MCLC: Winter Sun review (3)

[Denton, Kirk]

MCLC LIST
From: Stalling, Jonathan C. <stalling at ou.edu>
Subject: Winter Sun review (3)
***********************************************************

I have really enjoyed the conversation unfolding around Shi Zhi’s work,
and of course, the perennial questions of translating sound and form
(followed by A.E. Clark), which have long troubled the nights of
translators. I also think that the conversation around both the medical
humanities brought to the fore in Birgit Linder’s review and now the role
of paratext (biography, history, mythology etc) highlighted by Claudia
Pozzana’s posts that followed are reasonable questions to discuss in the
context of Shi Zhi. Personally, I think that Birgit’s discussion of mental
health issues and formalism is an important one for any depth study of Shi
Zhi’s work. In Chinese criticism of his work one almost always finds
references to Guo’s mental health issues but most of these stay on the
surface since medical humanities is a new field and there are few literary
scholars who have taken the time to develop the interdisciplinary literacy
needed to approach this subject with an adequate level of rigor. So I
applaud Birgit’s piece for attempting to dig a bit deeper into this
important topic and personally feel her suggestion that his formalism (not
formalism in general), with its reassuring patterns and perimeters that
remains oddly the same across 40 years of writing, is a persuasive point.
Still, I would want to stress how careful poetic criticism should be when
skating on the thin ice between prosody and pathology, or scansion and
diagnosis. To my mind, anyhow, mental health issues must inform the syntax
of Shi Zhi (Guo Lusheng) criticism--like a dependent introductory clause,
it precedes the complete sentence of his work (which can be grammatically
removed without affecting the works “stand-alone” quality). However, the
full complex sentence simply includes more texture, depth, and touches a
wider range of issues across more fields. I think Guo’s work deserves this
broad audience, and I hope others will take it up as an important node in
the work to follow. Those who have read Zhang Qinghua’s introduction are
aware that narratives attach to Guo like flies to flypaper, and the more
mythic, the more adhesive the binding. In short, his work and this
selection of poems is a powerful example of poetic survivance, of poetry
as life-saving sustenance…it is clear that these poems really did help
keep this great and complicated man alive, and I don’t think it would be
going too far to say that these poems were a scaffolding anchoring Guo
through the more serious episodes of his institutionalization, and would
later give him a ladder of sorts which he climbed up and to find his new
family with Han Le and her son.  Again, his work is readable without
contextualizing it within his life narrative, but in this case, I have no
idea why we would want to do so. This is not to diminish the work, but to
remind us that one’s positions of enunciation almost always constitutes
the subordinate clause that begins every sentence spoken, no?

So now to the other question: how to translate formalism? This I am a bit
more comfortable and willing to discuss in detail.

Truism: 1. Sound is the first thing to be “lost” in translation (though
most translation theorists would cringe at invocation of this logocentric
surplus) since poetry is uniquely drawn from the particularities of the
source language and these socio-linguistic particulars and textures cannot
be brought across the seemingly impenetrable expanse between different
languages. Yet many translators have not accepted this and have attempted
to bring sound across the interlinguistic divide. Louis Zukofsky’s
“homophonic translations,” Dennis Tedlock’s concrete poetic translations,
Jerome Rothenberg’s experiments with “total translation,” Lawrence
Venuti’s notion of foreignization, or Douglas Robinson’s notion of the
schizophrenic translator standing in-between languages are important
expressions of a strong desire to do just that.  So why not translate
Guo’s poetry into a “foreignized English prosody (which I will give
examples of my own soon) or into traditional configurations of English
feet--Because readers/listeners experience sounds in radically different
ways. Clearly, sound waves emitted through the reading acts swell and fall
in exactly the same patterns for everyone ( “yuan sheng” or “original
voice”), but our ears only collect and channel sound waves into
mind-bodies which in-turn experience these same sounds differently form
one to another. Imagine if only briefly the sound of a stranger’s mother’s
voice as compared to one’s own. Just as we each come to relate to sounds
in different ways, and imbue them with different meanings, so to is the
indeterminacy of sonorous meanings exponentially exaggerated by one’s
familiarity and identification with the voices, prosodies, or languages
being heard. In other words, the sonorous text has always already (to
borrow a common Derridean refrain) escaped translation insofar as the
matrix of potential psycho-physiological stimuli made available by a
sonorous text cannot be concretized into a single “original”
interpretation from which a translation can follow however literally or
freely. In other words, there is never just one source experience of the
sonorous; they are always radically multitudinous. Guo’s rhythms and
rhymes are best activated when situated within the particular historical
contexts that imbued them with the distinct power Bei Dao and others felt
in them in the late 1960’s. In English, using a cognate prosody,
especially one like blank verse, connects the English to overdetermined
connotative resonances that overflow the semiotic fields with surplus
unintentional meanings with no connection to Guo’s work or reception in
China. So when we speak of “loosing the song” of the original, we have
leapt far too far ahead of ourselves to assume such objective sonorous
phenomena can exist independent of time/space. To my mind there can never
be a single “song” to capture in translation since there are as many
“songs” or sounds as there are those to experience them, and across
cultural/historical gulfs as the ones these translations traverse, the
problem is exacerbated exponentially. In 2007 I had dinner with Xi Chuan
and we talked a lot about Guo’s prosodic forebears (and did again last
night at AWP along with Lucas Klein) and after that (2007), I did endeavor
to better “hear” Shi Zhi’s work in the Chinese. It isn’t a
straight-forward affair.

