Tuesday, March 28, 2017

On the Intent of Translating

I'm fascinated by the assertion in Walter Benjamin's "The Task of the Translator" (in Theories of Translation) that "No poem is intended for the reader, no picture for the beholder, no symphony for the listener." Is this a philosophic contemplation, or the writer's belief of the highest state of art, or his belief of reality? He seems to be using this as a premise to derive a conclusion that, because the original art doesn't take the receiver into consideration, the translation can't either.

However, there exist several different approaches to translation, as pointed out in "On the Different Methods of Translating" by Schleiermacher. As far as I can tell, the need for more than one approach arises precisely due to the consideration of the receiver. Creation of art, in my view, is complete only after the receiver receives the art. In other words, art is co-created by the author and the receiver. Without the receiver, there is no art.

I would think that, in most cases, the aimed readership dictates the translation method. One example I'd like to cite is the Chinese translation of Finnegans Wake, which I've talked about before. I was visiting China when the translation was published, and I went to a bookstore to see what the book looked like. On each page there are more footnotes than text proper. This, clearly, is not meant for casual readers. The translator said in an interview that "I thought my readers would be scholars and writers." In this example, a scholarly, academic style was chosen. When I translate Chinese literature into English or vice versa, I would definitely consider my target readership's cultural exposure in regard to the source language. Is this not the right way to approach a translation?

Even were I to accept Benjamin's premises for art and literature in general, the above example convinces me his conclusion does not apply to translation. While translation is a creative and artful process, the very act of translation requires that the art has already been received. Moreover, the people who receive the translation want to do so often because they believe there is something special, based on the reactions of others who have already received it. A key motive of the translator is to have translation receivers share the experience, though necessarily in approximation, of the direct receivers, whether it be lyrical, sensual or intellectual (or all three).

So even if Benjamin is right about art, his claims do not seem to translate. 😃

Monday, January 30, 2017

Flash Nonfiction: "A Memory of the First Battle"

min words | max heart

   A Memory of the First Battle

     Xujun Eberlein
At first our city’s two Red Guard factions engaged in “civilized struggle”—using brush pens and words, big-character posters and leaflets, high-pitched broadcast and public debates, loud diatribes and, occasionally, fists to attack each other—until one side started to frequently parade the streets, shouting insulting and damaging slogans such as “Blah-blah is doomed,” and that nettled the nerve of the said faction, middle and high school and college students who had successfully forced the city government to stop classes, so they could carry on the Cultural Revolution, and so they charged into the city’s firehouses, where fire-fighters had been told not to resist the Red Guards, filled fire engines with sewage from big cesspools of communal toilets, drove to the streets, and sprayed their parading opponents—who might have been able to stand up against water cannons but ended up fleeing helter-skelter from the overwhelming foul smell—making the streets stink for days, so badly that stores stayed closed. That was how piss and shit and fire engines became the first real weapon in our city’s “armed struggle,” preceding steel rods and spears, which would, in turn, be replaced by rifles, machine guns, tanks, even warships, all supplies from arsenals stocked to aid Vietnam’s resistance of the U.S., and when those weapons drew blood we’d hear stories such as friends of an injured student tying a towel below his leg wounds, a first-aid method they thought they had learned from war movies, until the boy shed all his blood and stopped breathing.

Thursday, January 26, 2017

Old Adage, New Translation: Calling Deer Horse 指鹿为马

(Note: Zhao Gao (258-207BC) was the highest official under the Second Emperor of the Qin Dynasty.)

[in translation]

Aspiring to gain complete control of power, and anxious that others might not obey him, Zhao Gao set up a test. He led a deer to the emperor and said, "This is a horse." The emperor laughed. "Are you mistaken? Calling a deer a horse?" When the emperor asked the other officials in the court, some remained silent, some followed Zhao to say the deer was a horse, and some said it was a deer. Zhao then back-stabbed those who said the deer was a deer, causing them to be punished under the law. From that day forward everyone feared Zhao and repeated his alternative fact

[Original text] 赵高欲为乱,恐群臣不听,乃先设验. 持鹿献于二世,曰:“马也。”二世笑曰:“丞相误邪?谓鹿为马。”问左右,左右或默,或言马以阿顺赵高,或言鹿者。高因阴中诸言鹿者以法。后群臣皆畏高。(司马迁《史记·ç§¦å§‹çš‡æœ¬çºª》)

This is what Trump voters said when asked to compare his inauguration crowd with Obama’s

Saturday, January 21, 2017

Interesting Photos from Boston Women's March

The following photos were taken by Chinese Americans who also participated in the march today. (I've posted on Facebook a short video I recorded.)

