Better Hell Lost

Better Hell Lost

Lu Xun 1925

Tr. Huiwen Zhang 2012

I dreamt of myself lying on the bed, out in a desolate suburb, next to Hell.  All ghosts’ moaning is invariably low, yet ordered, resonating with flames’ roaring, oil’s boiling, and steel tridents’ trembling, creating an intoxicating supreme symphony—an announcement to the three kingdoms: peace reigns.

There is a great man standing in front of me, beautiful, merciful, all around his body radiating supreme light; yet I know he is the Devil.

“All is over, all is over!  The pitiable devils have lost the better Hell!”  He speaks with grief and anger, thereupon sitting down, telling me a story he knows.

“It was when heaven and earth were the color of honey that the Devil triumphed over God and seized the supreme authority to command all.  He conquered the kingdom of Heaven, the kingdom of Men, and the kingdom of Hell.  He then graced Hell with his presence, sitting in its center, from all over his body radiating supreme light, illuminating all devils and ghosts.

“Hell by then had been long abandoned: the radiance of the sword forest had diminished;[1] the surface of boiling oil had long before ceased surging; the supreme blaze occasionally emitted just a few puffs of blue smoke; far off still sprouted Mandala flowers, exceedingly tiny, pale and pitiable.  It is no wonder, for the earth having been supremely scorched of course lost its fertility.

“The ghosts awakened in cold oil and lukewarm fire, through the light of the Devil seeing the tiny flowers of Hell, pale and pitiable; supremely bewitched, they recalled all of a sudden the world of men, meditating for who knows how many years, thereupon all at once turning towards the kingdom of Men, emitting a desperate prison-toppling shout.

“Humankind stood up at the shout, speaking boldly in the name of justice, plunging into war with the Devil.  The sound of war spread through all three kingdoms, far louder than thunderclaps.  At the end humankind employed supreme tactics and deployed supreme traps, giving the Devil no choice but exile from Hell.  The ultimate triumph: even atop the gates of Hell swept the banners of humankind!

“Hardly had the devils broken into a chorus of hurrahs, when humankind’s appointee to rectify Hell graced it with his presence, sitting in its center, bellowing with human severity at all devils and ghosts.

“Hardly had the ghosts emitted another desperate prison-toppling shout, when they became traitors to humankind, receiving as punishment perpetual degradation and forced to the center of the sword forest.

“Humankind then completely seized the supreme authority over Hell, a power even above the Devil.  Humankind then rectified law and custom, first paid the ox-headed demons the highest salary in grass, then added fuel to the flames and sharpened the knife mountain, transforming Hell’s whole appearance, washing away all of its former decadent atmosphere.

“The Mandala flowers immediately withered.  Oil boiling as before, knives cutting as before, flames burning as before, devils and ghosts moaning as before and writhing as before, so that they have no time even to recall the better Hell lost.

“This is humankind’s conquest, the ghosts’ misfortune…

 “Friend, you mistrust me.  Yes, you are human!  For now I go in search of brutes and devils…”

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[1] “Sword forest” and “knife mountain” imply common tortures in the eighteen-level Hell. Sinners are forced to climb trees with sharp thorns or mountains with sharp blades sticking out.

 

Autumn Night

Autumn Night

Lu Xun 1924

Tr. Huiwen Zhang 2012

From my backyard, outside the wall two trees can be seen: one is a date tree, the other is also a date tree.

Above these a night sky, strange and tall; all my life I have never seen a sky so strange and tall.  He seems to be taking leave of the human world and going away, so that men will look up and no longer see him.  Yet now he is intensely blue, winking dozens of twinkling stars’ eyes, cold eyes.  At the corners of his mouth appears a smile that seems to consider itself utterly meaningful while sprinkling a thick frost on the wild flowers and weeds of my yard.

I do not know what names those flowers and weeds really have, what names people call them.  I remember one that bloomed tiny dainty pink flowers, one that is still blooming, but the flower is even tinier and daintier.  She, in the cold night air, crouches to dream, dreaming spring’s coming, dreaming autumn’s coming, dreaming a slender poet wiping tears on her very last petal, telling her though autumn comes, though winter comes, still after that spring anew, butterflies flittering, bees all singing spring songs.  She then smiles, though freezing tragically crimson, still crouching.

 The date trees, they have shed almost all their leaves.  Before, there were still one or two children coming to beat down dates left by others; now there is not one left, even the leaves have all been shed.  He knows the tiny pink flower’s dream—after autumn comes spring; he also knows the shed leaves’ dream—after spring comes autumn.  He has shed almost all his leaves, only a trunk left, yet stripping away the arch shape from a time long ago when fruits and leaves were all over the tree, he yawns and stretches quite comfortably.  But there are still a few branches drooping low, nursing the wounds on his skin from the tips of date-beating poles; the straightest and longest branches, however, are silently like iron piercing directly the strange and tall sky, causing the sky to wink twinkling ghosts’ eyes; piercing directly the sky’s full round moon, causing the moon to pale with embarrassment.

The ghost-wink-eye sky has grown all the more intensely blue, restless, as if trying to leave the human world, escape the date tree, and leave behind only the moon.  Yet the moon has also secretly fled to the east.  The naked trunk, however, is still silently like iron piercing directly the strange and tall sky, determined to get a strangle hold on him, regardless of all his various ways of winking many a bewitching eye.

