Epitaph

Epitaph

Lu Xun, 6/17/1925

Tr. Huiwen Zhang, 2011

I dream of myself standing opposite a gravestone, reading the engraving. The gravestone appears to be made of sand and gravel, many layers flaking, overgrown with patches of moss, retaining only line fragments—

“…in the heated frenzy of a grandiose choir, froze; in heaven saw the abyss.  In all eyes saw nothingness; in hopelessness found salvation…

“…There was a wandering spirit that turned into a serpent with poisonous fangs.  Instead of biting into others, it bit into its own body until it finally fell dead…

“... Leave! ...”

I circle around to the back of the gravestone, and then I see an orphan tomb, with no greenery over it, and already decrepit.  Through a large opening I suddenly glimpse a corpse, chest and gut cut open, heart and liver gone.  But the face bearing no sign of joy or grief, was merely as hazy as smoke. 

I have hardly turned away in fear and apprehension, when I catch sight of maimed lines on the stone's far side—

“… dug out my heart to eat, yearning to know its true taste.  The torment so ruthlessly intense, how else to know the true taste? ...

“… once the torment dulled, ate my heart tranquilly.  Yet already stale, how else then to know the true taste? …

“… Answer me.  Otherwise, leave!...”

I am about to leave.  Yet the corpse in the grave has already sat up, mouth and lips still, yet saying–

“Wait until I turn to dust, and then you shall see my smile!”

I hurry away, not daring to glance back, terrified of seeing him follow.

Wild Grass / Dedication

Wild Grass · Dedication

Lu Xun, April 26, 1927

Tr. by Huiwen Zhang, 2011

When I am silent, I feel whole; once I open my mouth, I feel empty.

The past life has already died.  From this death I attain Nirvana, because through this I know it once existed.  The dead life has already decayed.  From this decay I attain Nirvana, because through this I know it is not yet empty.

The mud of life abandoned on the earth no longer grows lofty trees, but only wild grass.  This is my fault.

Wild grass, of roots not deep, of flowers and leaves not beautiful, nonetheless draws in the dew, draws in the water, draws in the flesh and blood of the long dead, gaining from each its existence.  Yet in existence, it will all the same suffer trampling, suffer mowing, until death and decay.

Yet I am peaceful, cheerful.  I will laugh aloud, I will sing a tune.

I love my wild grass, yet I loathe the wild grass decorated earth.

The earth fire beneath the earth spreads, surges; once lava gushes out, it will burn up all the wild grass, as well as the lofty trees, hence nothing is left even to decay.

Yet I am peaceful, cheerful.  I will laugh aloud, I will sing a tune.

Heaven and earth are so solemn, I cannot laugh aloud or sing a tune.  Were heaven and earth not so solemn, I perhaps even then could not.  I, with this single handful of wild grass between light and dark, life and death, past and future, dedicated to friend and foe, man and beast, loved and unloved, testify.

For myself, for friend and foe, man and beast, loved and unloved, I wish this wild grass’s rapid death and decay.  Else, I would never have existed, and this would indeed be more tragic than death and decay.

Go then, wild grass, with my dedication!

Meditation on the Road. New Series. 3

Sonnet 1

Feng Zhi, 1941

tr. Huiwen Zhang, 2011 

We prepare to receive deeply

Those unimaginable miracles.

In all the endless years suddenly

Emerges a comet, wild winds stir:

Our being in this split second

As if in the first ever embrace

All past joy and grief before our eyes suddenly

Take definite shape.

We sing the praise of those tiny insects

That, after mating once

Or resisting danger once,

End their precious lives.

Our whole being enfolds

The stirring of wild winds, the emergence of a comet.

Meditation on the Road. New Series. 2-2

Sonett 14

Van Gogh (Deutsch)

Feng Zhi, 1941

Aus dem Chinesischen v. Huiwen Zhang

Deine Leidenschaft legt Feuer überall,

Einen Strauß Sonnenblumen,

Entflammst du, ein Zypressendickicht

Entflammst du, noch unter der Sonne

Laufende Menschen, auch sie sind

Flammen, die in die Höhe heulen;

Doch am Frühlingsanfang einsam ein kahles

Bäumchen, ein Gefängnishof,

Und in einem dunklen Raum ein Mensch,

Den Kopf gesenkt, Kartoffeln schälend:

Lauter Blöcke Eis, die niemals schmelzen.

Dazwischen malst du eine Hängebrücke,

Eine zarte Gondel: Willst Du ja

Die Armen herüberbringen?

