陶渊明 《饮酒》之五赏析
结庐在人境，而无车马喧。
问君何能尔？心远地自偏。
采菊东篱下，悠然见南山；
山气日夕佳，飞鸟相与还。
此中有真意，欲辨已忘言。
Tao Yuanming (Tao Qian) "Sipping Beer" (Part 20)
Home built in man's busy world,
I do not hear horse-cart racket...
And how's that? you ask.
Heart afar, I'm in the wild.
Picking tea-flowers by the east hedge,
my eyes drift to southern hills:
mountain-mist in twilight beautiful,
and birds all flying home.
Here, there's something deep,
and I'd explain, but've forgotten words.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Monday, March 26, 2007
Man of the Tao and Traveling
So I’ve strayed away from the usual posts on a theme, revealing my discoveries and encounters with Chinese culture for a variety of reasons. This is not to say I have not written any posts of this nature; I have in fact written a page or two on one interconnected them, but feel it’s unsuitable to post.
And why? The truth is I don’t love China. I’ve wrestled for a few weeks now with the irritability and quickly-frustrated symptoms I know to be culture shock. It set in shortly after my arrival in Hangzhou, and it has come and gone depending on existence or evasion of stimuli. For this reason, I have thought I was free of it at various points, only to be confronted with a worse bout later on.
At its worse moments, I have felt torn and tortured with thoughts that my 3ish-year pursuit of and labor in the study of Chinese has been in vain, that all of mainland China has nothing of worth, that the future of China (and perhaps the world’s in conjunction) is certainly a hopeless one. The aforementioned post detailed some of my most troubling vexations, but I it is full of generalizations rooted in my resent and moodiness. I normally detest generalizations, so I cannot allow myself to indulge such hypocrisy. In short, I have struggled internally for a few weeks with homesickness, purposelessness, disgust, close-mindedness, resent, and a plethora of other generally irritable-natured phases of contemplation.
And today, Hangzhou hits the mid-60s after enduring the last cold snap of the season. The peach blossoms are in full bloom, and today is crystal clear and full of sunshine, drying every last wet spot left from a night of long drizzling. I will not say I have escaped from the storm, but I have at least found some points of insight with which to anchor myself.
I am American, and I have never been more proud to be one. America is not without faults, but at heart I believe its spirit embodies some of humankind’s greatest qualities. At this moment, we face great obstacles and perils, but we have triumphed at so many fragile points before, I cannot believe we will not now, but we have to take initiative and the people must make the difference. Since being in China, I have come to appreciate so much the freedoms and beliefs I think we too often take for granted.
And now for the more personal, introspective insights—these I have found in the words of others. In the first post of this blog, I included the poem by Jia Dao (as translated by Mike O’Connor):
SEEING OFF A MAN OF THE TAO
When I find you again,
it will be in mountains;
this morning, I lose you
once more to farewell.
Free of attachment
in heart and mind
is it why you can go
ten thousand li alone
to places with such
little human warmth,
where, when you meet someone,
they speak an ancient tongue?
Traveling without disciples,
you have only
a white dog
for company.
Then I could only say I liked the imagery and flow of the words. It struck me with a sense of otherworldliness, and it conveyed to me a glimpse of something spiritual in this ‘man of the Tao.’ But reading it at some point in last few weeks, I realized this poem is not so much about the man of the Tao, as it is about the speaker.
This poem describes a holy man wandering alone to remote and mountainous places; he has no friends or students, and where he goes he can barely communicate. All he has to show that he is not cold and inhuman is ‘a white dog for company.’ In describing this man, however, the speaker is really expressing his wonder and admiration for a man that seems so self-assured, content to be happy in himself. The heart of this poem, two stanzas, is one long question of disbelief. The introduction shows that this self-contented existence is rarely reachable, often disappearing—that which remains hidden in the heavenly reaches of mountains.
Struggling with my own loneliness and sorrow of separation, I felt a compassion and camaraderie with Jia Dao in his poignant contemplation of fleeting happiness. Happiness, I found, is not subject to where you are or whom you are with—it is a state of mind. But being ‘free of attachment in heart and mind,’ is easier said than done.
