in the sky, in a power line that a sparrow might sit on at the dawn of a new day, is waiting to be written by himself. As we read in a passage of ‘In Praise of Sparrows: Five Cantos’ 詠雀五帖 ( 83-84):

唯一的
也許可稱之為缺憾的
欸,莫非就是這嫋嫋

誄辭似的
唯美而詩意的最後一筆 ?

the only thing
that might be called still lacking –
could it be this wafting,
elegy-like
esthetical-poetical
last stroke of the writing brush?



List of Works Consulted/Cited

Works by Zhou Mengdie 周夢蝶:

Bu fu Rulai bu fu Qing 不負如來不負卿 []. Taipei: Jiuge 九歌, 2005.

Gudu guo 孤獨國 []. Reprinted in Zhou Mengdie. Gudu guo/Huanhun cao/Fenger Lou yigao孤獨國/還魂草/風耳樓逸稿, edited by Zeng Jinfeng 曾進豐. Taipei: INK, 2009.

Shiji shixuan 世紀詩選 (1) []. Taipei: Erya 爾雅, 2000.

Shisanduo bai juhua 十三朵白菊花. []. Taipei: Hongfan 洪範, 2002.

You yizhong niao huo ren 有一種鳥或人 [], edited by Zeng Jinfeng 曾進豐. Taipei: INK, 2009.

Yuehui 約會 []. Taipei: Jiuge 九歌, 2002.


Other works in Chinese:

Qiao Nianzu 喬念祖 (ed.). “石濤畫語錄與現代繪畫藝術研究. Beijing: Renmin yishu chubanshe 人民藝術出版社, 2007. Authors are Qiao Nianzu, Zhang Zhihua 張志華 and Shao Jingjing 邵菁菁.

Wut Tai-shing 屈大成. “周夢蝶詩與佛教,” in Li Huoren 黎活仁, Xiao Xiao 蕭蕭 and Luo Wenling 羅文玲 (eds.). Xuezhong qu huo qie zhu huo wei xue 雪中取火且鑄火為雪. Taipei: Wanjuan lou 萬卷樓, 2010, 251-312.

Zeng Jinfeng 曾進豐. “Zhou Mengdie shi yanjiu” 周夢蝶詩研究. M.A. Thesis, National Taiwan Normal University, Guowen yanjiu suo 國文研究所, 1996.

Zongjing lu 宗鏡錄. Consulted on website of the Electronic Buddhadharma Society (EBS) 美國佛教會電腦資訊庫功德會(資功會), February 20, 2013.


Works in Western languages:

Chou, Ju-hsi. The Hua-yü-lu and Tao-chi’s Theory of Painting, Occasional Paper No. 8, Tempe, Arizona: Center for Asian Studies, Arizona State University, 1977.

Crump, J. I. Songs from Xanadu: Studies in Mongol-Dynasty Song-Poetry (San-ch’ü). Ann Arbor: Center for Chinese Studies, University of Michigan, 1983.

Edwards, Richard. The World Around the Chinese Artist: Aspects of Realism in Chinese Painting, Ann Arbor: Center for Chinese Studies, University of Michigan, 1989/2000, pp. 105-154.

Frontier Taiwan: An Anthology of Modern Chinese Poetry. Edited by Michelle Yeh and N. G. D. Malmqvist. New York: Columbia University Press, 2001.

Haft, Lloyd [2006]. Zhou Mengdie’s Poetry of Consciousness. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag.

_____[2008]. “Perspectives on John C. H. Wu’s Translation of the New Testament,” in Chloe Starr (ed.). Reading Christian Scriptures in China. London and New York: T & T Clark, 2008, pp. 189-206.

Hoffmann, Hans Peter. Die Welt als Wendung – Zu einer Literarischen Lektüre des Wahren Buches vom südlichen Blütenland (Zhuangzi). Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2001.

Legge, James (trans.). Confucian Analects, in The Chinese Classics vols. I & II, ‘reprinted from the last editions of the Oxford University Press.’ No publ. no date.

Soothill, William Edward and Lewis Hodous. A Dictionary of Chinese Buddhist Terms. Revised by Shih Sheng-kang, Lii Wu-jong and Tseng Lai-ting. Kaohsiung: Foguang 佛光, 1962.

Watson, Burton (trans.). Chuang tzu: Basic Writings. New York: Columbia University Press, 1966.