Meditation on the Road. New Series. 2-1

Sonnet 14

Van Gogh (English)

Feng Zhi, 1941

Tr. Huiwen Zhang

Your passion sets everywhere aflame,

You set a bouquet of sunflowers,

Aflame, a thicket of cypress

Aflame, and still under the scorching sun

People passing, also

Skyward howling flames;

Yet in early spring a lonely

Young tree, a tiny prison courtyard,

And in a dark room heads lowered

People peeling potatoes: All

Blocks of never melting ice.

Between you’ve painted a drawbridge,

A fairy boat: Do you really hope to

Bring the unlucky across?

Meditation on the Road. New Series. 1

Sonnet 5 


Venice

Feng Zhi, 1941

tr. Huiwen Zhang

I never will forget

That water city of the west,

A crystal of the human world,

A cluster of a thousand isolations.

Each isolation an island,

Each forging a friendship.

When you give me a hand,

A bridge across water;

When you give me a smile,

From the island opposite

A suddenly opened chamber window.

Waiting until the deep silent night,

Only to see the window shut,

And human traces fade from the bridge.

Todesfuge

Aus dem Chinesischen

Heute habe ich erfahren, daß ein Freund von einem meiner besten Freunde todkrank ist. Ich weiß nicht, wie ich ihm helfen soll, außer daß ich ihm zwei chinesische Gedichte (zum Thema Tod und Sterben) in meiner deutschen Übersetzung zugänglich mache:

An einen verstorbenen Freund

Feng Zhi, 1937

Übersetzt von Huiwen Zhang, 2007

I.

Ich weiß jetzt, der Tod ist nicht

an das Alter gebunden;

im Winter läßt sich der Tag nicht vom Abend scheiden

beide sind matt und dünn.

Schwarze Haare und rote Münder jedoch

ahnen oft den nahen Tod;

gleich einem hellen Frühling bist Du in die Nacht

versunken, dunkel und gelassen.

II.

Vielen bin ich zufällig begegnet,

die ich gerne wiederfände.

Mit einigen ging ich einen Pfad

in einem dunklen kühlen Wald;

mit einigen sprach ich im Zug;

mit einigen tauschte ich bei Tisch den Namen ...

Schließt Du Dich nun auch all diesen Fremden an

– und läßt mich suchen?

Begegnung

Einem Freund der vielen Fernen

Huiwen Zhang

Beim Überfliegen der Weltliteratur rufe ich häufig aus: Das hätte ich schreiben müssen! Man bedauert aufrichtig, zu spät auf die Welt gekommen zu sein. Gleichzeitig gibt es aber auch Stellen, die ich nicht unbedingt selbst schreiben will oder kann, in denen ich mich jedoch voll geheimer Freude – und Scheu – erkenne.

Vor ca. zwei Wochen bin ich einem begegenet, der mir unerwartet rasch näher gekommen ist. Als heute ein weiterer Brief von ihm bei mir eintraf, erinnerte ich mich plötzlich an eine Szene aus Rilkes „Weise von Liebe und Tod des Cornets Christoph Rilke“:

    Die Turmstube ist dunkel.

    Aber sie leuchten sich ins Gesicht mit ihrem Lächeln. Sie tasten vor sich her wie Blinde und finden den Andern wie eine Tür. Fast wie Kinder, die sich vor der Nacht ängstigen, drängen sie sich in einander ein. Und doch fürchten sie sich nicht. Da ist nichts, was gegen sie wäre: kein Gestern, kein Morgen; denn die Zeit ist eingestürzt. Und sie blühen aus ihren Trümmern.

    Er fragt nicht: »Dein Gemahl?«

    Sie fragt nicht: »Dein Namen?«

    Sie haben sich ja gefunden, um einander ein neues Geschlecht zu sein.

Sie werden sich hundert neue Namen geben und einander alle wieder abnehmen, leise, wie man einen Ohrring abnimmt.

Das war und ist eine meiner Lieblingspassagen von Rilke. Darin hat sich – so glaube ich zumindest – ein jedes denkende, fühlende, dichtende und träumende Wesen mehr als einmal verblüfft und wünschlos glücklich gesehen.

Anthropofagia, Cannibalism, and Grabbism

 A Coincidence between Brazil’s and China’s Paths towards Modernity

Huiwen Zhang

A friend of mine held an inspiring presentation on “Latex, Blood, Ink: Extraction and Exposure in Amazonian performance;” I learnt, above all, a cultural-historical concept of “anthropofagia.” 

