The Big Red Book of Modern Chinese Literature
Page 4
# These are quotations from the old classic Zuo Zhuan.
** According to ancient records, Yi Ya cooked his son and presented him to Duke Huan of Qi, who reigned from 685 to 643 B.C. Chieh and Chou were tyrants of an earlier age. The madman has made a mistake here.
†† A revolutionary at the end of the Qing dynasty (1644–1911), Hsu Hsilin was executed in 1907 for assassinating a Qing official. His heart and liver were eaten.
HU SHIH
(1891–1962)
A leader of the New Culture Movement, Hu Shih was born in Shanghai in 1891. In 1910 he went to America to study agriculture at Cornell University, but soon switched his major to philosophy and literature. After graduation, he pursued a doctoral degree in philosophy at Columbia University and became a lifelong follower of John Dewey’s Pragmatism. In 1917 Hu published “A Modest Proposal for the Reform of Literature,” in which he proposes to replace classical Chinese with vernacular Chinese as a literary language, thereby breaking the tyranny of the classics. His book Experimental Verses, published in 1920, was the first volume of poetry written in vernacular Chinese. A key figure in twentieth century literature and scholarship, Hu also served as China’s ambassador to the United States (1938–42), Chancellor of Peking University (1946–48), and president of the Academia Sinica in Taiwan, where he died of a heart attack in 1962.
The Butterflies
Two yellow butterflies
In pair fly to the skies;
I don’t know why
One suddenly returns
Leaving the other one
Lonely and pitiful.
It too has no heart to fly into the skies,
For heaven is too lonely a place.
—1916
Dream and Poetry
All is commonplace experience,
All is commonplace impression.
By chance they rush into a dream
They are transformed into many new patterns.
All is commonplace sentiment,
All is commonplace word,
By chance they meet a poet
They are transformed into many new poems.
Only after being drunk does one know the wine is strong,
Only after having loved does one know the depth of love.
You can never write my poems,
I can never dream your dreams.
—1920
One Smile
Over ten years ago
Someone gave me a smile.
At the time—I did not know why—
I only felt that he smiled well.
I don’t know what happened to that man,
But his smile remained;
Not only could I not forget him,
But the longer the smile lasted, the more lovable it became.
I have written many love poems on it,
I have made many different settings for it;
Some felt sad reading the verse,
Others felt gay reading the verse.
Gay or sad,
It is only a smile.
I have never found that man who smiled,
But I am grateful for his lovely smile.
—1920
(Translated by Julia C. Lin)
To the Tune of Shengzhazi
Wishing to have no love at all
And avoid the bitterness of loveless love
But after weighing my options
Willing to have lovesick thoughts of love
—1919
(Translated by Glenn D. Mott)
GUO MORUO
(1892–1978)
A pioneer in new verse, Guo Moruo was a major figure in twentieth century China. Son of a small-town landlord in Sichuan, Guo went to study medicine in Japan in 1914. There he fell in love with a Japanese nurse named Sato Tomiko and revoked his earlier arranged marriage. He lived with Sato for twenty years and had five children with her. Influenced by Western romantic poets such as Shelley, Goethe, and Whitman, Guo in 1921 published a collection of poems, Goddesses. Exploding with intense emotions and espousing individualism and pantheism, his work fully grasped the zeitgeist of the May Fourth Movement. Versatile, energetic, rebellious, Guo was influential in both state politics and scholarly pursuits, holding important official positions and claiming expertise in history, archeology, and other disciplines.
The Streets of Heaven
The streetlights in the distance have brightened
Like countless bright stars sparkling.
The bright stars in heaven have appeared
Like countless luminous streetlights.
Surely in that misty sky
There are lovely streets.
The items displayed there
Must be treasures unfound on this earth.
Look, that shallow Milky Way
Surely cannot be too wide.
The cowherd and weaving maid across the river
Surely can ride their buffaloes to meet each other.
I think just at this moment, they
Surely must be strolling along those streets of heaven.
If you do not believe me, look at the blooming comet.
It must be the lantern they carry on their walk.
—1921
The Sky Dog
Ya, I am a sky dog!
I have swallowed the moon,
I have swallowed the sun.
I have swallowed all the planets,
I have swallowed the entire universe.
I am I!
I am the light of the moon,
I am the light of the sun.
I am the light of all the planets,
I am the light of X-ray,
I am the total energy of the entire universe.*
I am flying,
I am screaming,
I am burning,
I am burning like a fierce fire!
I am screaming like the mighty ocean!
I am running like electricity!
I am running,
I am running,
I tear my skin,
I eat my flesh,
I chew my heart,
I am running on my nerves,
I am running on my spines,
I am running in my brain.