The second and more recent moment of insight I have experienced comes actually from another friend quoting on his blog the quote one other friend often quotes. If that’s not confusing enough of an introduction, try reading this quote from Calvino:
“… because the traveler's past changes according to the route he has followed: not the immediate past, that is, to which each day that goes by adds a day, but the more remote past. Arriving at each new city, the traveler finds again a past of his that he did not know he had: the foreignness of what you no longer are or no longer possess lies in wait for you in foreign, unpossessed places.”
I don’t know much about Calvino, nor have I read anything of his, so I can’t pretend I know what this means or anything really. But this quote gives me the idea that traveling is as often as not (or perhaps more often) about understanding and seeing what you left behind than understanding the place you have arrived. This reassures me some, as I have often thought about the States, what I miss most, the things I want in my life, the lifestyle I want to live, etc. This is one reason I have not sought to unravel as much of China’s mysteries here as before; I think it’s connected to the ‘stepping outside’ idea, that you have to get outside of something to understand it.
And so travel seems to be the continuous pursuit of understanding the place you were last at, and the person you last were. The pinnacle of this pursuit, I would like to think, is something resembling the Man of the Tao. Ending the last real post I wrote, I said, “I may have arrived, but I still do not know where I’m going.” I now know; I’m going home—the long way.
And why? The truth is I don’t love China. I’ve wrestled for a few weeks now with the irritability and quickly-frustrated symptoms I know to be culture shock. It set in shortly after my arrival in Hangzhou, and it has come and gone depending on existence or evasion of stimuli. For this reason, I have thought I was free of it at various points, only to be confronted with a worse bout later on.
At its worse moments, I have felt torn and tortured with thoughts that my 3ish-year pursuit of and labor in the study of Chinese has been in vain, that all of mainland China has nothing of worth, that the future of China (and perhaps the world’s in conjunction) is certainly a hopeless one. The aforementioned post detailed some of my most troubling vexations, but I it is full of generalizations rooted in my resent and moodiness. I normally detest generalizations, so I cannot allow myself to indulge such hypocrisy. In short, I have struggled internally for a few weeks with homesickness, purposelessness, disgust, close-mindedness, resent, and a plethora of other generally irritable-natured phases of contemplation.
And today, Hangzhou hits the mid-60s after enduring the last cold snap of the season. The peach blossoms are in full bloom, and today is crystal clear and full of sunshine, drying every last wet spot left from a night of long drizzling. I will not say I have escaped from the storm, but I have at least found some points of insight with which to anchor myself.
I am American, and I have never been more proud to be one. America is not without faults, but at heart I believe its spirit embodies some of humankind’s greatest qualities. At this moment, we face great obstacles and perils, but we have triumphed at so many fragile points before, I cannot believe we will not now, but we have to take initiative and the people must make the difference. Since being in China, I have come to appreciate so much the freedoms and beliefs I think we too often take for granted.
And now for the more personal, introspective insights—these I have found in the words of others. In the first post of this blog, I included the poem by Jia Dao (as translated by Mike O’Connor):
SEEING OFF A MAN OF THE TAO
When I find you again,
it will be in mountains;
this morning, I lose you
once more to farewell.
Free of attachment
in heart and mind
is it why you can go
ten thousand li alone
to places with such
little human warmth,
where, when you meet someone,
they speak an ancient tongue?
Traveling without disciples,
you have only
a white dog
for company.
Then I could only say I liked the imagery and flow of the words. It struck me with a sense of otherworldliness, and it conveyed to me a glimpse of something spiritual in this ‘man of the Tao.’ But reading it at some point in last few weeks, I realized this poem is not so much about the man of the Tao, as it is about the speaker.
This poem describes a holy man wandering alone to remote and mountainous places; he has no friends or students, and where he goes he can barely communicate. All he has to show that he is not cold and inhuman is ‘a white dog for company.’ In describing this man, however, the speaker is really expressing his wonder and admiration for a man that seems so self-assured, content to be happy in himself. The heart of this poem, two stanzas, is one long question of disbelief. The introduction shows that this self-contented existence is rarely reachable, often disappearing—that which remains hidden in the heavenly reaches of mountains.