(Photographer unknown)
This photo of a Chinese American woman goes viral on WeChat. Her poster reads "Trump get out!" using a northern Chinese idiom. For more Chinese American photos, see http://blog.wenxuecity.com/myblog/71819/201701/25382.html 

photo by Audrey Wu 
photo by LZ
(photo by Yan)

photo by Yan
photo by Ying

photo by Xia Yu

Friday, January 20, 2017

On Day One of a Prolonged National Mourning

What do we start mourning today then? You tell me.
I will join Boston Women's March tomorrow, but I feel the need to do something on this Friday as well. Not watching anything live on TV–I couldn't stand it. So I am posting a flash fiction piece I wrote right after Election Day, 2016.  I did not post it then, because I was held back by my outrage, disbelief, sorrow, anger, loathing, disappointment, anguish, disgust, trepidation, yet clinging to the constant wishful thought that something would happen to stop the catastrophe, to settle into a resolution.
But settle it never did.  I don't know how we, Americans, got into this muddle. It has started to feel like 1966, in China.  That was also a regime with broad, in fact much broader, popular support.
It doesn't take a sophisticated mind to see how wrong it is to let Trump get into the White House. The following story is not one of reason or morality; it simply reflects the emotions of an ordinary mother, emotions many of my friends experienced.

How to Be a Good Parent in 2016

by Xujun Eberlein
You have told your 8-year-old son not to watch TV, but you are intent on seeing the first presidential debate, so you allow him to sit by you on the couch for an hour and a half before going to bed.

            You have taught your son not to interrupt when others are speaking; on the TV screen the red-faced man cuts off his opponent at will, or otherwise hovers around to intimidate her.

You have again told your son not to watch TV, but you are anxious to see the second presidential debate, so you allow him to sit by you for 60 minutes.
            You have taught your son that America is a democratic country which, unlike China, doesn't hold citizens as political prisoners; on the screen the red-faced man is threatening to send his opponent to jail.

You know you can't tell your son not to watch TV again when the third presidential debate begins, so you allow him to sit by you for 30 minutes.
You have taught your son that people in America, regardless of their ethnicity, race or gender, are all equal; on the screen the red-faced man calls immigrants "bad hombres" and, a while later, squeezes two fierce words out of his fat lips to the other candidate, "Nasty woman."
After that you can no longer be noncommittal in your comments, so you tell your son this man is unfit to be the American President, and he nods hard. "This man will not be elected," you say, and he replies, "FR."

The evening of November 8th, you don't turn on the TV until your son falls asleep.You turn off the TV at midnight.Then you stay awake through the long dark night, having no idea what to say to your son in the morning. # 

Thursday, December 22, 2016

How Did LA Times Promulgate Fake News for Trump?

After the recent Trump-Taiwan phone call, a piece of old "news" got fried hot again: this one claims that Trump has read hundreds of books about China, and revealed his top list of twenty in an "interview" with Xinhua, China's official news agency. "Trump's China book list" went viral in cyberspace to show that the President-elect of the United States isn't that ignorant. Chinese bloggers and cyber surfers alike cite confidently the LA Times as the source of this "news."

But it so happened that two rumor-wary friends, Victor and Zhang Tuomu, both Chinese Americans with a Peking University education, had read in the July 25 issue of the New Yorker ("Donald Trump's Ghostwriters Tells All") that Trump doesn't actually read books.  Suspicious of this  "Trump's China book list,"  the two did some digging, and Zhang Tuomu published their fact-checking results three days ago on a WeChat publication titled "反海外谣言中心" ("The Overseas Anti-Rumor Center"). The article, written mostly in Chinese, is now also circulating online, for example here.  

