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西思翎在首届徐玉诺诗歌国际学术研讨会的发言 ◎张杰









西思翎在首届徐玉诺诗歌国际学术研讨会的发言1


时间:2018年7月26日
地址:北京大学朗润园采薇阁
翻译:田海燕




八.  徐玉诺:故乡

小孩的故乡藏在水连天的暮云里了。
云里的故乡呵,温柔而且甜美!

小孩的故乡在夜色罩着的树林里小鸟声里唱起催眠歌来了。
小鸟声里的故乡呵,仍然那样悠扬,慈悯!

小孩子醉眠在他的故乡里了。

      ——五,五。


8.  Xu Yunuo:Home Town

For the child hometown was hidden between sea and sky in twilight clouds.
Oh, hometown in the clouds, how tender and sweet!

For the child hometown was a lullaby at nightfall sung by little birds in the dark woods. 
Oh, hometown in the twitter of birds, how their tunes linger on fine, pure grace!

As a charm the child was asleep in his hometown.

          May 5.

 
九.  徐玉诺:醒

当我恍然如失,刚从梦中醒来时,
就像河流中的枯叶被岸边的沙石留住似的,脱出了故乡的境界;
窗外丛蓊的榕树林中,小鸟啁啁的不住的鸣;远远看见马尾海上的小波,影映而且跳动。
我是不是还在故乡?
现在可曾是梦?
难测呵!
不知道是些什么东西离开了我那愚笨的心中。

       五,五,午。

9.  Xu Yunuo:Waking up

So lost was I when I came out of my dream,
Just like dead leaves in the river retained by sand and rocks on the riverbank, 
I woke up in a foreign land far from my country;
In the lush banyan forest outside the window, the unrelenting chatter of birds; 
Far away the wavelets of the Mawei Sea, flashes and splashes.
Was I or was I not in my hometown?
Or was this the dream?
Hard to fathom!
I really wonder what lunacy took hold of my mind.

    May 5, at noon.


   徐玉诺《将来之花园》的39首中的大部分是短诗。当然,甚至在中国成为帝国之前,中国诗歌就是简洁的。言语的稀少和感觉的丰富,定义着中国诗歌的艺术和译者的绝望。我不是第一个认真质疑这整个翻译事务的用途的人。语言,是为了它们的沟通能力而发明的,却将人们分开。诗歌确认了这一点:它使得翻译几乎不可能。我多么经常地听到有人说他们的语言(或方言)中的某些表达或微妙之处是不可能翻译为其他语言的!在陈述这一点时,他们几乎给出了诗歌的定义!然而,悖论的是,诗歌假设着它得传达普世的人类品质,价值,特征,主题。人的翻译外国文本的愿望最终导致了翻译诗歌的愿望。如果不了解它的诗歌,我们肯定不会认识一个民族或一种语言。诗歌才有潜力在精神上联合人性。在我们分裂的世界,翻译成为了一项职责,翻译诗歌是一项神圣的职责。这让我想起了一篇著名的文章。我现在就和大家分享吧。

   1922年,在徐玉诺写他的诗的那一年,一位才华横溢,同样年轻,不为人知的德国作家正忙着翻译法国诗歌:夏尔 •波德莱尔的《巴黎图画》。他的名字是:瓦尔特•本雅明。面对法语和德语之间的困难,以及翻译本身的原因,他写了一篇导言,称之为《译者的任务》2(英文译本),于1923年在德国海德堡出版。这个百年之旧的文本仍然是一个丰富的见解来源。我只能在这里评论其无数发人深思的语句之一。本雅明的一个论点是,只传达一首诗含有的信息的翻译会失去诗意的本质。但一个译者若给原作强加自己的诗意标准,背叛了诗人,那也是不得当的3。用一种新的语言对诗歌文本进行字面处理和自由处理之间的路径是非常狭窄的。然而,本雅明写道,语言是一种活的机体,它随着时代而变化。含意和表现力随之改变。无论译者意识到与否,他们都会面对这一过程。当一个翻译向一个新时代传递一个用过往时代的语言书写的古老高贵的文本时,翻译担保这一文本的来世和提高它的永生的机会,这正是我们设想我们对如此的文本所欠的的东西。在这样做时,nolens volens,译者强调的是所有人类语言的那基本的亲属关系,尤其当它们从一个时代演变到另一个时代,在它们共同的和永无止境的成熟过程中,我们更能意识到这一点。关于瓦尔特•本雅明我暂谈这些。