Struggling with my own loneliness and sorrow of separation, I felt a compassion and camaraderie with Jia Dao in his poignant contemplation of fleeting happiness. Happiness, I found, is not subject to where you are or whom you are with—it is a state of mind. But being ‘free of attachment in heart and mind,’ is easier said than done.
The second and more recent moment of insight I have experienced comes actually from another friend quoting on his blog the quote one other friend often quotes. If that’s not confusing enough of an introduction, try reading this quote from Calvino:
“… because the traveler's past changes according to the route he has followed: not the immediate past, that is, to which each day that goes by adds a day, but the more remote past. Arriving at each new city, the traveler finds again a past of his that he did not know he had: the foreignness of what you no longer are or no longer possess lies in wait for you in foreign, unpossessed places.”
I don’t know much about Calvino, nor have I read anything of his, so I can’t pretend I know what this means or anything really. But this quote gives me the idea that traveling is as often as not (or perhaps more often) about understanding and seeing what you left behind than understanding the place you have arrived. This reassures me some, as I have often thought about the States, what I miss most, the things I want in my life, the lifestyle I want to live, etc. This is one reason I have not sought to unravel as much of China’s mysteries here as before; I think it’s connected to the ‘stepping outside’ idea, that you have to get outside of something to understand it.
And so travel seems to be the continuous pursuit of understanding the place you were last at, and the person you last were. The pinnacle of this pursuit, I would like to think, is something resembling the Man of the Tao. Ending the last real post I wrote, I said, “I may have arrived, but I still do not know where I’m going.” I now know; I’m going home—the long way.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Pulled-Noodle Boss
You take advantage of the strange emptiness and the sunny, Saturday calm of the shop to sit with me. A friendly, but facetious hello to this old-outsider shifts to Mandarin, and I can hear that neither of us is using the tongue we speak with our mothers. Your home, I know from the sign and your pulled-noodles, is the Place of Orchids in the far west. Why have you come to Crooked River? The Place of Orchids, you say, is not so beautiful.
I am a lone American today on my way to the West Lake, and you say with certainty that it is a beautiful lake. But certainty fades to uncertainty, and your common tongue stumbles forward with carefulness. Does America have pulled-noodles? Chopsticks negotiate my noodles, and I tell your dreams and your young-faced cooks listening in that America’s are not as good these, and there are no noodle shops I’ve seen.
You ask me about money, how much a bowl would go for, how much to rent a place, but I don’t know what language makes it easy to describe impossibilities and uncertainties. I don’t know.
I leave for the sun, you and your dreams left behind in the shadows of your shop. Did your silk-trading forefather that first walked on that ancient road, think the itch that bothered his foot would die with him? Did he imagine that it would carry on, over deserts and mountains and rivers to the sea, where it could only go farther in your heart?
I am a lone American today on my way to the West Lake, and you say with certainty that it is a beautiful lake. But certainty fades to uncertainty, and your common tongue stumbles forward with carefulness. Does America have pulled-noodles? Chopsticks negotiate my noodles, and I tell your dreams and your young-faced cooks listening in that America’s are not as good these, and there are no noodle shops I’ve seen.
You ask me about money, how much a bowl would go for, how much to rent a place, but I don’t know what language makes it easy to describe impossibilities and uncertainties. I don’t know.
I leave for the sun, you and your dreams left behind in the shadows of your shop. Did your silk-trading forefather that first walked on that ancient road, think the itch that bothered his foot would die with him? Did he imagine that it would carry on, over deserts and mountains and rivers to the sea, where it could only go farther in your heart?
Monday, March 19, 2007
Crooked River Drizzle
Crooked River is colder than I thought,
and there is a drizzle that wets streets
and shoulders and shoes and moods;
buses trudge on, rattling and thumping,
and as we stop and as we go, I hold on--
sometimes a seat, sometimes a handle,
sometimes anything.
West Bank Hope
Crooked River loses its way,
and there I found West Bank:
night lanterns bleed water red,
and folks put candles afloat--
paper boats carrying hope yonder.