Back to the interface of cognition and prosody--phonotactic studies have
shown that our minds cannot interpret what our vocal organs cannot
meaningfully articulate. Because languages signify through differential
phonemes, these webs of linguistic differences prevent us from attaching
meanings to sounds that do not signify as purposefully different within
the signifying structure. I would argue that the same is true of music and
prosody. Sure we hear it, sure it can be pleasurable, but that doesn’t
mean sounds can be transferred without having first transferred the
interpretive networks as well. And frankly, that is not the job of
translation, but other critical fields. So if you want to hear Shi Zhi’s
prosody, one must first become acoustically literate in the prosody of He
Qifang and the more official verse forms that were popular in the 20-year
period preceding Shi Zhi’s work. Such a study would require more than just
listening to sounds, but to also be a synchronic study of the sounds
within this period. Only when this is done, do I think one could make a
compelling case that the translator would have enough inter-prosodic
literacy to attempt forms of transference.

The sounds poems make, especially when composed as formal verse, signify
as much or more than the content so the prosody constitutes a poems
“subordinate introductory clause,” its position of enunciation vis-à-vis
its intertextual, historical contexts. I believe that what is true of
traditional verse forms, holds for Shi Zhi as well insofar as both have
followed (though not necessarily intentionally) from Huang Tingjian’s (黃庭堅
,1045-1105) notion of 夺胎 换骨or “grasping the embryo and changing the
bones.”  Guo’s work, like Huang’s (and most who followed him) took the
forms of his predecessors but changed the meaning of the words (what Van
Crevel has called-though I am paraphrasing--“the right form, the wrong
content”) or took the words and changed the meanings (Guo’s subjective use
of Maoist coded language is an example of this). I am bringing up Huang
Tingjian here for another reason though, which is to pivot back to the
question of mimicry and translation.

Most of the folks who I have met personally on the MCLC list (which I am
sure is a small percentage) know that I am a big advocate of translating
Chinese verse into formal English prosodies, which may come as a bit of a
surprise given the choices I have made in translating Shi Zhi (and given
my gentle anti polemic above) but I simply did not feel like Guo’s work
was an appropriate place for the kind of formal experimentation. Since the
mid 90’s, I have been translating classical Chinese poetry into formal
English prosodies that can be chanted in 吟诵 form which I personally
believe is one of the best ways to read/enjoy poetry in classical forms.
When composing translations of formal Chinese verse, I follow the same
aural constraints as the Chinese poets have except in English. I compose
lines in a nearly monosyllabic lexicon with a set number of syllables per
line, with strict end rhyme schemes for the Shi form and also internal
rhymes for the Ci form; I also mimic all cases of reduplicative binomes
(repeated words) and other heightened acoustic textures (strong
alliteration or assonance etc). And finally, I must compose the line with
exactly the same tonal prosody with its harmonious alternation between yin
and yang tones as pronounced in modern Mandarin. Why modern Mandarin?
Having cast off the metaphysical belief in a single “original” song, it
makes sense to mimic the poetry as it is recited today by the majority of
Chinese people not as it is imagined to have been recited during the Tang
and Song dynasties. As I would use Suzhou dialect, or Cantonese if I
could. Example:

客 	   舍 	   青 	     青       柳 	色 	新
kè	   shè    qīng     qīng       lin  	sè  	xīn
guèst     ìnn    greēn    greēn        wil 	lòw   sheēn

The poems I have translated in this way will come out in a book called
“Changing the Bones: English as a Medium of Classical Chinese Poetry”
before too long, but I should stress that the work is really more about
how to compose classical verse in English not translate it. The rules in
English are too strict to serve as an alternative to free verse. Instead,
these are merely supplements to the existing translation cannon as a key
into the prosodic structures for students who cannot read the Chinese
examples. One of the real highlights of Thursday’s Newman Prize for
Chinese Literature ceremony held at OU was getting to meet the winners
(chosen from 350 entries)  of the state-wide Oklahoma English jueju
competition). But this all begins with an attempt to adapt English into
aural forms capable of imparting new ways of hearing (and singing) Chinese
poetry.

Examples.

Li Shangyin
李 商 隱

Jin Se
錦 瑟

錦 	瑟 	無 	端 	五 	十 	弦
一 	弦 	一 	柱 	思 	華 	年
莊 	生 	曉 	夢 	迷 	蝴 	蝶
望 	帝 	春 	心 	托 	杜 	鵑
滄 	海 	月 	明 	珠 	有 	淚
藍 	田 	日 	暖 	玉 	生 	煙
此 	情 	可 	待 	成 	追 	憶
只 	是 	當 	時 	已 	惘 	然

jǐn  sè

jǐn  	sè/  	wú  	duān/  	wǔ  	shí  	xián
yī  	xián/  	yī  	zhù/  	sī  	huá  	nián
zhuāng shēng/ xiǎo  	mèng/  	mí  	hú  	dié
wàng  	dì/  	chūn  	xīn/  	tuō  	dù  	juān
cāng  	hǎi/  	yuè  	míng/  	zhū  	yǒu  	lèi
lán  	tián/  	rì  	nuǎn/  	yù  	shēng  	yān
cǐ  	qíng/  	kě  	dài/  	chéng  	zhuī  	yì
zhī  	shì/  	dāng  	shí/  	yǐ  	wǎng  	rán


The Patterned Zither

why 	dò/  	lútes  	hāve/  	fǐf - 	ty 	stríngs
eāch  	string/ eāch  	pèg/  	bloōm  fílled  	dreáms
dāzed  	by/ 	dǎwn's dreams/ Zhuáng  Zí  	wákes
wàng  	dì/  	heārt's  nīght/  jār  	ìn  	sprīng
vāst  	sěa/  	brìght   moon/ 	peārls  hǎve  	teàrs
blúe  	fields/ wàrm  	sǔn/  	jàde  	smōke 	streāms
wǐll  	í/      keěp    these/ 	thoúght throūgh timè
yēt  	nòw/  	thēy     slíp/  lǒst  	ǎs  	dreáms


Night thoughts

李 白,
静夜思

床	前	明	 月	光
疑	是 	地 	 上 	霜
舉 	頭	望	 明	 月
低 	頭 	思	 故	鄉

jìng yè sī

chuáng qián/  míng 	yuè    	guāng
yí     shì/   dì        shàng 	shuāng
jǔ     tóu/   wàng 	míng  	yue
dī     tóu/   sī        gù      xiāng

moón   líght/ 	fáll    nèar  	bēd
ás     ìf /    	fròst  	therè 	spreād
lǐft   gáze/ 	fìnd   	bríght 	moòn
mīss   hóme/    hāng 	my	heād


B. Qijue Seven Character Jueju

Han Yu
春 雪 (chūn xuě) “sprīng snǒw.”


