THE “US” OF LITERATURE
Publishing a quarterly is something that presses on you by the day and the month. In twenty years, the hotline between Nancy and me, as consultant, was always ringing. If something couldn’t be resolved over the phone, we’d meet; for example: the order of the texts, meeting with a new translator, sharing the discovery of a new piece of writing, and the joys of finding the right word. At the end of 1978, when Lin Wenyue and I made an academic visit to Korea, we became fast friends. After we returned to Taipei, she often joined Nancy and me, and we were all soon frequently joined by Lin Haiyin. Every month or every other month for a period of ten years, we would get together and talk excitedly about what we had written or translated recently. These were happy occasions for all of us.
Lin Wenyue and I were colleagues at NTU. She was in the Chinese department and I was in the Department of Foreign Languages and Literatures. Books brought us together as close friends. The first thing I read was her One Year in Kyoto, which left a deep impression as the sort of travel book an educated woman should write. One day I was teaching in Room 16 at the College of Arts and Sciences building when a woman in high black boots walked down the hall outside. The students later told me that she was Lin Wenyue, the author of One Year in Kyoto. When the Association for Comparative Literature was founded, she along with Zheng Qian and Ye Qingbing were among the founding members from the Chinese program. We often sat together in the board meetings, and when we attended conferences and meetings we were often the only two women, so we roomed together. On our first day in Korea, we were taken to a hotel outside of Seoul, next to which was a farmhouse where cabbages and radishes for preparing pickles were piled, which reminded me of my old home in the northeast and the hired hands storing the cabbages in the cellar for the winter. That night I told Wenyue about my mother, and we talked long into night the despite being tired. After the trip to Korea, we also traveled to Japan for almost two weeks, where we shared our joys and sorrows and had many thoughts and views to discuss.
Starting in 1972, Wenyue spent the next six years absorbed in the translation of The Tale of Genji, which was eventually published in five volumes. I found her translation, the first scholarly translation into Chinese, admirable. Writers like to talk about fame, but this profession is one that really does provide fame. Among the four of us, Wenyue was seldom excitable or impassioned and was more often a good listener. In expressing her opinions, she was always calm and her speech measured, perhaps because she was ten years younger than I. Her translation of The Tale of Genji was followed by translations of Tales of Ise and The Pillow Book of Sei Shonagon. One time when the four of us were having dinner, Haiyin said that she wanted to publish Wenyue’s latest translation of The Diary of Izumi Shikibu. The following month when we got together, the proofs were ready and Haiyin asked her if she could go over them in the next week. I interjected, “She’ll probably have it done in three days.” As expected, this refined volume with Gou Yulun’s exquisite cover was published in a matter of two months as Chunwenxue’s final commemorative book.
Shortly thereafter, Nancy fell ill and began to lose her memory. Before Wenyue relocated in the States with her husband, we frequently met at a coffeehouse between our homes on the corner of Hoping East Road and Xinsheng South Road. We never ran out of things to talk about, and she even helped me with the quarterly covers and other things. We sat by the window and watched the people coming and going. One day someone stopped at the window and looked in, following which he came into the coffeehouse. It was the poet Mei Xin, the editor of the literary supplement of the Central Daily News. He came over to our table and said, “You know, we often wonder what the two of you are talking about.” That day we happened to be engaged in working on the cover of the commemorative hundredth issue. Wenyue had cut a number of laurel leaves and was assembling a crown, in the middle of which was written “Chinese PEN 100.” Shortly thereafter, Mei Xin passed away, and we both had the impression that he had come to bid us farewell.
To date, Wenyue has published more than twenty volumes of essays and literary jottings, mostly about what she was reading, conversations, life, travel, and visits with old friends, always moving and sincere. In 1999 she published Diet Diary, in which through various menus, she recalled gatherings with family, friends, and teachers. The book created a fad of literature on food and drink, and described the pleasures of life in a time of peace and prosperity. Actually, her real intent by describing the gatherings was to recapture the sense of sadness that came when they ended.
After Wenyue left Taipei, Haiyin became bedridden and the living room lamp was extinguished.