[1] This piece is based on my paper “ ‘Branchings of My Hands’ : Translation as a Key to Parallel Meanings in Zhou Mengdie’s Poetry,” presented 24 March, 2013, Taipei, at "Poetically He Dwells"—An International Conference on Zhou Mengdie: Manuscripts, Literary Works, Religious Thoughts and the Arts, organized by National Taiwan University Institute for Taiwanese Literature, Kaohsiung Normal University Department of Chinese, and Central University Department of English.
[2] For more detailed background on this, see Haft 2008.
[3] This text is from the version in 132-133. Interestingly, in 54-55, published two years later, 所有的樹都是且永遠是/我的手的分枝 is changed to 所有的樹都是你的我的/手的分枝 all the trees are branchings/of our hands.
[4] The collocation明乎水, where it is normal to read as equivalent to , occurs in this latter meaning in both Mencius (IV.I.xii.1) and The Doctrine of the Mean (19:6). Andrew Plaks, in his translation of the latter, chooses ‘be well versed in.’ See Ta Hsüeh and Chung Yung (The Highest Order of Cultivation and On the Practice of the Mean), Translated with an Introduction and Notes by Andrew Plaks, London etc.: Penguin Books, 2003, p. 37.
           ‘Understanding’ is also the sense of 明於 in Zhuangzi , at the beginning of Chapter 13. 
[5] See Zongjing lu, section 99.
[6] Zongjing lu, section 6.

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

On Translating Zhou Mengdie 周夢蝶 (Part 2 of 3)



On Translating Zhou Mengdie 周夢蝶[1] (Part 2 of 3)

by Lloyd Haft
(for Part 1, see September 2013 archive on this blog)

4. Imaginary words that mean the most

Sometimes the individual word on which the translation hangs is not even a word on the page, but a word ‘seen’ quasi-visually in the scene being described. In ‘Cold That Can Take the Cold’ 不怕冷的冷 ( 120), we find another example of a syllable by whose translation a whole philosophy does or does not remain in view.

...
猛抬頭! 一行白鷺正悠悠
自對山, 如拭猶溼的萬綠叢中
一字兒沖飛
...
you suddenly look up! and there’s a line of egrets unhurried,                    
facing their mountain, up from the wind-wiped rain-fresh thickets
soaring in a row –
...

        Idiomatically, we could consider making it a ‘group’ of egrets soaring in a row. But in view of the close proximity of the which can mean a ‘line’ of writing and which normally means a single ‘character’ of writing, it seems more satisfactory to say

you suddenly look up! one line of egrets, unhurried,
facing their mountain, up from the wind-wiped rain-fresh thickets
soaring as a One –

In Chinese poetry, it is not uncommon to see ‘lines’ of writing in the flight patterns of birds in the sky.[2] Sometimes a single ‘character’ is seen, typically either ‘one’ or ‘human.’ In this poem, the suggestion explicitly is the written character for ‘one.’ In a poem alluding to the Daoist writer Zhuangzi, we are bound to associate this with a concept of ‘oneness,’ the ‘Unity of all Things’ which is the subject of one of his most famous chapters. The ‘egrets,’ part of a visually existing scene at the level of  the Public Ambience, are bringing not only a visual shape but a message: that no matter how far one has wandered, according to the Scriptural Ambience there is a One, a unifying cosmic or mental state in which it all holds together.

Another example that hinges on this ‘1’ or yi, once again involving a bird scene, is from ‘In Praise of Sparrows: Five Cantos’ 詠雀五帖 (78-80):

側著臉
凝視
每天一大早擠公車的朝陽

盪鞦韆似的
一隻小麻雀
蹲在雞冠花上
...
...
悄悄在娘肚裡練就
此一身輕功
...
...
原來至深至善至美的樂音繫於眼前此一
此一無譜的電絲之上----


Slantwise
staring
at the sun crowding the bus each morning

one little sparrow
squatting on a twig of cock’s comb
like on a swing...
...
In the secret silence of a mother’s belly
you learned this art, this life of weightlessness
...
It turns out the music
of what’s Deepest, Best and Most Beautiful
hangs on this One before my eyes:
this [one] power line, string there’s no score for –
...

