Meditation on the Road. Continued. No. 24

Sonnet 24 

Feng Zhi, 1941

tr. Huiwen Zhang, 2012

                                        Here several thousand years ago

                                        Everywhere seemed already

                                        To be our life;

                                        Before we were born

                                        A singing voice already

                                        From fluctuating skies,

                                        From green grass and pines

                                        Sang our fate.

                                        Layer by layer we suffer

                                        Here precisely how can we

                                        Hear this singing voice?

                                        Look, that tiny flying bug,

                                        In its flying and soaring

                                        Always: perpetual life.

 

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