Unlike its variants in other languages (anthropophagy, Anthropophagie, anthropophagus, anthropophágos), the Portuguese term coined by the Brazilian writer Oswald de Andrade (1890-1954) in his 1928 essay “Manifesto Antropófago” opens a new path to making sense of cannibalism.  If I understand correctly, Andrade argues that the crystallization of Brazilian identity results from a constant, vigorous interaction between Brazil and its diverse forming cultures (African, Indian and Portuguese), each of which hungrily swallows the other until a new, all-encompassing culture is created.  By naming Brazil’s history of ‘cannibalizing’ other cultures and ideologies its greatest strength, Andrade suggests an innovatively and imaginatively brutal way for his people to assert itself against the European postcolonial cultural domination and ridicules at once the common attitude (between disgust and fear) towards the creepy cannibalism as an alleged tribal rite.  Through the iconic and provocative voice of this self-esteem and self-defense argument the Brazilian modernists’ tropical vitality and primitivist fascination shines.

As a comparatist sinologist, I am enchanted by “anthropofagia” primarily because Lu Xun (1881-1936), a contemporary of Andrade’s and the father of modern Chinese literature, addresses the cultural cannibalism from a completely different view in his 1918 short story, “Diary of a Madman” (Kuangren riji). Inspired by Gogol’s “madman” and Nietzsche’s “superman”, Lu Xun’s iconic and provocative title role “kuangren” (madman) considers the 5000-year Chinese tradition a history of (both metaphorically and literally!) eating humans; from this perspective, “Diary of a Madman” reveals in a dramatically yet realistically brutal way the culture-shaping influence of the feudal ethical code and family system in pre-modern China. 

The coincidence between Lu Xun and Andrade does not restrict itself to the new interpretation and contextualization of cannibalism.  With the title of his 1934 manifesto “Grabbism” (Nalai zhuyi; literally: Take-In Policy) Lu Xun provides a Chinese notion that resonates with the Brazilian ‘anthropofagia.’  The target of Lu Xun’s polemic is twofold: On the one hand, it mocks China’s previous Close-The-Door Policy (Biguan zhuyi) and its current Send-Away Policy (Songqu zhuyi), in consequence of which China first plays the role of an ignorant loner and then that of a fawning clown in world history.  On the other hand, Lu Xun throws critical light on what the West has been “sending in” (songlai) since China was forced to open its doors:

“Opium from England and trash cannon from Germany, followed by perfume powder from France, Hollywood films from USA, and knick-knacks labeled  ‘Entirely Made in China’ from Japan.  As a result, even the alert and sober youth of China became allergic to foreign goods.  In reality, this is just because they are ‘sent in’ (bestowed by others), not ‘taken in’ (grabbed by ourselves). 

Therefore, we must use our brains and broaden our horizons to grab ourselves!

…

We must take in.  We must either apply (foreign goods), or reserve (them), or destroy (them).  Only so can the master become a new master and the house become a new house.  But we must first be calm, courageous, differentiative, and non-egocentric.  Without grabbing foreign goods, humans cannot become new humans.  Without grabbing foreign goods, arts cannot become new arts.”

(tr. Huiwen Zhang)

            Compared to Andrade’s advocacy of ‘anthropofagia’ as a rewarding process for Brazil of absorbing and blending other cultures, Lu Xun’s promotion of ‘grabbism’ springs from a similar historical setting that challenges and inspires.  It communicates both the anxiety of a threatened folk in face of an apparently overwhelming alliance of alien cultures and its bold determination to reverse its disadvantaged position by passionately consuming the hostile strangers’ nutritional values in hopes of cultivating a new culture of its own.

Where I am -- Germany 3

Weimar. Schiller

Weimar. Goethe

Where I am -- Germany 2

Premiere: Ein Sommernachtstraum

Theatercafe, Erlangen

Where I am -- Germany 1

Frankfurt, Old Town

Where I am -- Denamrk 3

Louisiana Museum of Modern Art, Denmark

Where I am -- Denmark 2

With Danish Interlocutors in Their Summer House

Where I am -- Denmark 1

Dinner with Danish Scholars, Aarhus

Where I am -- China

Nanjing, May 11, 2011 

The Wanderer

Alternatives: 
The Passing Stranger; The Wandering Stranger; The Dismal Guest

Lu Xun

Tr. Huiwen (Helen) Zhang

Time:

Some certain day at dusk.

Place:

Some certain place.

People:

Old Man—Around 70 years old, with white beard and hair, in a black robe.

Girl—Around 10 years old, with purple hair and beady, crow-black eyes, in a white gown with black squares.