The gist of it is that they found no Xinhua report on the said interview with Trump, but discovered the following instead: 
  • On April 26, 2011, a commercial PR website, newswire.com, published a "press release" titled "Donald Trump's Favorite Chinese Books." It came from "China Books," said to "Specialize in retail and distribution of western-published books in Mainland China." (This is strange, because the "Trump's China book list" shown in this "press release" contains many books banned in China.) 
  •  On May 3, 2011, a report titled "Donald Trump has read a lot of books on China: 'I understand the Chinese mind'" appeared on the website of LA Times; the piece cites the content of the above commercial "press release" as actual news, apparently without fact checking. (Victor actually checked with the journalist, Tony Pierce, who verified that his "news" indeed came from newswire.com.) 
  • On May 4, 2011, Beijing's Xinhuanet.com cited the LA Times report (see the irony? LAT says Xinhua said it first; Xinhua says LAT said it first) on Trump's book list, without mentioning the sensitive book titles.
From then on, the LA Times became the official source of "Trump's China book list" in Chinese internet articles.

By now we have all seen that the presidential election this year was glutted with fake news and baseless rumors, on a scale I've never seen in my 28+ years living in the United States. And so, in the scheme of things, the case we see here doesn't seem to be a big deal. What surprised—and disappointed—me is the role of the LA Times in this fake news promulgation, considering that, just the day after the election, I had tweeted with a sense of urgency and confidence:
I might also add that, the latest popularity of this "news" seems to have been stimulated by VOA's columnist, Han Lianchao, "a visiting fellow at the renowned American think tank Hudson Institute" (this title seems to shine an authoritative halo to VOA's Chinese audience), who unsuspiciously mentioned the "book list" on December 4th when discussing Trump's China policy. Han said "据报道" – "as reported" – without specifying the source, but I wouldn't be surprised if he had seen the LA Times report, or the citing of it in Chinese cyberspace. Han might not be a New Yorker reader, and I don't blame him for his trust in LAT, because I trusted the paper too. That is, before this episode.

Now I can almost hear a furious rebuttal: You can't say it is the LAT!  It is just one reporter writing a blog post!  I totally agree, in fact I have been following a few real good journalists there, such as Barbara Demick, and in my mind they represent the LAT I liked and trusted.  But let's also face the inconvenient reality:  when people quote the fake news, they say "LA Times reported that," they don't care who the particular reporter is or which part of the LAT website published it.   

Btw, one thing that is still unclear to me is the motive for the 2011 "press release" placed on newswire.com. If it was a publicity stunt from a book dealer, which appears most likely, then why did it give a contact address in China?  Many of the books listed are not allowed to be sold there. We probably shouldn't rule out another possibility: it might have been a political stunt from … (add your guess here). If so, the irony is that the fake news has taken five years to ferment, in a now unpresidented political climate.

Saturday, December 10, 2016

Gifts from a Great Man

Today Bob and I attended Jay Forrester's memorial service at the Trinity Episcopal Church in Concord. Jay was the founder of System Dynamics and Bob's mentor at MIT. Jay was also the inventor of magnetic core memory—the earliest widely used computer memory. (See the great man's obituary in New York Times, which was written before his death, with his approval.)

Beyond all that, Jay had a much more personal impact on my life. Twenty nine years ago, Bob was teaching System Dynamics in Shanghai, and I was studying it in Chengdu. Our first encounter in spring 1987 thus was an unintended gift from Jay.

When Jay was a young inventor of computer memory (1951)

Who'd have thought that Jay, even after his death, would give me another surprise? Today's otherwise completely traditional service took one digression from beautiful Christian hymns: we all stood and sang "Home on the Range" with the church's choir. Jay's children said this was a song Jay loved, and wanted to be sung in his service. Bob was amazed that I, who didn't know the other songs, was utterly at home with this one. I don't know who the Chinese translator of its lyrics was, but in the 1970s, for many of us "zhi-qings" (also called "sent-down youths"), the song had accompanied and consoled our homesick hearts through long days and nights in the countryside far away from home.

My eyes were wet when I softly sang the Chinese words I remembered from my youth—words I was surprised to still remember after all these years—they mingled harmoniously with others' English rendition. The words and music are so dear, intimate, nostalgic, that I've lost the ability to judge the translation.