I am I!
The I of I is about to explode!
—1920
The Nirvana of the Feng and Huang: Prelude
On the threshold of the new year, there in the sky
The Feng and Huang fly back and forth.†
Singing mournful tunes as they fly away,
Bearing twigs of fragrant wood as they return,
Return to Tan-hsüeh Mountain.
To the right of the mountain is the withered Wu-t’ung tree,
To the left of the mountain is the dried-up spring.
Before the mountain is the wide expanse of the sea,
Behind the mountain is the vast dreary plain,
And over the mountain a frozen sky of bitter winds.
The sky is now darkened,
The fragrant wood is now piled high,
The Feng is now wearied from flying,
The Huang is now wearied from flying,
Their hour of death is nearing.
The Feng pecks at the fragrant wood,
Sparks of fire upward dart;
The Huang fans the fire sparks,
Strands of smoke rise upward.
Again pecks the Feng,
Again pecks the Huang,
On the mountain the scented smoke swirls,
On the mountain the firelight fills the sky.
The night has deepened,
The fragrant wood is lighted,
The Feng is wearied from pecking,
The Huang is wearied from fanning,
Their hour of death is nearing!
Ah, ah,
Sad, sad are Feng and Huang!
Feng starts his dance, now slow, now high!
Huang starts her songs, now sad, now exalted!
Again Feng dances,
Again Huang sings,
A flock of birds has now flown over
Beyond the sky to attend the burial.
—1920
(Translated by Julia C. Lin)
* Both “X-ray” and “energy” were English in the original poem.
† Both Feng and Huang in Chinese mean “phoenix,” with Feng being the male bird and Huang the female.
LIU BANNONG
(1891–1934)
A native of Jiangsu, Liu Bannong was a child prodigy who turned against the old education system. A high school dropout but a reputable writer, he was offered in 1917 a professorship at Peking University, where he edited the New Culture Movement’s flagship journal New Youth. In 1920 he went to study in England, followed by four years at the University of Paris, where he pursued a doctoral degree in linguistics. One of the earliest practitioners of new verse, Liu turned his attention to folk songs and often wrote about the working class. His most famous poem, “How Can I Not Miss Her” (1920), was later set to music by Yuen Ren Chao and became a hit in the 1930s. It was also in this poem that Liu coined the first modern Chinese feminine pronoun (she, or her). In 1925, Liu returned to China and resumed teaching at Peking University. He died at the age of forty-three from an insect bite during linguistic fieldwork in Mongolia.
How Can I Not Miss Her
Light clouds drift in the sky
Gentle breezes blow on earth
Alas!
Gentle breezes brushing my hair
How can I not miss her?
The moonlight loves the ocean
The ocean loves the moonlight
Alas!
On this night of sweet silver
How can I not miss her?
Fallen flowers float on water
Fish swim slowly under there
Alas!
My swallow, what did you whisper?
How can I not miss her?
A withered tree sways in the chilly wind
A prairie fire burns the dusk
Alas!
In the west twilights linger
How can I not miss her?
Paper Thin
Inside the house a stove fire burns.
“Open the windows and buy fruit,”
the master commanded.
Saying, “The weather is not cold,
But you will roast me with such a fire.”
Outside the house lies a beggar
Teeth clenched against the north wind
Crying, “Die, Damn you!”
Pity that between indoors and out
Is a partition thin as paper.
(Translated by Yunte Huang)
XU DISHAN
(1893–1941)
Born in Taiwan, Xu Dishan was an active participant in the May Fourth Movement when he was a student at Yenching University (later Peking University). Along with Mao Dun, Ye Shengtao, and others, he founded the Literary Research Society in 1921 and edited the influential journal Short Story Monthly. He studied philosophy and religion at Columbia University in 1923 and then at Oxford University in 1924. A highly regarded writer, scholar, and translator, Xu died of a heart attack at the age of forty-eight while teaching in Hong Kong. Xu was known for his plain-styled essays, like “The Peanut” and “I Think,” in which the author meditates on philosophical, religious, and ethical themes.
The Peanut
Behind our house there used to be half an acre of empty field. Mom said, “It’s a pity to let it lie fallow. Since you all enjoy peanuts so much, let’s turn it into a peanut patch.” We siblings and the house girls all loved the idea. So we bought the seeds, dug the soil, and watered the field. A few months later, we had a harvest!
Mom said, “We should celebrate our harvest tonight and invite your dad to taste our new peanuts, okay?” We all agreed. Mother went on to make half a dozen peanut dishes. She also told us to hold our celebration at the thatched pavilion in the garden.