Taiwan literature written in Chinese, which can be traced back over three hundred years, began with the Eastern Song Society established by Shen Guangwen in 1685. The Japanese occupied the island and vigorously promoted Japanese, and literature written in Japanese by Taiwan writers is still available today, much of it having been translated into Chinese as well as being the subject of research. The place of writers such as Lai Ho, Wu Zhuoliu, Long Yingzong, Yang Kui, and Lu Heruo are honored and established. The writers who came to Taiwan after 1949 and wrote about homeland and homesickness have been swallowed by time, but their writings are part of Taiwan. The writers who matured after the war grew up reading the works of these writers in the literary supplements and magazines, and never really made much of a distinction as to where a writer was from. Zhong Zhaozheng, Ye Shitao, Ji Xian, Lin Hengtai, Yu Kwang-chung, Zhou Mengdie, Lo Fu, Ya Hsien, Yang Mu, Wu Sheng, Qi Jun, Lin Haiyin, Huang Chunming, Bai Xianyong, Li Qiao, Zheng Qingwen, Zhang Xiaofeng, and Xi Murong all sit and laugh and talk together. For readers who have been torn apart by political discourse, it is undeniable that these older and middle-aged writers have cultivated a Taiwan literature of substance and beauty that is well received internationally. For literature there is no “them,” no “you,” just “us.”
TAKING OVER THE EDITORSHIP OF PEN
One morning in May 1992, Nancy Ing called me and asked if I could come over to her house immediately. Upon entering her study, I found her with her arms around her typewriter, her head down on the machine, crying. She looked up and said, “Pang-yuan, I can’t translate a poem for the next issue of the quarterly. What am I going to do?” It was Bai Ling’s short poem “Kite.” Over the last twenty years, the quarterly had published translations of about two hundred modern poems, approximately half of which Nancy had quite happily translated, but now she was facing the loss of her memory. Helplessly, like someone who was entrusted with something precious by a friend, I took over the editing duties at the quarterly.
I knew that Nancy had received regular financial support from her husband, and even after I took over, he still took the initiative to send another fifty thousand yuan (New Taiwan Dollars) to the quarterly, though he was ill. The Government Information Office and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs purchased several hundred copies to give away, which became our sole source of revenue. A sympathetic soul at the Council for Cultural Planning privately suggested that we apply for money under a plan of theirs called “Special Columns on Cultural Inheritance.” I therefore asked Yan Junying and Chen Fangmei, former art history students in my NTU Advanced English class, to take turns writing an English essay for each issue. Yan Junying had received a degree from Harvard and was then a researcher at Academia Sinica, and she started off with a piece on Tang dynasty Buddhist art; Chen Fangmei had received a degree from London University and was then working for the Palace Museum, and she began with a piece on Zhou bronzes. They wrote for ten years, helping the quarterly to receive money from the council to cover printing costs.
At the time of greatest need, Wenyue was instrumental in applying for and receiving funds to help us from her father’s Lin Bozou Foundation. On two occasions, monthly salaries could not be paid, but private contributions got us through those difficult times. PEN has a magnificent board of directors that only meets at fixed times, so for all my real difficulties all they could
say was: “She who is capable will have to work more!” After a working meal, they could all return to their comfortable occupations, but being seventy, I was feeling pretty tired and asked the board to find a replacement. They laughed and said, “You’re doing fine; life begins at seventy,” and so the meeting ended.
Happily, while I was at the quarterly I did put together a stable team of translators, the first of whom was Nicholas Koss, who had come to teach at Fu Jen Catholic University in 1991. He was introduced to Nancy and me by Pierre E. Demers, who was teaching at NTU. Nicholas was a Benedictine brother and had a Ph.D. in comparative literature from Indiana University. After I took over, he was one of my most reliable translators and polishers. He also read over my “Editor’s Note” for each issue.
In the early 1990s, Daniel J. Bauer joined the team. He taught English at Fu Jen University and for many years had written a column for the China Post, Taiwan’s oldest English language newspaper. He was particularly fond of poetic writing and is still a good companion of ours.