In the second-to-last line of the original quoted above, because of the rhythmic or ‘thought’ pause implied by the line break, 此一 (‘this One’) could initially be read as: (1) the visual shape of the power line, taken as a horizontal stroke of Chinese writing, i.e., the character ‘one,’ (2) ‘this one’ in the sense of ‘this particular item, this one that is now under consideration,’ (3) the One in a philosophical sense, such as it presents itself to ‘me’ in a concrete perception., or (4) ‘this,’ grammatically suspended by the end of the line, to be repeated at the beginning of the next line.
In Chinese culture and letters, one of the classic sources relating a calligraphic ‘one’ to the philosophic One is the Hua yulu 畫語錄 (Sayings on painting) by the Qing-dynasty painter Shitao 石濤 (also known as Daoji 道濟, 1641-ca. 1710).[3] It is not an easy or unambiguous text, and has been interpreted in various ways,[4] but all readers agree that a key notion in it is yihua 一畫. One of the prevalent interpretations of that idea, relevant here, is ‘the horizontal line, the character yi .’
In the chapter on yihua in Qiao et al. 2007, there is a convenient survey of what well-known Chinese writers have written on the ‘one’ in this concept. A common interpretation is indeed ‘one line’ or ‘one stroke of the brush’; others include what I would summarize in English as ‘oneself doing the painting’ or ‘painting this one time, this unique time.’ Yet another is the Chinese philosophical One as opposed the Many or to All Things.[5]
        As Edwards points out, the crucial ‘single stroke’ is

not an invention of Shitao. It...rests on early belief...as it became deeply embedded in the fabric of Chinese civilization, specially with the creation of the so-called Eight Trigrams (bagua), forms whose origin goes back to methods of divination and which consist of various combinations of a single line – one unbroken and one broken. These configurations created in symbolic language the form of heaven and earth. They opened the way for an understanding of the totality of creation.[6]

Citing a possible Buddhist association, Edwards quotes a recorded snippet of conversation between a certain Master Xiu and Shitao’s own teacher in Buddhism, Lü-An (d. 1676):

Xiu: ‘Take the word one (a single horizontal stroke) and add no more strokes to it. What do you have?’
Lü-An: ‘The design is complete.’

Edwards summarizes: ‘Form comes from the formless...Its beginnings rest with the simplest – and yet most shattering of beginnings: the first mark, the single stroke, from whose ‘complete’ implications everything else – infinite variety – follows.’[7]
        In the second chapter of Hua yulu, Shitao says: ‘The One Stroke is the origin of all visibles, root of all images’ 一畫者, 眾有之本, 萬象之根.
       That Shitao saw philosophical weight in his concept seems clear from the closing remark, whether or not written with tongue in cheek, of his introductory chapter on the One Stroke: it is a literal quote from Confucius, wu dao yi yi guan zhi 吾道一以貫之, which Legge (169) translates ‘my doctrine is that of an all-pervading unity.’[8]
In the context of the poem by ZMD which we have been examining, it is also pertinent that in a traditional etymology of the character dan   meaning ‘dawn,’ the single horizontal line is said to represent the horizon above which the sun rises: the dawning of a new day.
Another subtle implication in this poem is that in the original, zhi shen zhi shan zhi mei至深至善至美 sounds almost like zhi zhen zhi shan zhi mei, the familiar philosophical trio of whatever is most True, Good, and Beautiful but in this case, Truth has been replaced by Depth, perhaps suggesting the relative or not-yet-evident nature of truth.
For the philosophical One in another of ZMD’s contexts, we now turn to the beginning passage of ‘Good Snow! Not a Flake Falls Elsewhere好雪! 片片不落別處’ ( 26). The poem begins with a quote ostensibly from the Hua Yen Sutra[9]:

一切從此法界流,一切流入此法界


All floweth forth from this Dharmadhatu;
all floweth into this Dharmadhatu.

Soothill (271) defines ‘Dharmadhatu’ (fajie 法界) as ‘the unifying underlying spiritual reality regarded as the ground or cause of all things, the absolute from which all proceeds.’
        The first lines of the poem are

冷到這兒就冷到絕頂了
冷到這兒。一切之終之始
一切之一的這兒

When the cold gets to here, it’s at its highest –
cold up to here. The here that’s the end, the beginning of All,
the One that is All.
...