   这里我不禁要触及一个极其典型的中国神圣礼仪的类比,为祖先照顾孩子。虽然崇拜仪式可能已失去了它的强度,形式和术语,但甚至这野蛮,贪婪,冷漠和破坏性的当代社会也还没有根除中国人的家庭价值观的极端敏感,它超越着世代之间的界限,实践着父母的牺牲和传授着孝道。正如情形要求我的,我恭敬地接受了徐玉诺的译者的角色,保证一位诗人(或者更可取的说法:一首诗)的来世。当玉诺创作他的《未来之花园》时,我难道不是他心上的孩子们之一吗?我表现得像一个博物馆的策展人,给一个从原始环境中取出的物件最好的“关爱”照顾,为了新的公众给它一个新的任务。我对历史进程的理解得到了充实:诗人以他的作品面对着现在;译者对过去负着责。他把祖先介绍给新的一代,以相互保护,抵御未来的威胁。原诗的本质是时间和空间的绝对密度,纯粹的势能;翻译的本质是溶解,扩散,共享。原作的角色是专横的,权威的;译者的角色是谦逊的,交流的。博物馆的策展人将过去的一个独特的物件翻译给更广的,如果不是普遍的大众;它从不会产生同样的影响,但它的潜力是它将会有新的影响。这也是译者对于一首诗的任务。

   瓦尔特•本雅明出生于1892年,徐玉诺于1894年。我为这个事实感到震惊:两位年轻作家都在同一年写了一篇革新性的文本,是有关诗歌的神秘性的。历史的巧合让我惊讶。这两位作家在空间上是如此遥远;它们出现在二十世纪初的人类社会的遥遥相对的两极。对此我只能感觉惊奇,接着我又遇到其他的(有意义的?)“巧合”。本雅明不仅是夏尔•波德莱尔的翻译和阐释者,也是1922年去世的法国作家马塞尔•普鲁斯特的,那时普鲁斯特的八册书《追寻逝去的时光》4(最初翻译为,更诗意,但不太准确,《纪念过去的事情》)的第五册《索多玛和蛾摩拉》刚出版。很少有整个社会和人类心理被更锐利的头脑和情趣来细察的。许多人认为这本书(并且仍然把它看作)是上个世纪最伟大的小说。其他(英语世界的)人将这个头衔给予詹姆斯•乔伊斯的《尤利西斯》,此书第一版于1922年问世。它立即被认为是第一部典型的现代主义英语小说。人们普遍认为很难理解它,正如人们常说的难以阅读普鲁斯特。1922年同年,艾略特的《荒原》出版了。很难,人们说;甚至说晦涩。但这首以“四月是最残酷的月份”开头的长诗,通常被视为英语现代主义诗歌的主要纪念碑。英国和美国的每个高中生都应该熟悉它。谁会想到1922年是西方文学史上如此重大的一年?艾略特使我想到艾兹拉•庞德,他帮助发表了《荒原》。庞德,经过一些错误的开始后,在1922年开始了他的《诗章》的确定版本,一个巧合,我们只能这样想。《诗章》被认为是二十世纪诗歌的一个杰作。顺便我们注意到,这里提到的文学名人都或长或短地在巴黎生活过,欧内斯特•海明威在那里完成了他的第一篇短篇小说(《论1922年士麦那的灾难》,第二年出版),并在那里的格特鲁德•斯泰因沙龙,遇见过庞德,还有巴勃罗•毕加索,琼安•米罗和让•考克托。正是在巴黎,更激进的法国艺术家和作家坚持了新兴的超现实主义运动。安德烈•布勒东的《超现实主义宣言》于1924年出现在书店中,该运动几年来都已经在营造中了,被视为其成员的包括如保尔•艾吕雅,罗伯特•德斯诺斯,菲利普•苏波等优秀诗人。 1924年也是弗朗茨•卡夫卡死于结核病的一年,但不是在巴黎,是布拉格。