Wanderer—Around 30 or 40 years old, exhausted yet unrelenting, with a gloomy gaze, black beard and ragged hair, in a tattered short black shirt and pants, bare feet in worn-out shoes, a sack slung over his shoulder, supporting himself with a bamboo stick as tall as he is.

To the east, a few trees and rubble; to the west, several desolate, dilapidated graves; between them is the trace of something like a road, but not a road.  A small mud hut has a door open facing that trace; beside the door lies a withered tree root.

(The girl is about to help the old man up from the tree root on which he is resting.)

Old Man: Kid. Hey, kid!  What’s stopping you?

Child (looks to the east): There is someone coming.  Let me have a look.

Old Man: There’s no need to look at him.  Help me back inside.  The sun is setting.

Child: I, —want to have a look.

Old Man: Alas, you kid!  Everyday seeing the sky, seeing the earth, seeing the wind, isn’t that enough to see?  Nothing can be as nice looking.  You nonetheless insist on looking at a person.  Anything that appears at sunset won’t do you any good…  We’d better go in.

Child: But he’s already come closer.  Ah-ah, it’s a beggar.

Old Man: A beggar?  I doubt.

(The wanderer limps out from the bushes to the east.  After a moment’s hesitation he walks slowly up to the old man.)

Wanderer: Good evening, venerable old man.

Old Man: Ah, good evening!  Thanks for your blessing.  Are you well?

Wanderer: May I make so bold as to ask for a cup of water, venerable old man?  I am parched with walking, and there is not a pool or puddle in this area.

Old Man: Well, fine, fine.  Please sit down.  (to the girl) Kid, fetch some water.  Be sure to wash the cup clean.

(The girl walks silently into the mud hut.)

Old Man: Please sit down, guest Sir.  How shall I address you?

Wanderer: Address?—I don’t know.  As long as I can remember, I’ve only been on my own, and I don’t know what I was originally called.  As I walk along, people sometimes call me different names as they please—of all kinds and sorts—and I don’t remember them clearly.  Besides, I am never addressed the same way twice.

Old Man: Ah-ah.  Well, where are you from?

Wanderer (hesitates for a moment): I don’t know.  As long as I can remember, I’ve been walking so.

Old Man: Sure.  Well, may I ask where you are going?

Wanderer: Of course you may. –But the thing is, I don’t know.  As long as I can remember, I’ve been walking so, aiming for a certain place; this place is just ahead.  I only remember that I’ve walked down many paths; now I’ve arrived here.  I shall then go on that way, (pointing west) ahead!

(The girl carefully carries out a wooden cup of water, passes it to the wanderer.)

Wanderer (takes the cup): Many thanks, maiden.  (drinks the water in two gulps, returns the cup)  Many thanks, maiden.  This is truly rare kindness.  I really don’t know how to appreciate it!   

Old Man: Don’t appreciate it so much.  It won’t do you any good.

Wanderer: You’re right; it won’t do me any good.  But I am now very much recovered.  I am about to walk on.  You probably have lived here for quite a long time, venerable old man.  Would you know what kind of place that is ahead?    

Old Man: Ahead?  Ahead are graves.

Wanderer (astonished): Graves?

Child: No, no, no.  In that place there are many, many wild lilies and wild roses.  I often go there to play, and to look at them.

Wanderer (looks to the west, seems to smile) You’re right.  That place does have many, many wild lilies and wild roses.  I myself have often gone there to play, and to look at them.  However, they are graves. (to the old man) Venerable old man, what if I walk beyond the graveyard?

Old Man: Beyond the graveyard?  That I don’t know.  I have never walked that way.

Wanderer: You don’t know?!

Child: I don’t know either.

Old Man: I only know the south, the north, and the east where you come from.  They are the places I know best; and they may be the best places for you after all.  Don’t take offence at what I say, but as far as I can see, you are already so exhausted that you’d better go back; because even if you go on, you may not be able to walk to the end.

Wanderer: I may not be able to walk to the end? ... (ponders, suddenly starts) That won’t do!  I have no choice but to walk on.  If I go back, there’s not a place without hypocrisy, not a place without exploiters, not a place without jail and exile, not a place without fake smiles, not a place without feigning tears.  I hate them; I am not going back!

Old Man: That may not be true.  You may also encounter some tears from the heart, some laments for you.

Wanderer: No.  I am unwilling to see the tears from their heart; neither do I want their laments for me.

Old Man: If so, you, (shakes his head) you have no choice but to walk on.