[Chinese] 草原上的家园

在草原上 野牛自由流浪
我愿 把草原当家园
这儿难得听到 诅咒和吵闹

我家 在草原上
这儿难得听到 诅咒和吵闹

[English] Home on the Range (listen to it on YouTube)

Oh, give me a home where the buffalo roam
Where the deer and the antelope play
Where seldom is heard a discouraging word
And the skies are not cloudy all day

Home, home on the range
Where the dear and the antelope play
Where seldom is heard a discouraging word
And the skies are not cloudy all day

Thursday, November 10, 2016

An Amazon Review

I was surprised and very touched today by an Amazon review of my book, Apologies Forthcoming. This is a good time to be touched by something nice, so let me share it with you:

The kind of literature that makes you stop and feel
By M  on November 2, 2016
Format: Paperback|Verified Purchase

This is a genuine work of literature. The two stories I remember most are "Feathers" and "Pivot Point." The former is a devastating portrait of family loss, the latter, a haunting illustration of longing. In several of these stories is a protagonist who really establishes herself as a sort of feminist hero, a young woman at once happier as "just one of the guys" and critical of the way they treat women, including herself. An additional pleasure is the way the stories get the cognitive faculties working: suddenly the reader will come across two characters debating a mathematician's theorem, or a substantive quote by Confucius. Eberlein has a poet's eye, giving us the image of two birds on a wire when we don't expect it, and it's these unexpected moments--many of them image-based, some of them dramatic--which the reader remembers vividly. At the heart of Eberlein's craft is a finely tuned and inimitable sense of language. "I want to travel with you to every mountain, every water, I told him," and that use of "water" is le mot juste. To read these powerful works by Eberlein is a great privilege.

Wednesday, November 2, 2016

Chinese Americans Against Trump

I just can't imagine Trump as the President of the United States. Hillary Clinton might not be the best candidate, but Trump is the worst I've seen. He has demonstrated a fundamental lack of understanding of democracy. (Update: Obama did not overstate when he warned that "The fate of the world is teetering.")

I'd also like to point out the fact that many Chinese Americans are against Trump. See for example https://www.facebook.com/ca4ba/ (update: the name of the FP page has been changed after the election day).


(updated 11/4)

Thursday, July 28, 2016

Does East Germany Live?

For both Bob and me, the trip to Berlin two weeks ago was a first time. It started well.  Upon our arrival on Tuesday evening, we took a walk in the cool breeze, along the cobblestone streets outside the hotel, passing by leisurely locals here and there in groups of two or three.  I sent a WeChat message to Chinese friends in Boston (in translation): "Unlike the deserted evenings in American suburbs, Europe's dusk is enchanting." In that message I had likened Berlin to some other Western European cities I visited a few years earlier.  
My event the next day, a panel discussion titled "Engaging with China," also went well.  My fellow panelists and our German host are very knowledgeable about China, and I was glad to get to know them. The audience was enthusiastic and thoughtful about the topic of the Cultural Revolution, and this, including the participation of some younger people from mainland China, gave me hope.