In the original, the third line reads yiqie zhi yi de zher. Here yi qie zhi yi 一切之一could mean something like ‘one of All’ or even ‘one of the Alls.’ But it could also mean ‘the One that is associated with everything’ or ‘the One that is All.’ If we take it in this sense, then ‘here,’ being the One, is actually where ‘everything’ starts from, for as Laozi tells us:

the One gives rise to the Two,
the Two to the Three,
the Three gives rise to All Things...[10]

But...whether or not the everyday speaker knows it, the expression yiqie 一切, which in the vernacular means ‘all, everything,’ occurs in some classical texts in a very different meaning: ‘temporarily, as expedient, for the time being.’ And this sense is attested in such venerable sources as Zhanguo ce 戰國策 , Huainanzi 淮南子, and Hanshu 漢書 . It would make sense, too, if we read qie in yiqie very literally to mean a ‘slice’ or ‘cut’ of something.
If we try endorsing these meanings ‘for the time being,’ we get something like

When the cold gets to here, it’s at its highest –
cold up to here. The here that’s the end, the beginning of All,
this moment’s cross-section of the One.
             
In other words, the ‘here’ and the present moment, in all their transitory uniqueness, are not different from the most absolute overall Origin that can be imagined.
But again: if in the second line we construe一切之終之始 differently, we could take it as ‘the beginning of the end of All’ – implying individual temporality and mortality. This would give us

When the cold gets to here, it’s at its highest –
cold up to here. The here that’s the beginning of the end of All,
one time-bound slice of the All.


5. Puns, obvious and arcane

Now let us get back to a specific category of single-word emphasis: puns. In ZMD’s poetry, even the straight-sounding title of a poem may be a pun. Consider the early poem titled ‘ Nine Lines’ 九行 ( 102; translation in Frontier 98):

你底影于是弓
你以自己拉響自己
拉得很滿,很滿。

每天有太陽從東方搖落
一顆顆金紅的秋之完成
於你風乾了的手中。

為什麼不生出千手千眼來?
既然你有很多很多秋天
很多很多等待搖落的自己。


Your shadow is a bow.
And with yourself you draw yourself
...

Every day, out of the east, a sun’s shaken down:
ball after ball of copper-red autumn, completed
in your wind-dried hands.

Why don’t you grow a thousand hands, a thousand eyes?
...so many autumns:
so many selves, waiting to be shaken down.

The title looks straightforward: ‘Nine Lines,’ introducing a poem that is nine lines long. But in ancient Chinese, the jiu hang or ‘nine lines’ could be a general term for ‘the various human occupations’ (cf. ‘what line of work are you in?’). Present-day Chinese readers may not think of this old usage, but I think having it in the background definitely adds to the appreciation of this poem, which describes the human condition as an ‘occupation’ of self-construction that can take various courses. It is not clear whether the proverbial ‘educated native speaker’ would immediately make this association. But in the style of reading I am advocating here, that does not matter. In the linguistic annals of the Public Ambience, the association is well attested, and on a present-day Realization reading it makes good sense.
        As an example of a reading which I myself find of ‘borderline’ validity, but according to my own theory must be considered, we now turn again to Cold That Can Take the Cold不怕冷的冷 ( 118). This actually consists of two poems which the same title. The first begins with one of the grammatical surprises typical of ZMD’s poetry:

即使從來不曾在夢裏魚過
鳥過蝴蝶過
住久了在這兒
依然會惚兮恍兮
不期然而然的
莊周起來
...

Even if you’ve never, in a dream, been a fish,
been a bird, been a butterfly –
if you live here long enough,
confused and all, still and all,
without expecting it and all
you’ll start to be a Zhuangzi...

This sounds plain enough in English. But the translator has made it so! In the original, even the first line is a rocky road. First of all, ‘been a fish’ is yu guo 魚過 where the syllable yu ‘fish,’ though it is initially perceived by native speakers as a noun, must be read or construed as a verb because of the verbal complement guo immediately following.[11] In other words, one would like to translate the first line as something like ‘Even if you’ve never, in a dream, fished...’ But in English, ‘never...fished’ would mean ‘never angled, never gone fishing.’ If we consider ancient Chinese texts, in which the character for ‘fish’ could be an alternate character for ‘to go fishing, catch fish,’ this might at first seem plausible in our context. However, no analogous meaning implying ‘to catch’ is available for the words for ‘bird’ and ‘butterfly,’ which in the text we are examining are so clearly in parallel with ‘fish.’
        But this is not all. In very old classical Chinese texts including bronze inscriptions, the character yu meaning ‘fish’ could also be used for wu meaning ‘I.’ And one of those texts is attributed to Liezi列子, who like Zhuangzi is one of the foremost Daoist thinkers.[12] Taking this line of analysis seriously, we might mentally rewrite the first lines as:

Even if you’ve never, in a dream, been a self,
been a bird, been a butterfly...