   我不认为徐玉诺知道巴黎发生的事情。但是当我全神贯注地阅读他的诗歌(译者是最专注的读者),我对其与欧洲场景的相似之处感到吃惊。在我尝试着描述玉诺的基本风格形式时,我需要来自巴黎,柏林,维也纳或布拉格的术语。例如,当我指出这首诗看上去缺乏的整体结构,取而代之的是强烈的“明显”的口音,如厚重的着色,要求独特的注意,我已经用了表现主义这个词。这个词在1922年几乎是德国和奥地利现代艺术或诗歌的同义词。将它与日耳曼诗歌传统的更长一段时期相比较,《未来之花园》会频频地给一个欧洲读者一个典型的浪漫主义印象; 浪漫主义恰恰相反于我们习惯性的(并非总是正确的)中国诗学形象:包括情绪的平稳,自制,谨慎,缜密,珍爱,所有这些通过规定形式的严格规则保持着平衡。《新青年》的先锋作家会用迂腐,炫耀,隐晦和奉承等字眼。浪漫主义的风格实践似乎提供了逃避规则的方法:快速变化的情绪,心理跳跃,纯粹个人基础上的情绪的意外对比,几乎没有解释的;自由形式或自由诗句;这些也是德国前古典诗歌的特征,是年轻的歌德给了它一个名字:“Himmelhoch jauchzend,zu Tode betrübt”5。我们经常称浪漫主义重视自然及其自然对作家的影响:森林和落日,鸣唱的鸟儿和暗淡的月亮;接下来是它们导致的点滴的哲学:大自然该能提供的自由。无可否认地和经常地玉诺置笔墨在这上面。然而,经常地一旦他隐约触到这个浪漫的负担,他就摆脱它。这是一个大体的特征:他没有让我们轻易地把握他的个性;没有一个定义可以涵盖他的多面性;没有笼子可以监禁他。

   我说到表现主义者。我也应该援引并考虑相反的风格:立体主义或建构主义。这里我们进一步深入译者的苦衷:翻译中有时遭受威胁性紊乱的原因是在那中国文字的魔力所掌握的原文:字符或表意文字从未完全丧失其图像效果。在翻译中他们会丧失。玉诺喜欢的押韵或“双重”句式,对于当地读者不仅是可以听到的,它们是可见的。中国诗歌是一种给眼睛并不亚于耳朵的结构。排印是必不可少的,书法也从没远过,实际上它通常就在诗歌的核心,也是诗歌的动态的一部分。这个元素对西方的现代诗歌来说也不陌生。二十世纪初在法国,纪尧姆•阿波利奈尔发起了“可见的”诗歌,他称之为《加利格拉姆》6(1918年出版)。二十年代,当建构主义的排版设计与诗歌相遇时,这种富有表现力的方式变成了具象诗。在本文的前面章节,我谈到了玉诺如何在他的诗歌中处理散文,我本也可以说他页面布局中的现代结构感7。

   玉诺首先是一个活跃的梦想家。整个《未来之花园》呈现的是诗人于5月3日偶然坐在绿草地上为我们展开来的一个梦。在“花园”中,梦的主题在作为一个主旋律展现自己,无论是夜梦还是白日梦。1922年在欧洲谈论梦的人也谈论着超现实主义。西格蒙德•弗洛伊德在1900年用他的解释梦的书点燃了梦的火焰,这是西方文化的一个里程碑。在他的精神分析理论的基础上,他提出了无意识和有意识思维之间的令人着迷的界限。梦是前者的特定产物。超现实主义者很快就会宣称艺术和诗歌也是如此。画家和诗人尝试了这个令人兴奋的想法,他们尽可能地抑制创造过程中的有意识的思维,与无意识连结。儿童的表达被认真看待;原始的部落艺术被爱慕,不仅仅因为它的形式上的美,还由于它的神奇威力,被复原为逃避不了的真实。那种通常在朋友的聚会中发生的自动写作被升格为原始的诗意。罗伯特•德斯诺斯发展了一种出神书写的形式。所有的精神现象,从招魂术到催眠和吸毒,都被拖入了创造力的范畴。现在梦是通往诗歌的大路。 《未来之花园》呈上这样一个展开的梦;在阅读时,我们同诗人一起走进现实的不安全里,因为这个梦从一个虚构的建造和一个希望的隐喻演变成一个(有时是绝望的)视觉,这其实是一个通灵的或超现实的(我会加上一个神性的)经历。