Things made an unexpected turn on Thursday. Originally Bob and I had planned to join a 6-hour walking tour recommended by a fellow panelist, but, being jetlagged, I slept in and missed the meeting time.  So we changed plan and decided to take the train to visit Potsdam. 
Shortly before noon, we walked to the Alexanderplatz train station. It was an overcast day and the temperature had dropped to below 20ºC.  I felt cold in short sleeves, and so went into a souvenir shop to buy a sweatshirt. At the cashier's counter I saw that they were also selling the Berlin WelcomeCard, "the official Berlin tourist ticket." I had heard of this card before and the convenience of using one ticket for all public transportation in town made it seemingly a great idea. We asked the cashier if the WelcomeCard included the train to Potsdam, and she said yes, so we gladly bought me a three-day card for 29.50 Euro and Bob, who was going to leave Berlin one day earlier, a two-day card for 21.50 Euro.
A few minutes later Bob and I boarded an S-train to Potsdam, looking forward to a day of interesting tourist experience. Before the train reached its second or third stop, a man with a scanner in hand came to check tickets. Bob gave him our WelcomeCards.  The man looked at the cards, paused, and told us he needed to ask someone something. He then took our cards and walked toward the other end of the train.
I said to Bob, "Something wrong?" and Bob, being a forever optimist, replied, "I don't think so."
The man with our cards returned just when the train came to a stop. He told us that our WelcomeCards were invalid. We'd have to go with him.
Surprised and suspicious, we followed him off the train.  On the platform were three men in dark-colored jackets dealing with a young couple who looked like tourists.  Seeing us, one of the men walked over.  His sturdy figure posed intimidatingly before the 5'2" me; for a moment I wondered if we were running into some kind of mafia.  He took the cards from our escort and, with a cat-caught-mouse like triumphant smile, demanded ferociously, "Sixty euro each. One hundred twenty total." His English had an accent that did not sound like from a German.
"Why should we pay you? Who are you?" Bob said.
"Give me your ID," another rude voice said. The other two men had joined the show.  
"Let us see yours first," Bob replied.
One by one, the men took their IDs out of their pockets and flashed to us.  I tried to take one for a closer look, and the man said "No!"  A quick glance told us that the language on the IDs was German, unrecognizable to us anyway.  Yet one thing was clear:  the men were not police. In their dark jackets and humiliating expressions, all three looked like thugs to me.   But this was in a public space of a democratic country, under broad daylight, even though the train had left us alone with those men, even though the sky was overcast.
"What happens if we don't pay you?"  I said, evaluating possible options as a writer would. It might not have been the smartest thing to say in the circumstance, because the triumphant smile was disappearing from the first man's face.
"Then we have to call the police," he threatened.
"Yes, call the police!" Without coordination, Bob and I said in unison.  We had the same thoughts:  only police could check those men's identity. That is, unless the police were their co-conspirators, a highly unlikely circumstance.  
"You are not going to have our passports until we hear from the police," Bob added.
The three men looked at each other.  Their humiliating manner gave way to a look of surprises. After a moment, one man walked aside to make a cellphone call.
We waited.  For about ten minutes nothing happened, during which one man tried to play the nice guy. "You are not the only ones," he said. "Did you see the other couple?  Many tourists are caught like you, you'll just have to pay."
He said that, after one purchases a WelcomeCard, an extra step has to be taken to validate it on a specialized meter. It is to prevent people from trying to use the card forever.
"Then why did no one tell us this?" I said.
"It is your own responsibility as a tourist to inform yourself," he said, sounding like a recorder. He must have recited the same line numerous times by now. I began to suspect that they were not thugs but hired guns.
 "Where is the meter?" I asked.
He pointed to some device on the platform.
"Then give us back the cards.  We'll go validate them now," I said.
"No," he said. "You must pay the fine first!"
The man who had been making calls came back to say the police wouldn't come.
"We can go to the police with you," Bob offered.
It must have been the first time those men ran into such tough prey.  They hesitated.  Their hesitation made us more suspicious.
"We can't force you to go to the police," one advised.
"We are going voluntarily," Bob said.
We took a train in the opposite direction back to the main station, and followed the guys to a police office. One guy spoke German to a police officer for a long time.  The officer went to find a different officer who could speak English.  The English-speaking officer verified the train line's policy that anyone who didn't validate the WelcomeCard would be fined for 60 Euro. 
That was how a Berlin WelcomeCard became a Berlin UnwelcomeCard. At this point, the card felt like a trap for unsuspicious tourists.
I tried to point out to the police officer that we had just bought the cards minutes before running into those men, that we had no idea about the validation requirement, and the fine was an insult.
"I am sorry. This is the way things are here. A person can cheat and use the card for a long time."
The officer was fairly polite and did not quite point a finger at us, but both Bob and I felt deeply insulted for being treated as thieves. Yet there was no point in arguing any further. Bob simply handed 120 euros to the sturdy guy, who seemed a bit surprised by it. He gave us receipts and, for the first time, tried to make a friendly gesture. "You can return the unused WelcomeCards," he suggested. We ignored him and walked out.
We boarded the S-train again and headed to Potsdam, but the good mood was broken. The ride was less than an hour.  In Boston, the commuter rail for that length cost US$6.50. We never asked what an actual train ticket would cost to Potsdam had we not bought the Berlin UnwelcomeCards in the first place.  What was the point to find out, after we had spent 171 Euro for that trip?
As we toured the Sanssouci and other palaces in the afternoon, I was often mind absent.  From time to time the humiliating scenes on the train platform and the police station replayed in my head.  Those men in dark jackets never explicitly told us which organization they were working for; it was our guess that they were hired by the railway company. According to them, they had gotten many foreign tourists the same way they got us. But why would Berlin's railway company use this way to humiliate tourists, to make people's visits a bitter experience? 
I recalled that, nearly three decades ago, when I just immigrated to the United States, the honor system of the US public transportation surprised me in a big way. It was a sharp contrast to the China I came from, which treated every citizen as some sort of suspect. In the US, everyone was trusted to pay their own fare honestly.  I was a poor student then; if I wanted to I could have easily cheated on bus fare in Boston.  But I didn't.  The honor system made such behavior a great shame. During the years, more than once Chinese friends have told me that living in the United States made them more honest and honorable persons.
In Potsdam, we bought tickets to see both the old and new palaces. When we walked across the grounds to the New Palace's entrance and presented our tickets, the female guard told us—quite impatiently—that we needed a stamp. We walked a few hundred meters to another ticket office, got a stamp, returned and were admitted.
It was a stamp-thirsty ticketing scheme. The requirement for getting extra stamps on our tickets at different locations again reminded me the China I came from, when any little thing would require a lengthy stamp-tour to get approved.  It made me suspect that Potsdam belonged to East Germany in the not-so-remote past.  For the same token, I also suspected that Berlin's railway company had belonged to East Germany. 
Upon returning to our hotel that evening, an online research verified both.