And this would make sense, because if there is any passage from Zhuangzi that all Chinese readers are guaranteed to know, it is the famous ‘butterfly dream’ – which is about the unworkability of the ego concept:

Once Zhuang Zhou dreamt he was a butterfly, a butterfly flitting and fluttering around, happy with himself and doing as he pleased. He didn’t know he was Zhuang Zhou. Suddenly he woke up and there he was, solid and unmistakable Zhuang Zhou. But he didn’t know if he was Zhuang Zhou who had dreamt he was a buterfly, or a butterfly dreaming he was Zhuang Zhou.[13]

But if all this is stretching a point, we can take refuge in the ‘never been a fish’ construction. The latter certainly seems indicated here in the light of the following clincher involving Zhuangzi, who on the one hand was obsessed with whether or not he was really a butterfly, and on the other was once asked how he could understand ‘what fish enjoy’ without himself being a fish (Watson 110).
For another example which is, though abstruse, not even so far-fetched, let us now examine ‘Contemplating the Waterfall’ 觀瀑圖 ( 126). Looking at the first stanza, a straightforward translation might read:

人未到巖下聲已先來耳邊
 怎樣一軸激越而豁人心目的寓言啊
 冷過,顛沛且粉碎過的有福了
 路是走不完的
 一如那泡沫,那老者想:
 生滅,滅生,生滅
 逝者如斯,不舍晝夜

Before the man arrived below the cliffs
its sound already reached his ears –
this scroll! this parable eager to open the eyes, the mind:
blessed are the chilled, the fallen, the pulverized.
The road shall have no end
just like the froth (the old man thinks):
born and gone, gone and born, born and gone...
so it is with all that passeth, day nor night ceasing.
...

But the yiru 一如 with which the fifth line begins, though it ordinarily means ‘just like,’ is also a Buddhist technical term meaning something like ‘the Absolute’ or ‘Ultimate Truth.’ Leaning heavily on this meaning, we might rewrite the passage as

The road shall have no end.
The froth of the Absolute Truth, the old man thinks,
is born and gone, gone and born...

Yet...again in this fifth line (of the original), we note what seem to be grammatically parallel occurrences of na : na paomo and na laozhe with a comma between them, suggesting that these two terms might be in apposition. Then we would get:

The road shall have no end.
The old man, that bubble of froth on the Absolute, thinks:
...
       
In the Scriptural Ambience, it is a commonplace that ordinary human experience is transient ‘froth.’

[to be continued]




List of Works Consulted/Cited

Works by Zhou Mengdie 周夢蝶:

Bu fu Rulai bu fu Qing 不負如來不負卿 []. Taipei: Jiuge 九歌, 2005.

Gudu guo 孤獨國 []. Reprinted in Zhou Mengdie. Gudu guo/Huanhun cao/Fenger Lou yigao孤獨國/還魂草/風耳樓逸稿, edited by Zeng Jinfeng 曾進豐. Taipei: INK, 2009.

Shiji shixuan 世紀詩選 (1) []. Taipei: Erya 爾雅, 2000.

Shisanduo bai juhua 十三朵白菊花. []. Taipei: Hongfan 洪範, 2002.

You yizhong niao huo ren 有一種鳥或人 [], edited by Zeng Jinfeng 曾進豐. Taipei: INK, 2009.

Yuehui 約會 []. Taipei: Jiuge 九歌, 2002.


Other works in Chinese:

Qiao Nianzu 喬念祖 (ed.). “石濤畫語錄與現代繪畫藝術研究. Beijing: Renmin yishu chubanshe 人民藝術出版社, 2007. Authors are Qiao Nianzu, Zhang Zhihua 張志華 and Shao Jingjing 邵菁菁.