The weather wasn’t great that night, but Dad came—how amazing! Dad asked, “Do you all like peanuts?”
“Yes!” we replied eagerly.
“Who can name the virtues of the peanut?”
“Peanuts smell good,” answered elder sister.
“Peanuts give us cooking oil,” said elder brother.
“Everyone, rich or poor, can buy them cheaply and everyone enjoys eating them,” said I. “That is the virtue of the peanut.”
Dad said, “There’re indeed many uses for the peanut, but one of them is the most precious. The tiny bean is not like an apple, peach, or pomegranate, which hangs its fruit on the branches, in bright red or fresh green, drawing attention from admirers. Instead, it buries the fruit underneath the soil, to be dug out only when ripe. If you happen to see a peanut plant curling up above the ground, you can’t tell right away whether it bears any fruit, until you see the whole of it.”
“That’s true,” we all said. Mom also nodded her head, as Dad continued, “So you should all be like a peanut, being a useful thing, but not a mighty one that looks conspicuously pretty.”
I asked, “Does it mean I should try to be a useful person, not one dignified by might?”
“That is indeed my hope for you,” said Dad.
We chatted till late at night. All the peanut dishes were gone, but Dad’s words left an indelible impression on my heart.
I Think
What am I thinking?
In my heart there used to be a road leading to the Garden of Paradise, once treaded by a woman. But now she’s gone, and the road is so deserted and overgrown with weeds, wildflowers, thorny brush, and twisted vines that I can hardly see it.
I have long been thinking about that road, which exists not for her alone. Since she’s gone, why can’t I take strolls there by myself?
The weeds and wildflowers are lovely and fragrant; how can I bear to get rid of them? The thorny underbrush and entangled vines are so overflowing and extensive; without any tool in hand, how do I dare touch them? I’ve thought about wandering alone on that road, but haven’t set off.
Days pass, and I begin to forget where the road leads. I can only walk to the edge of the road and sit there quietly by a little pond gazing listlessly, contemplating that grass-covered and vine-locked path.
As a gust of wind blows petals into the water, pond koi rush to the surface to nibble, mistaking flowers for some delicacy. My thoughts also float on water, nibbled and then spat out by the fish like bubbling foams, drifting back into the air.
The fish are still swimming happily. I am not willing to blaze the trail myself, nor would I abandon my thoughts. Alas!
I fix my gaze on the koi bobbing up and down, while my recollections also wander up and down.
Ah, woman! You’ve now turned into the koi in my “pond of memory.” Sometimes you float to the surface, showing yourself to me; sometimes you sink, making me wonder where you are, beneath which fallen leaf, between what rocks and sands.
But where that road leads I have long forgotten. I can only sit by the water every day, waiting for you to emerge from the bottom of the pond.
(Translated by Yunte Huang)
BING XIN
(1900–1999)
Born in Fujian, Bing Xin, real name Xie Wanying, was brought up in Shandong, where her father was the head of a naval college. In 1918 she attended the Peking Union College for Women (later amalgamated with Yenching University) and became active in student protest and literary reform. Influenced by Rabindranath Tagore’s Stray Birds, she published A Maze of Stars (1921) and Spring Water (1922), both collections of “mini poems,” which are influenced by classical Chinese jueju and Japanese haiku, and reminiscent of Greek epigrams. She studied at Wellesley College from 1923 to 1926 and graduated with a master’s degree in English literature. In her ensuing long career spanning the entire twentieth century, she remained an influential poet, novelist, essayist, translator, and writer of children’s literature.
A Maze of Stars (selections)
19
My hear
t—
A lonely vessel
cuts through the ebb and swell of time.
34
That which creates the new shoreline
is not the rolling wave
but the tiny grains of sand beneath it.
44
Nature,
allow me just one question,
one serious question:
“Haven’t I mistaken you?”
49
Fragmented lines,
a little spray on the sea of learning.
Yet the lights in them gleam and sparkle:
a maze of stars set into the heavens of the heart.
73
Worthless words,
thrown on the fire,
transformed into worthless light.
74
The child
is a great poet,
with an imperfect tongue,
lisping perfect verse.
81
Deep night—
I am tired, let me
lay down my pen
and share a brief quiet moment with you.
97
Is it true?
The heart is just a music box,
always churning out the same old song.
(Translated by John Cayley)
Spring Water (selections)
14
Nature called aloud and said—
“Take your pen,
Dip it into my ocean;
Humanity’s heart is too dry and parched.”
17
The setting sun shines on the withered grass of the red wall.
Go down quickly, O sun!
You cause many young people to age early.