————
注:
1  开头是《未来之花园》里第八和第九首诗的翻译。这是译者对其翻译的徐玉诺的诗集写的导言的第五章。导言的完整文本将随诗集的英译本出版。
2  我参考了本雅明文本的英文译本,它发表在1968年纽约Shocken Books的《灵光集》里(汉娜•阿伦特写的序言)。具有讽刺意味的是,哈里•佐恩的英文翻译受到批评;他在后续版本中修改了他的作品。
3  在译徐玉诺时,我接近于第二类:我全部的注意力都放在了孵化出一个诗意的文本。我的第一个也是唯一的评论家,田海燕,却是第一类的一个热情成员:她保护中文原文,像一只母鸡保护她的小鸡以免受狐狸伤害;被忽视的文本表意文字不会逃避她的批评的眼光,最卑微的逗号也受益于她特别的看护。我在这里感谢她以一种恒量的情绪对待困难,她的不屈不挠的防守,哪怕对显然的微不足道的差别,她的严峻的眼光和她从那所有的语言斗争中成长的性格。
4  中文又译为《追忆似水年华》。
5  英译: “Exalting to the highest heavens, grieving to mortal despair.” 意思是:赞美至高的天堂,哀悼致命的绝望。
6  意思是“表意文字”。
7  当代书籍及其标准化的印刷形式没有认识到玉诺对可见的诗歌效果的研究。




Text of Jan Laurens Siesling’s speech  i
First International Symposium on Xu Yunuo’s Poetry  

Beijing University
July 26, 2018



8.  Xu Yunuo:Home Town

For the child hometown was hidden between sea and sky in twilight clouds.
Oh, hometown in the clouds, how tender and sweet!

For the child hometown was a lullaby at nightfall sung by little birds in the dark woods. 
Oh, hometown in the twitter of birds, how their tunes linger on fine, pure grace!

As a charm the child was asleep in his hometown.

        May 5.


9.  Xu Yunuo:Waking up

So lost was I when I came out of my dream,
Just like dead leaves in the river retained by sand and rocks on the riverbank, 
I woke up in a foreign land far from my country;
In the lush banyan forest outside the window, the unrelenting chatter of birds; 
Far away the wavelets of the Mawei Sea, flashes and splashes.
Was I or was I not in my hometown?
Or was this the dream?
Hard to fathom!
I really wonder what lunacy took hold of my mind.

    May 5, at noon.


    Most of the 39 stanzas of Xu Yunuo’s poem are short. But Chinese poems are concise since before China became an empire. Wealth of sense in scarcity of words defines the art of Chinese poetry and the despair of its translators. I am not the first to question seriously the very use of this whole translation business. Languages, invented for their communication skill, separate the peoples. Poetry confirms this: it defies the very possibility of translating. How often have I heard people say that certain expressions or subtleties in their language (or dialect) were impossible to translate into any other! In stating this they almost give a definition of poetry! Paradoxically however, poetry pretends to convey universal human qualities, values, characteristics, topics. The human desire to translate foreign texts culminates in the wish to translate poetry. We certainly cannot know a people or a language if we are ignorant of its poetry. Only poetry has the potential to unite humanity spiritually. In our divided world translating becomes a duty, and translating poetry a sacred duty. It reminds me of a famous essay. Let me share it with you now.

   In the year that saw Xu Yunuo write his poems, 1922, a brilliant and equally young and unknown German writer was busy translating French poetry: “Tableaux parisiens”, by Charles Baudelaire. His name: Walter Benjamin. Confronted with the difficulties rising between French and German, as well as with the very reason for translating, he wrote an introduction, which he called (in English translation): “The Task of the Translator”ii, published in Heidelberg, Germany, in 1923. This century old text is still a rich source of insights. I can only comment here on one of countless thought provoking lines. Benjamin’s argument is that a translation, which transmits only the information a poem conveys misses the essence, which is poetic. But a translator who imposes his own poetic standards on the original betrays the poet, which is not recommended either.iii The path between literal and free treatment of a poetic text in a new language is very narrow. But, writes Benjamin, language is a living organism, it changes with the times. Meaning and expressiveness change with it. Translators confront that process, whether they are aware of it or not. When a translation transmits to a new era an old and venerable text, written in the language of a forgone age, it assures of this text the afterlife, it enhances its claims to immortality, which is exactly what we assume we owe to a venerable text. In doing so, the translator underlines nolens volens the fundamental kinship of all human languages, especially in their common and never ending maturing process, when growing from one age into another. So much for Walter Benjamin. 