新	 年	 都	 未	 有	 芳	 花
二	 月	 初	 驚	 見	 草	 芽
白	 雪	 卻	 嫌	 春	 色	 晚
故	 穿	 庭	 樹	 作	 飛	 花

chūn  xuě

xīn  	nián/  	dōu  	wèi/  	yǒu  	   fāng    huā
èr	yuè/	chū	jīng/	jiàn	   cǎo     yá
bái  	xuě/  	què  	xián/  	chūn  	   sè  	   wǎn
gù  	chuān/  tíng  	shù/  	zuò  	   fēi     huā


sprīng snǒw

nēw 	yeárs/ 	cōmes  bùt/       bloǒms  dōn't     grōw
Màrch   neàrs/ sūr     prīsed/    grāss   sproǔts  grów
yét 	whǐte/ 	snòw 	thínks/   sprīng's  còme     lǎte
ànd 	fālls/ 	throúgh treès/    lìke      bloōms  blōw


4. 詞 Ci, Song Dynasty Lyric

李煜

烏 夜 蹄
Tune: "Night Crow Calls"

林	花	謝	了	春	紅
太	匆	匆
無	奈	朝	來	寒	雨
晚	來	風
胭	脂	淚
留	人	醉
幾	時	重
自	是	人	生	長	恨
水	長	東


wū  yè  tí

lín  	huā  	xiè  	le  	chūn  	hóng
tài  	cōng  	cōng
wú  	nài  	zháo  	lái  	hán  	yǔ
wǎn  	lái  	fēng
yàn  	zhī  	lèi
liú  	rén  	zuì
jī 	 shí  	chòng
zì  	shì  	rén  	shēng  	chǎng  	hèn
shuǐ  	cháng  dōng


Tune: "Night Crow Calls"

Spríngs	rēd 	gròve 	blooms	 ēbb 	pást
tòo 	fāst 	fāst
dáwn 	wìll 	bríng  	chìll 	raín 	dǒwn
nǐght 	wínd 	blāst
roùge   fāce  	cry
mén's 	gáze 	sìgh
tīme 	píles 	vàst
fròm 	oùr 	bírth 	līfe 	lǒng 	deàrth
Eǎst 	spríngs	pāss


5. 散曲 (sanqu) Yuan Dynasty Arias

天淨沙 Tune: "Sky (Pure) Sand" Tianjingsha entitled 秋思 Qiūsī "Autumn
Thoughts"

枯	藤	老	樹	昏	鴉
小	橋	流	水	人	家
古	道	西	風	瘦	馬
夕	陽	西	下
斷	腸	人	在	天	涯

Tune: Sky Pure Sand

Driēd   vínes/   ǒld     treès/    dūsk   crōws
Smǎll  bridge/  mén's hǒmes/  streám flōws
Wěst  winds/   leān    hōrse/   òld       roǎds
Slōw 	sún/ 	sēts   wèst
Neàr  sky's    édge/    màn’s 	griēf 	gróws


So I imagine you can see why my way of translating prosody would have been
unfair to Guo’s work, which had not yet really been translated into
English. “Winters Sun” is my attempt to introduce an important poet, to
give a sense of his life work’s arch. In the case of classical verse, my
versions are merely supplements to myriad other versions. As a translator
(and the editor of CLT) my work lies in Chinese literary advocacy. My work
in translating prosody, on the other hand, belongs to another category of
labor, comparative poetics, and represents a part of my own personal work
as a poet (along with my work in the opposite direction 吟歌丽诗).  So I
think it is fine to translate Chinese poetry into formal English, but I
also
think it should be done in very self-reflexive ways so that the
translator’s aesthetic/poetic agenda is out in the open. The reason I like
translating into formal Chinese-English verse forms is because tonalized
syllabic meters in English have never existed before, thus such
experiments become conceptual projects and a pedagogical devices. With
practice my students, most of whom do not speak or read Chinese, begin to
cultivate sonorous textures capable of more elastic ways of hearing
prosody outside their received traditions and I think that this is "good."
After reading Birgit’s review, for instance, I think it would be necessary
for her work to provide formal translations of his work when exploring the
thesis she has put forward about prosody and mental health so that English
readers can feel the structure, and try to imagine how the predictability
of sonorous scaffolding might result in a sonorous harbor capable of
becoming the idiom of his survivance etc. Still such a project would need
more than the formalist translations, they would need an essay explaining
how to interpret those forms in the context of his life and the history of
post-map poetics. Such things, to my mind, should not be confused with
what I see as the false metaphysics of transhistorical/cultural
equivalence. To my mind, that was never an option, but this is, after all,
a personal choice.

jonathan