Wut Tai-shing 屈大成. “周夢蝶詩與佛教,” in Li Huoren 黎活仁, Xiao Xiao 蕭蕭 and Luo Wenling 羅文玲 (eds.). Xuezhong qu huo qie zhu huo wei xue 雪中取火且鑄火為雪. Taipei: Wanjuan lou 萬卷樓, 2010, 251-312.

Zeng Jinfeng 曾進豐. “Zhou Mengdie shi yanjiu” 周夢蝶詩研究. M.A. Thesis, National Taiwan Normal University, Guowen yanjiu suo 國文研究所, 1996.

Zongjing lu 宗鏡錄. Consulted on website of the Electronic Buddhadharma Society (EBS) 美國佛教會電腦資訊庫功德會(資功會), February 20, 2013.


Works in Western languages:

Chou, Ju-hsi. The Hua-yü-lu and Tao-chi’s Theory of Painting, Occasional Paper No. 8, Tempe, Arizona: Center for Asian Studies, Arizona State University, 1977.

Crump, J. I. Songs from Xanadu: Studies in Mongol-Dynasty Song-Poetry (San-ch’ü). Ann Arbor: Center for Chinese Studies, University of Michigan, 1983.

Edwards, Richard. The World Around the Chinese Artist: Aspects of Realism in Chinese Painting, Ann Arbor: Center for Chinese Studies, University of Michigan, 1989/2000, pp. 105-154.

Frontier Taiwan: An Anthology of Modern Chinese Poetry. Edited by Michelle Yeh and N. G. D. Malmqvist. New York: Columbia University Press, 2001.

Haft, Lloyd [2006]. Zhou Mengdie’s Poetry of Consciousness. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag.

_____[2008]. “Perspectives on John C. H. Wu’s Translation of the New Testament,” in Chloe Starr (ed.). Reading Christian Scriptures in China. London and New York: T & T Clark, 2008, pp. 189-206.

Hoffmann, Hans Peter. Die Welt als Wendung – Zu einer Literarischen Lektüre des Wahren Buches vom südlichen Blütenland (Zhuangzi). Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2001.

Legge, James (trans.). Confucian Analects, in The Chinese Classics vols. I & II, ‘reprinted from the last editions of the Oxford University Press.’ No publ. no date.

Soothill, William Edward and Lewis Hodous. A Dictionary of Chinese Buddhist Terms. Revised by Shih Sheng-kang, Lii Wu-jong and Tseng Lai-ting. Kaohsiung: Foguang 佛光, 1962.

Watson, Burton (trans.). Chuang tzu: Basic Writings. New York: Columbia University Press, 1966.





[1] This piece is based on my paper “ ‘Branchings of My Hands’ : Translation as a Key to Parallel Meanings in Zhou Mengdie’s Poetry,” presented 24 March, 2013, Taipei, at "Poetically He Dwells"—An International Conference on Zhou Mengdie: Manuscripts, Literary Works, Religious Thoughts and the Arts, organized by National Taiwan University Institute for Taiwanese Literature, Kaohsiung Normal University Department of Chinese, and Central University Department of English.
[2] See Crump 193-195. For an example by another 20th-century Taiwan poet, see Yang Lingye’s 羊令野 brief sequence Autumn Meditations (Qiuxing 秋興).
[3] In English, see Chou and Edwards.
[4] For a collation and discussion of various views in Chinese, see Qiao Nianzu 喬念祖 (ed.), “石濤畫語錄與現代繪畫藝術研究, Beijing: Renmin yishu chubanshe, 2007. As this book was written by Qiao Nianzu in collaboration with Zhang Zhihua 張志華 and Shao Jingjing 邵菁菁, I will refer to it as Qiao et al. 2007.
[5] Qiao et al. 2007, pp. 19, 22-23, 31-32.
[6] Edwards 120; transcription adjusted to pinyin.
[7] Edwards 121, transcription adjusted.
[8] Analects (Lunyu 論語), Chapter 4 (里仁), section 15.
[9] ‘Ostensibly’ because I have not been able to verify that it does actually occur in that sutra.
[10] From Chapter 42.
[11] For other examples of words in ZMD’s poetry being dislodged from their usual ‘part of speech,’ see Zeng 177-179.
[12] Thanks to Dr. Jan De Meyer, translator of Liezi into Dutch, for discussion on this.
[13] Translation by Burton Watson in Watson 45; transcription modernized. For a thoroughgoing literary reading of Zhuangzi, see Hoffmann.