   I couldn’t help touching here upon an analogy with that most typical of Chinese sacred rituals, the care of the children for the ancestors. And though the cult may have lost of its intensity, forms and terms, even the rude, greedy, indifferent and destructive contemporary society hasn’t eradicated the extreme Chinese sensitivity of family values, transcending the frontiers between generations, practicing parental sacrifices as well as teaching filial piety. As humble as the situation demanded from me, I accepted the role of translator of Xu Yunuo in the spirit of filial piety, assuring a poet’s (or preferably: a poem’s) afterlife. Was I not one of those children Yunuo had in mind, when he composed his Future Garden? I acted like a curator in a museum, giving the best “loving” care to an object, taken out of its original context, and placing a new task on it for a new public. My understanding of the historical process augmented with it: the poet in his writing confronts the present; the translator takes responsibility for the past. He introduces the ancestor to the new generation, for mutual protection against the threat of the future. The nature of the original poem is utter density of time and space, pure potential; the nature of the translation is dissolving, spreading, sharing. The role of the original is imperious, peremptory; that of the translator is modest, communicative. The curator in the museum translates a unique parcel of the past to a wider, if not universal public; it will never have the same impact, but its potential is such that it will gain new impact. Such is also the translator’s task regarding a poem.

   Walter Benjamin was born in 1892, Xu Yunuo in 1894. I was struck by the fact that both young writers wrote a revolutionary text bearing on the mystery of poetry in the same year. Historical coincidences halt me. The two writers were so distant in space; they appeared at the opposed poles of the human commonwealth in the beginning twentieth century. And yet! I could only wonder and then I hit upon other (meaningful?) “coincidences”. Benjamin was the translator and interpreter not only of Charles Baudelaire, but also of French author Marcel Proust, who died in the year 1922, after the fifth tome (“Sodom and Gomorrah”) was published of his eight tomes “In Search of Lost Time” (originally translated, more poetically, but less accurately as “Remembrance of Things Past”). Rarely a whole society and human psychology were scrutinized with sharper intelligence and wit. Many viewed the book (and still view it) as the greatest novel of the century. Others (of the English tongue) give this title to “Ulysses” by James Joyce, the first edition of which came out in … 1922. It was immediately considered the first radically Modernist novel of the English language. It was generally spoken of as difficult to understand, as Proust was said to be difficult to read. The same year 1922 saw the publication of “The Waste Land” by T. S. Eliot. Difficult, people said; obscure even. But the long poem, starting with the line “April is the cruellest month”, is usually seen as the major monument in English Modernist poetry. Every high school student in Britain and the United States is supposed to be acquainted with it. Who would have thought 1922 was such a portentous year in the history of Western literature? T. S. Eliot leads me to Ezra Pound, instrumental in getting “The Waste Land” published. Pound, after some false starts, began the definitive version of his “Cantos” in 1922, a coincidence, we can only think. It is considered a masterpiece of twentieth century poetry. In passing we note that the here mentioned literary celebrities lived for longer or shorter periods in Paris, where Ernest Hemingway finished his first short story (“On the Catastrophe of Smyrna in 1922”, published the following year) and where he met Pound at Gertrude Stein’s Salon, as well as Pablo Picasso, Joan Miro and Jean Cocteau. It was in Paris where more radical French artists and writers adhered to the burgeoning Surrealist movement. André Breton’s “Surrealist Manifesto” appeared in the book stores in 1924, but the movement was in the making since several years and counted as its members such excellent poets as Paul Eluard, Robert Desnos, Philippe Soupault. 1924 was also the year Franz Kafka died from tuberculosis, but not in Paris, in Prague.

   I don’t think Xu Yunuo was aware of what happened in Paris. But when I read his poetry with attention, and a translator is the most attentive of readers, I am surprised by intriguing parallels with the European scene. In my attempts to describe essential stylistic forms in Yunuo, I need terminology from Paris, Berlin, Vienna or Prague. When, for instance, I pointed to the apparent lack of an overall composition of the poem, replaced by strong “blatant” accents like thick color stains calling for exclusive attention, I already used the term Expressionist. This term was, in 1922, almost a synonym for modern art or poetry in Germany and Austria. Comparing it to a longer period of the Germanic poetic tradition, “The Future Garden” strikes a European reader at frequent moments as typically Romantic; Romantic is quite the opposite of our habitual (not always correct) image of Chinese poetics, which would include evenness of mood, self-control, prudence, precision, preciousness, all kept in balance by the strict rules of prescribed forms. Vanguard writers in New Youth would have used the terms pedantic, ostentatious, obscure and obsequious. Romantic stylistic devices seemed to provide a way to escape from the rules: rapidly changing moods, psychological leaps, unexpected contrasts in temper on purely personal basis, hardly explained; and free form or free verse; they had marked German pre-classical poetry and it was the young Goethe, who gave it a name: “Himmelhoch jauchzend, zu Tode betrübt”.iv We tend to call Romantic the preponderance of nature and her impact on the writer: the forest and the setting sun, the singing birds and the dark moon; followed by bits of philosophy they give birth to: the supposed freedom nature offers. Undeniably and frequently Yunuo dips his pen into it. As soon, however, and as often as he hints to this Romantic burden, he shakes it off. This is a general feature: he doesn’t offer us an easy grip on his personality, not one definition covers his versatility; no cage can keep him imprisoned. 