Wanderer: Yes, I have no choice but to walk on.  Furthermore, there is also a voice always ahead urging me on and calling to me, so that I cannot rest.  The really hateful part is, my feet are long torn up and covered in gashes from walking, and a great deal of blood has flowed out from these wounds.  (lifts one foot to show the old man)  Therefore, I no longer have enough blood; I need to drink some blood.  But where would this blood be?  Besides, I am unwilling to drink anyone’s blood, no matter whose.  I hence have no choice but to drink some water to replenish my blood.  Along the road there is always water, and I have never felt any lack of it.  It’s just that my strength is too diluted, because there is too much water inside my blood.  Today I have not encountered even a small puddle, so if I have walked less far today, that is the reason.

Old Man:  Not necessarily.  The sun has set; I think you’d better rest a while, like me.

Wanderer: But the voice ahead is urging me on.

Old Man: I know.

Wanderer: You know?  You know that voice?

Old Man: Yes.  He seems to have called to me before as well.

Wanderer: Was he the same voice that is calling to me now?

Old Man: That I don’t know.  He called me but a couple of times; I ignored him, he thus ceased calling.  I thus do not remember.

Wanderer: Ah-ah, ignoring him… (ponders, suddenly starts, listening)  No way!  I’d better walk on.  I am not able to rest.  It is hateful that my feet are long torn up.  (ready to depart)

Child: This is for you!  (passes him a piece of cloth)  Wrap your wounds.

Wanderer:  Many thanks, (takes the cloth), maiden.  This is truly… This is truly rare kindness.  This will enable me to walk further.  (sits down on the rubble, about to bind the cloth round his ankle)  But, no way!  (struggles to his feet)  Take it back, maiden; it’s still not enough to wrap my wounds.  Moreover, such excessive kindness I am not able to appreciate.

Old Man: Don’t appreciate it so much.  It won’t do you any good.

Wanderer:  You’re right; it won’t do me any good.  But to me this dana[1] is the greatest of all.  Look at me, is there anything else on me as great? 

Old Man: You do not need to take it so seriously.

Wanderer: You’re right.  But I cannot.  I’m afraid this is the way if I were to receive dāna from someone: I would react like a vulture spotting a corpse and hovering nearby, wishing for her to be destroyed, and for myself to see it.  Or perhaps I would curse absolutely everything except her with destruction, including myself, because I deserve to be cursed.  But I do not have this sort of power yet; even if I had such power, I would not wish such circumstances upon her, because they probably do not usually wish for such circumstances.  I think this is safest.  (to the girl)  Maiden, this piece of cloth of yours is very good, but a bit too small; I’ll give it back to you.

Child (scared, shrinks back): I don’t want it any more!  Take it with you!

Wanderer (seems to smile): Ah-ah … because I’ve touched it?

Child (nods and points at his sack): Keep it in there, for fun.

Wanderer (shrinks back in depression): But with this on my back, how am I to walk?

Old Man: You can’t rest, hence you can’t carry it.  –Rest a while, then you’ll feel nothing.

Wanderer: Indeed, a rest… (ponders in silence, then starts, listening) No, I cannot!  I’d better walk on.                                                                              

Old Man: Are you still unwilling to rest?

Wanderer: I am.

Old Man: Well, rest a while then.

Wanderer: But, I cannot…

Old Man: Do you still consider it better to walk on?

Wanderer: Yes.  I’d better walk on.

Old Man: Well, you’d better walk on then.

Wanderer (stretches the waist): All right, I’ll say farewell then.  I am very thankful to you both.  (to the girl) Maiden, this I shall return to you.  Please take it back.

(Scared, the girl draws back her hands and wants to escape into the hut.)

Old Man: You’d better take it with you.  If it turned out too heavy, you could throw it away anytime in the graveyard.

Child (steps forward): Ah-ah, that won’t do!

Wanderer: Ah-ah, that won’t do.

Old Man: Well, hang it on those wild lilies and wild roses then.

Child (claps her hands): Ha-ha!  Fine!

Wanderer: Ah-ah…

(For the most fleeting moment there is silence.)

Old Man: Well, farewell then.  We wish you safety.  (stands up, turns to the girl) Kid, help me back inside.  Look, the sun has long set.  (turns to the door)

Wanderer: Many thanks to you both.  I wish you both safety.  (hesitates, ponders, then starts)  But I cannot!  I have no choice but to walk.  I’d better walk on … (Instantly lifting his head high, he exerts himself to walk towards the west.)

(The girl helps the old man back into the hut and immediately closes the door.  The wanderer limps stoically into the wilderness; the dark of the night follows after him.)

March 2, 1925

---

[1] Here Lu Xun uses the Chinese equivalent for the Buddhist term—dāna (alms, gift).