“Caw!”  With this shriek, a night-roving evil bird flies by.

I suddenly hear a midnight laugh, tchi tchi, as if reluctant to disturb sleepers, yet the air all around resonates the laugh.  Midnight, no others about; I recognize right away that the sound is in my mouth, I am also right away expelled by this laugh, back into my own room.  The wick of the lamp is also right away turned up by me.

The glass of the rear window tinkles, ping ping; there are many tiny flying bugs bumping about.  Not long after a few break in, probably through the holes torn in the window paper.  Once they break in, they bump anew on the glass lamp shade and cause it to tinkle, ping ping.  One bumps in from the top, so he encounters the fire, and I assume the fire is real.  Two or three others, however, rest on the paper lamp cover, panting.  The cover is last night’s newly changed cover, snow-white paper, folded in wavy pleats, also painted on one corner a spray of scarlet gardenias.

When the scarlet gardenia blooms, the date tree will dream anew the tiny pink flower’s dream, bent into an arch of tender green ….  I hear anew the midnight laugh.  I hasten to cut short my mood, watching the tiny green bugs grow old on the white paper cover—big heads, small tails, like sunflower seeds, only as big as half a grain of wheat, all over their bodies a verdure—lovable, pitiable.

I yawn, light a cigarette, blow out the smoke, and facing the lamp I silently lay my ritual offerings at the shrine of these exquisite verdant heroes.

The Beggar

The Beggar

Lu Xun, 1924

Tr. Huiwen Zhang, 2012

I walk alongside a high peeling wall, treading down the light dust.  There are several others, each walking.  A breeze rises, revealing above the wall the branch of a lofty tree, bearing still un-withered leaves, swaying over my head.

            A breeze rises.  All around is dust.

A child turns to me to beg, likewise wearing a double-layered coat, likewise not necessarily mournful, yet cutting me off to kowtow, then chasing after me with pitiful howls. 

I loathe his tone, his manner.  I scorn his false mourning, almost a game.  I am vexed by his chasing after me with pitiful howls.

I walk.  There are several others, each walking.  A breeze rises.  All around is dust.

A child turns to me to beg, likewise wearing a double-layered coat, likewise not necessarily mournful, yet mute, lifting his palms, feigning with gestures.

I scorn precisely these gestures of his.  Besides, he may not even be mute; this is but a way of begging.

I give no alms, I have no alms-giving heart, I simply rank myself above the alms giver, giving spite, suspicion, scorn.

I walk alongside a fallen mud wall, broken bricks heaped in the opening, behind this wall, nothing.  A breeze rises, bringing the autumn cold to penetrate my double-layered coat.  All around is dust.

I am thinking what way I would use to beg: Using voice, in what tone?  Feigning muteness, with what gestures?

There are several others, each walking.

I will receive no alms, no alms-giving heart; I will receive of those ranking themselves above the alms giver spite, suspicion, scorn.

I will use not-doing and silence to beg! ......

I will after all receive the void.

A breeze rises.  All around is dust.  There are several others, each walking.

Dust, dust, ……

…… ……

Dust ……

Revenge I

REVENGE I

Lu Xun, 1924, Dec.

Tr. Huiwen Zhang, 2012, Nov.

The thickness of human skin, probably less than 1/10 inch; bright red hot blood following precisely underneath it through vessels that are even denser than the densely layered silkworms climbing up a wall, surges, shedding warmth.  Thus each with this warmth bewitches, incites, and tugs the other, with all their might desiring to cuddle, to kiss, to embrace, so as to gain life’s sinking, intoxicating Nirvana.

But if using a sharp-pointed sword, one single strike, piercing the peach-red, tenuous skin, bright red hot blood will spray arrows and with all its warmth immediately flood the slaughterer; then, touching him with icy breath, showing him pale lips, will cause him to lose all his humanity and gain life’s soaring, climaxing Nirvana; as for the slaughtered, he himself will be perpetually immersed in life’s soaring, climaxing Nirvana.

This way, therefore, the two of them, stark naked, gripping swords, stand facing each other in the vast wilderness.

The two of them about to embrace, about to slaughter….

Passers-by hurry here from all directions, densely layered, like silkworms climbing up a wall, like ants ready to haul away a cured fish head.  Their clothes are all pretty, their hands, however, empty.  Yet they hurry here from all directions and with all their might stretch their necks to enjoy and examine the embrace or slaughter.  They already forefeel the later fresh taste of the sweat or blood on their own tongues.

Yet the two of them stand facing each other in the vast wilderness, stark naked, gripping swords, but neither embracing, nor slaughtering, nor even revealing an intention to embrace or slaughter.

The two of them remain this way til eternity, round, limber bodies already about to wither, but revealing not even the least intention to embrace or slaughter.

Passers-by thus get bored; they feel boredom drilling into their pores, drilling out of their own hearts through their pores, climbing all over the wilderness, and drilling in turn into others’ pores.  They thus feel dry throats and tongues, as well as tired necks, so that eventually they look at one another in blank dismay and slowly walk away, even feel so withered that they lose life’s joy.

Thus left behind is only the vast wilderness.  Yet the two of them in it, stark naked, gripping swords, stand withered; with the gaze of the dead enjoying and examining the witheredness of the passers-by, a bloodless slaughter, the two of them perpetually immersed in life’s soaring, climaxing Nirvana.

  Interpretation click here!