I tried, and tried, but mine didn't last,
that Crooked River wind telling me what?
Crooked River is colder than I thought,
and there is a drizzle that wets streets
and shoulders and shoes and moods;
buses trudge on, rattling and thumping,
and as we stop and as we go, I hold on--
sometimes a seat, sometimes a handle,
sometimes anything.
West Bank Hope
Crooked River loses its way,
and there I found West Bank:
night lanterns bleed water red,
and folks put candles afloat--
paper boats carrying hope yonder.
I tried, and tried, but mine didn't last,
that Crooked River wind telling me what?
Sunday, March 11, 2007
A Suggestion
This is rather out of character, but I feel compelled to make a suggestion to what few readers I have. You should without delay go to your nearest bookstore to pick up Bill McKibben's just-released Deep Economy. Bill McKibben is a scholar-in-residence at Middlebury, and this past fall I had the opportunity to read a chapter of his then unpublished work. Don't give this a miss.
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
Songs of Crooked River
I pray you will indulge me in this new aspect of The Wild East. I will from time to time share with you all some of the Chinese poems I study, and since most of you cannot read modern Chinese, much less Classical Chinese, I have included my own translations. These poems are all from the province in which I study, Zhejiang, whose name means "Crooked River."
白居易《钱塘湖春行》
孤山寺北贾亭西，水面初平云脚低。
几处早莺争暖树，谁家新燕啄春泥？
乱花渐欲迷人眼，浅草才能没马蹄。
最爱湖东行不足，绿杨荫里白沙堤。
Bai Juyi "Spring-Walking at Qiantang Lake"
North—Lonely Hill, and west—Jia Pavilion.
Water's face is flat under clouds' feet,
and here, there, early orioles argue over warm trees;
at a stranger's house, new swallows peck spring mud.
Wildflowers one by one lure men’s eyes,
and shallow grass just drowns horse hooves.
East—the lakeside I love most and walk not enough:
green poplars' shadows and White Sand Levee.
崔护 《题都城南庄》
去年今日此门中，人面桃花相映红。
人面不知何处去，桃花依旧笑春风。
Cui Hu "Village South of the Capital"
A year gone today and in this here door:
her face and peach tree flower—rosy both.
I do not know where that face has gone,
but same as old, flowers smile in spring wind.
白居易《钱塘湖春行》
孤山寺北贾亭西，水面初平云脚低。
几处早莺争暖树，谁家新燕啄春泥？
乱花渐欲迷人眼，浅草才能没马蹄。
最爱湖东行不足，绿杨荫里白沙堤。
Bai Juyi "Spring-Walking at Qiantang Lake"
North—Lonely Hill, and west—Jia Pavilion.
Water's face is flat under clouds' feet,
and here, there, early orioles argue over warm trees;
at a stranger's house, new swallows peck spring mud.
Wildflowers one by one lure men’s eyes,
and shallow grass just drowns horse hooves.
East—the lakeside I love most and walk not enough:
green poplars' shadows and White Sand Levee.
崔护 《题都城南庄》
去年今日此门中，人面桃花相映红。
人面不知何处去，桃花依旧笑春风。
Cui Hu "Village South of the Capital"
A year gone today and in this here door:
her face and peach tree flower—rosy both.
I do not know where that face has gone,
but same as old, flowers smile in spring wind.
Night Journey
(2/6/07)
I wish to speak of 'the hero's journey,' a concept I find indescirbably fascinating, though I've never actually gotten around to reading its holy text, Joseph Campbell's The Hero with a Thousand Faces. To summarize the idea for those unfamiliar, it is the idea that a basic structure of events remains constant for all mythological heroes--everyone from Ulysses to Hamlet to Jesus. It also asserts that the structure is a result of human psychology, that hero stories all punch the same buttons because they get the same timeless reactions out of everyone. That's my understanding at least.
Last spring, I took John Elder's "Visions of Nature" course in which we delved into the perceptions of nature in English and American literature—Wordsworth, Darwin, artists, poets, and nonfiction writers. One aspect that remains with me is Professor Elder’s continual reference to the night journey, in which the hero finds himself adrift between worlds where the fantastical transpires.