Edward Vargo, who ran the College of Foreign Languages at Fu Jen University, also joined our team. He and Nicholas were anxious to promote a graduate school of translation at Fu Jen, and Nancy and I helped make a case for the proposal by speaking with Chen Qing at the Ministry of Education about the importance of training translators. Ultimately, the proposal was approved. Members of the first two graduating classes at Fu Jen included Michelle Wu, May Tang, Carlos Tee, and Nancy Du, all of whom have translated fiction, prose, and art criticism for the quarterly. I was thus able to actually see the program bear fruit, which was gratifying. Michelle Wu was a student of mine at NTU, and both she and Nancy Du had parents in the foreign service, so they received complete educations in both English and Chinese at home and abroad.
The late 1980s saw a golden age in comparative literature at NTU, when a younger generation of scholars that included Song Meihwa, Chang Hanliang, Perng Ching-hsi, and Kao Tian’en were all invited to join PEN and were soon helping out will all sorts of duties, ultimately editing the quarterly. An even younger generation includes Zheng Xiuxia, Karen Chung, and Yanwing Leung, who is the quarterly’s current editor. Thus a group of people sharing the belief in the importance of Taiwan literature coalesced. In the process of recruiting talent, we were befriended by a number of expert translators from at home and abroad, including Howard Goldblatt, John Minford, Göran Malmqvist, Michelle Yeh, and John Balcom, who began translating poetry for the quarterly when he was in his twenties.
When I first took over the editorship, I frequently looked at the shelves of the quarterly beside my desk. Unlike in other magazines, there were no advertisements or adornments, with each issue looking much like a book. I wanted to give each issue the content, spirit, and permanence of a book, and for the quarterly to be more than just a place for periodic literary exchanges among friends. I wanted to give each issue a theme and a perspective so that it could stand alone.
The first theme that came to mind was literature of the armed forces, which was sometimes referred to as the literature of homesickness. Actually, most of the mainlanders who came to Taiwan around 1949 had something to do with the military. The military of China had a tradition of the soldier-scholar, and after arriving in Taiwan, some of these people left the military and went into magazine and newspaper publishing, and some taught. Among the more accomplished poets were Ji Xian, Qin Zihao, Lo Fu, Shang Qin, and Ya Hsien.
A second generation of writers grew up in the housing for military dependents and received fine educations. They were of broad vision and had the talent to absorb techniques from world literature. By then Taiwan was prospering economically, and major newspapers established literary awards to encourage writers from the younger generation, including Ai Ya, Sun Weimang, Zhu Tianwen, Zhu Tianxin, Zhang Dachun, Xiao Sa, Su Weizhen, Yuan Qiongqiong, and Zhang Qijiang, to name a few.
I fought nine years for the quarterly, which, along with the previous twenty of Nancy, as well as the years since, have seen the publication of hundreds of short stories, essays, poetry, and art criticism. In those years, no representative writer has been missed. PEN International publishes two issues of its magazine a year, and almost every issue has included something reprinted from Taiwan. Someday when someone writes a history of cultural exchange, I wonder if they will mention the steadfastness of the quarterly.
In all those years, I knew that the one thing missing was the translation of novels, which would make a hugely persuasive case for Taiwan literature. In 1990, Guo Weifan, head of the Council for Cultural Planning, convened a fact-finding committee for a plan to translate Chinese books into English. Happily I attended the meeting to contribute my ideas. Lists of books to translate, translators, and examiners were drawn up. Director Guo personally ran the dozen or so meetings, listening seriously and discussing ways to proceed. The council actually came up with a budget. Suddenly, however, Director Guo was transferred to head the Ministry of Education. The next five years saw three different directors, each of whom wanted to convene the same fact-finding meetings, but in each case, the meetings were run by an assistant. The notes from the previous meetings were reviewed, a few comments added, and some changes made, after which the meeting was then ended with a few bureaucratic comments and thanks for our ideas. The third time such a meeting was held, I asked, “Why must we again discuss something that has already been settled?” The assistant director replied, “When directors change, the rules of the game must also change.” I replied, “I am very busy and do not have time to play games.” Upon which, I stood up and left. Since then, I have never set aside any time for such meetings, nor have I had any confidence in official cultural policy.