   I said Expressionist. I should invoke and consider the opposite too: Cubism or Constructivism. Here we enter further in the translator’s hardship: what in translation sometimes suffers from menacing disorder was in the original kept in hand by the magic of the Chinese script: characters or ideograms never lost entirely their pictorial impact. In translation they do. Rhyme words, or “doublets”, forms Yunuo is fond of, are not only audible for the local reader, they are visible. A Chinese poem is a structure to the eye as much as to the ear. Typography is an essential given and calligraphy is never far, indeed often it is at the heart of the poem and a living part of it. This element is not foreign to modern poetry in the West either. In the beginning of the twentieth century Guillaume Apollinaire introduced “visible” poetry in France, he called the bundle “Calligrammes” (published 1918). In the twenties this expressive device became Concrete Poetry, when Constructivist typographic design met with poetry. When earlier in this essay I mentioned how Yunuo deals with prose in his poetry, I might have also pointed at his modern sense of structure in the lay-out of the pages.v 

   Yunuo is, above all, an active dreamer. The entire “Future Garden” is presented as a dream the poet spreads out for us in the green grass of the meadow he happens to sit in on the third of May. Inside the “Garden”, the theme of the dream reveals itself as a leitmotiv, both night dreams and daydreams. Who says dream in 1922 in Europe, says Surrealism. Sigmund Freud had ignited the oneiric fire in 1900 with his book on the interpretation of dreams, a milestone in Western culture. Building upon his psychoanalytical theory, he proposed fascinating distinctions between the unconscious and the conscious mind. Dreams were the specific product of the former. The Surrealists would soon proclaim that art and poetry were so too. Painters and poets experimented with this exciting idea, suppressing as far as possible the conscious mind in the creative process and connecting instead with the unconscious. Expressions of children were taken seriously; primitive tribal art was admired, not only for its formal beauty, but for its magical power, rehabilitated as inescapably real. Automatic writing, often in gatherings with friends, was promoted as fundamentally poetic. Robert Desnos developed a form of trance writing. All psychic phenomena, from Spiritism to hypnosis and drug use, were dragged into the sphere of creativity. Dreams now were the high road to poetry. “The Future Garden” is presented as such an unfolding dream; and while reading we enter with the poet into the ambivalence of reality, since this dream evolves from a fictional construction and a metaphor of hope into a (sometimes desperate) vision, and, indeed, a psychic or a surreal (and I would add a mystical) experience.


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i  Reproduced here are the 8th and 9th stanzas of “The Future Garden” and the fifth chapter of an essay, which will serve as the introduction to the English translation of Xu Yunuo’s complete poem, and to be published with it.

ii  I refer to the English translation of Benjamin’s text, published in “Illuminations”, Shocken Books, New York, 1968 (with an introduction by Hannah Ahrendt). Ironically this English translation by Harry Zohn was criticized; the translator edited his work in subsequent editions.

iii  In translating Xu Yunuo, I tended to belong to the second group: all my attention went to hatch a poetic text. My first and only critic, Haiyan Tian, turned out to be a passionate member of the first group: she protected the Chinese language of the original like a hen protects her chicks against the fox; no neglected ideogram of the text would escape her critical eye, the most humble comma would benefit of her special care. Let me thank her here for the great trouble she went through in a constant mood, for her unrelenting defense of apparently futile nuances, for her forbidding eye and for the character she developed in all those linguistic battles.

iv  Translated: “Exalting to the highest heavens, grieving to mortal despair.”

v  Contemporary books and their standardized printed forms don’t honor Yunuo’s research of visible poetic effects.




 


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