My night journey was more literal: a night train from Beijing to Hangzhou, an experience I found more interesting (and maybe a bit fun) that anything else. Starting in the late afternoon, a dozen or so classmates and I set off from the northern capital on a 16 hour ride. The car was divided into cubicles of six bunks (“hard sleepers”) and we pleasantly passed the hours with snacks, instant noodles, cards, and the last bit of guiltless English conversation before the third language pledge I’ve taken twelve months’ time. The lights went out at 9:30.
Alex Garland’s The Beach (the book on which the movie I previously referenced) touches on night trains. The main character, Richard, says he likes night trains; whenever he rides one, he climbs into the bunk and pretends he’s on a spaceship on a deep-space journey—train-rocking just interstellar turbulence, train-noise just the engine-hum. And so I lay in the dark, watching through the curtains passing lights like stars or nebulas—lonely bodies left behind in the dark.
I awoke in the south, and it was truly a different world. The yellow-chalky fields of the frigid, barren north were replaced by the misty and lush paddies of northern Zhejiang. Beijing was fiercely dry, but Hangzhou greeted me with a surprisingly chilly humidity. The city reminds me in a way of Florida: green in the winter, and often buildings will open up to reveal water—West Lake or various streamlets, canals, etc. pervading the city. The city is filled with mist, often cloudy until afternoon, and though I’m fairly certain there’s a contribution of pollution to the air, it is mostly forgettable. Rain is the best part (I say now of course), a bit of my life I had realized I missed terribly the last week or two in Beijing. It is usually light, but I should wait a month or two.
But night journey or not, it is still strange, it is still an otherworld in which I daily feel alien and lost. For its comforts after Beijing, there are as many tribulations, inside and out. I may have arrived, but I still do not know where I’m going.
I wish to speak of 'the hero's journey,' a concept I find indescirbably fascinating, though I've never actually gotten around to reading its holy text, Joseph Campbell's The Hero with a Thousand Faces. To summarize the idea for those unfamiliar, it is the idea that a basic structure of events remains constant for all mythological heroes--everyone from Ulysses to Hamlet to Jesus. It also asserts that the structure is a result of human psychology, that hero stories all punch the same buttons because they get the same timeless reactions out of everyone. That's my understanding at least.
Last spring, I took John Elder's "Visions of Nature" course in which we delved into the perceptions of nature in English and American literature—Wordsworth, Darwin, artists, poets, and nonfiction writers. One aspect that remains with me is Professor Elder’s continual reference to the night journey, in which the hero finds himself adrift between worlds where the fantastical transpires.
My night journey was more literal: a night train from Beijing to Hangzhou, an experience I found more interesting (and maybe a bit fun) that anything else. Starting in the late afternoon, a dozen or so classmates and I set off from the northern capital on a 16 hour ride. The car was divided into cubicles of six bunks (“hard sleepers”) and we pleasantly passed the hours with snacks, instant noodles, cards, and the last bit of guiltless English conversation before the third language pledge I’ve taken twelve months’ time. The lights went out at 9:30.
Alex Garland’s The Beach (the book on which the movie I previously referenced) touches on night trains. The main character, Richard, says he likes night trains; whenever he rides one, he climbs into the bunk and pretends he’s on a spaceship on a deep-space journey—train-rocking just interstellar turbulence, train-noise just the engine-hum. And so I lay in the dark, watching through the curtains passing lights like stars or nebulas—lonely bodies left behind in the dark.
I awoke in the south, and it was truly a different world. The yellow-chalky fields of the frigid, barren north were replaced by the misty and lush paddies of northern Zhejiang. Beijing was fiercely dry, but Hangzhou greeted me with a surprisingly chilly humidity. The city reminds me in a way of Florida: green in the winter, and often buildings will open up to reveal water—West Lake or various streamlets, canals, etc. pervading the city. The city is filled with mist, often cloudy until afternoon, and though I’m fairly certain there’s a contribution of pollution to the air, it is mostly forgettable. Rain is the best part (I say now of course), a bit of my life I had realized I missed terribly the last week or two in Beijing. It is usually light, but I should wait a month or two.