Since the founding of the quarterly, I had become an effective year-round consultant, but I was very busy and had never asked for an actual job description. I shouldered the task for nearly ten years! How would I describe the successes and failures of those years? I had been waiting, keeping a lookout for someone to take my place, but it was a strange job without financing, without a staff, without a salary, and without applause. Those who were younger than I and who were competent would briefly consider the sacrifices and, not knowing whom they were fighting for, would simply say they were too busy and refuse the job. Actually, I should have realized earlier that handling the quarterly was super lonely and hard work. All real writers work alone. Originally PEN was an organization of friends who met for the sake of literature, but after Nancy retired, the friendships she established with early members of the English and French associations gradually went cold.
My feelings for the PEN quarterly deepened with each passing year, but we parted just prior to the millennium. Not that I didn’t want to stay, but time waits for no one, and parting is parting. I had put my shoulder to the yoke and moved ahead, and what I had accomplished was the fulfillment of my quixotic role.
AN UNEXPECTED PLEASANT SURPRISE: MODERN CHINESE LITERATURE FROM TAIWAN IN ENGLISH TRANSLATION
In 1996, David Wang invited me to participate in the planning of the Modern Chinese Literature from Taiwan in English translation series for Columbia University Press. The editorial board was composed of David Wang, Göran Malmqvist, and myself, with funding provided by the Chiang Ching-kuo Foundation for Scholarly Exchange. This was the last unexpected and pleasant surprise in my life, and a great opportunity to fulfill a cherished desire. Beyond the cultural significance of this cooperation, there was also an element of destiny.
David Wang graduated from NTU’s Department of Foreign Languages and Literatures in 1976 and went to the United States, where he obtained a Ph.D. in comparative literature from the University of Wisconsin. In 1987 he was teaching at Harvard, and Nancy and I invited him to serve as an editorial consultant for the PEN quarterly. He frequently returned to Taiwan to see family and attend conferences, and his writing on Taiwan literature was as broad as it was deep and influential. In 1990 he went to teach at Columbia University and was taken on as an advisor for the Press, entrusted with c
arrying out the Chiang Ching-kuo Foundation plan for translating Taiwan literature into English. From the time our cooperation began until now, over thirty volumes have been published in the series.
In 1989, David Wang returned to Taiwan for his father’s funeral. Shortly after the ceremony, Liang Surong, a family friend, asked me, “Do you know that he is Mr. Wang Jingren’s son?” Hearing this, I was dumbfounded and overcome with a mixture of feelings. My own father had just passed away two years earlier and the events of his life were still fresh in my memory. My father arrived in Taiwan with nothing, but he did have staunch friends who wanted to help keep Time and Tide going, for which I was grateful.
When the Japanese occupied the northeast, Wang Jingren served as the director of the Bureau of Education in Changling County, Jilin, and secretly took part in anti-Japanese underground work, assisting in the revolutionary activities of which my father was in charge. He was a patriot filled with a sense of justice. Who could have foreseen that after victory in the war against Japan, international and national policy mistakes would allow the northeast to fall into the hands of the Communists? Making the arduous journey, he arrived alone in Taiwan, his home and country lost. Early on, he was recommended by Shi Jian, a revolutionary comrade, and joined Time and Tide as an editor when it resumed publication in Taiwan. Later he was in charge of the business office. From the end of the 1950s to the 1970s, he helped my father keep the weekly magazine going, sometimes without pay and even risking being jailed wrongly by the political powers. Time and Tide had the most weight of any publication with international political commentary in Chongqing during the eight years of the war. On the verge of bankruptcy, it shut down several times, but always resumed. In the last run, 153 issues were published, and they received 152 warnings from the authorities before they finally stopped publication. In those ten years in Taipei, they moved from Xuchang Street to Jinxi Street, where they rented a small room and, ignoring the precarious situation outside, shared in the difficult-to-realize ideals and aspirations of men of letters, which took a great deal of courage. I admired Uncle Jingren’s sense of morality and justice and his strength of character. If the two old brothers get together again in heaven, it will be comforting to them to see that destiny brought David Wang and me together to continue their life and work in letters.
The Great Flowing River Page 44