But night journey or not, it is still strange, it is still an otherworld in which I daily feel alien and lost. For its comforts after Beijing, there are as many tribulations, inside and out. I may have arrived, but I still do not know where I’m going.
Monday, March 5, 2007
China: The Musical
(2/20/07)
China is a musical place, and this is manifested in a variety of forms. Most notable is the karaoke (“KTV”) culture, the most enjoyed pastime of Chinese young, old, and everywhere in between. And perhaps this is one source from which the Chinese font of music flows. If a song plays – on TV, on someone’s computer, anywhere – someone will start singing lowly, and another will join. Most Chinese seem to be amateur vocalists, or at least practiced a far stretch from my homeland or my own ability.
But this is not reserved only to the hours Chinese will spend at a time in a KTV room – it’s often just a way to pass the time: strangers on the bus or subway grace you with the son stuck in their head at that moment. Some strangers do it for money, strumming guitars in the underground passages, their hungry notes carrying down the tiled walls, or itinerant troubadours wandering the subways, belting out the most classic Chinese pop love-songs such as “I love you like a mouse loves rice.”
And there are other acts of public musical display. Everyone in China has cell phones, all with fiercely elaborate functions and capabilities. They are constantly busied with one of these, but most often text-messaging one of their 1.3 billion countrymen. Returning from Shijiazhuang, however, I had the poor fortune to share company with someone who used of the other functions included in his handheld-beast: using his phone as an mp3 player, he shared with our immediate area 3 of his favorite musical pieces, one resembling Kenny G just a bit too much…
But if China is a musical, then the Lunar New Year was certainly the finale for me. At sundown on New Year’s Eve, Beijing exploded into a nightlong symphony of fireworks of all gunfire and bomb resembling kinds. We finally went out to watching, finding a show that puts July 4 to shame: 360 degrees of fire works lit up the sky, near and far. Looking down any street revealed group after group into the smoky distance lighting up colorful boxes. The sky burned red and the ground was littered with paper, casings, and sulfur powder. It was all amateur—every cracker, every Roman candle, every sky-burning, thundering flower chasing away bad luck and evil spirits.
China is a musical place, and this is manifested in a variety of forms. Most notable is the karaoke (“KTV”) culture, the most enjoyed pastime of Chinese young, old, and everywhere in between. And perhaps this is one source from which the Chinese font of music flows. If a song plays – on TV, on someone’s computer, anywhere – someone will start singing lowly, and another will join. Most Chinese seem to be amateur vocalists, or at least practiced a far stretch from my homeland or my own ability.
But this is not reserved only to the hours Chinese will spend at a time in a KTV room – it’s often just a way to pass the time: strangers on the bus or subway grace you with the son stuck in their head at that moment. Some strangers do it for money, strumming guitars in the underground passages, their hungry notes carrying down the tiled walls, or itinerant troubadours wandering the subways, belting out the most classic Chinese pop love-songs such as “I love you like a mouse loves rice.”
And there are other acts of public musical display. Everyone in China has cell phones, all with fiercely elaborate functions and capabilities. They are constantly busied with one of these, but most often text-messaging one of their 1.3 billion countrymen. Returning from Shijiazhuang, however, I had the poor fortune to share company with someone who used of the other functions included in his handheld-beast: using his phone as an mp3 player, he shared with our immediate area 3 of his favorite musical pieces, one resembling Kenny G just a bit too much…
But if China is a musical, then the Lunar New Year was certainly the finale for me. At sundown on New Year’s Eve, Beijing exploded into a nightlong symphony of fireworks of all gunfire and bomb resembling kinds. We finally went out to watching, finding a show that puts July 4 to shame: 360 degrees of fire works lit up the sky, near and far. Looking down any street revealed group after group into the smoky distance lighting up colorful boxes. The sky burned red and the ground was littered with paper, casings, and sulfur powder. It was all amateur—every cracker, every Roman candle, every sky-burning, thundering flower chasing away bad luck and evil spirits.
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