On Friday we took a 6-hour walking tour provided by http://www.brewersberlintours.com/.  Compared to Thursday's unpleasant experience ( thanks to the railway company), the walking tour was more than a great success.  The ticket cost only 15 Euro each – Berlin's low-cost of living was unexpected to me. Some people bought tickets online in advance, but most didn't.  Our tour guide, a knowledgeable and passionate Israeli, told us to pay at the end of the tour.  Apparently he didn't worry about anyone escaping half-way. (As a matter of fact, no one did, and all fifteen of us in the group gave him generous tips.)
Toward the end of the walking tour, we stopped across the street from an enormous grey building, said to have a thousand windows (see photo below).  It had been both East Berlin's and the Nazi's government building, and now hosts the country's Finance Ministry.  Its numerous windows, our tour guide said, were meant to intimidate citizens and remind them that they were small and being watched all the time.
There are many wonderful things in Berlin, with great historical significance. The holocaust memorial is very moving, and the architecture and museums are noteworthy. Still, for Bob and me, it felt like something was missing or out of place.
Perhaps it's worth noting that, after the train trip to Potsdam, we never used our Berlin WelcomeCards again.
Berlin's Thousand-Window Building

Thursday, July 21, 2016

Chinese Poetry Translation: Room for Disagreement

      This might be a bit unusual: in the short span of two months, the LA Review of Books published two essays on Chinese poetry translation: mine titled "Is There a Good Way to Translate Chinese Poetry?" and Lucas Klein's "Tribunals of Erudition and Taste: or, Why Translations of Premodern Chinese Poetry Are Having a Moment Right Now." My piece focuses on contemporary poetry translation, while Klein's gives more attention to the ancient works, but our topics – at times even views – converge. Still, as Klein points out, "There is much room for disagreement inside the agreement that…" (feel free to finish the line with your own words).

Sunday, July 3, 2016

A Friend on Lessons Learned from the Cultural Revolution

This is a long overdue post that I have been meaning to write. Now that the July 4th long weekend is here, I finally got the time.

After the New York Times interviewed me in early April, a friend who read it emailed me a comment, in which she says (in translation from Chinese):

The Cultural Revolution kept lots of youngsters out of school, but in a cruel way it also taught a few hard principles.  For example:

-          Stay far away from the Cult of Personality (regardless of its genesis and agenda);
-          Don't easily believe accusations against anyone (especially large-scale, top-down accusations);
-          When it comes to forming opinions on a person or a matter, don't use group thinking; 

How well said! How fundamentally down-to-earth these principles are to every individual. Those born later than our generation, those who are lucky enough to not have experienced the Cultural Revolution – a time when mob mentality played to its extreme – might not get the urgent point or understand the importance of these principles. I dare say, chances are, people will more often do exactly the opposite. It's human nature; it's the kind of human nature we need to be on guard for and fight against.

The friend then adds:

As long as human nature doesn't change, it is possible that the Cultural Revolution will be repeated. If we perceive any sign of that tendency, we must try to stop it regardless of personal dangers.  This is the mission that history entrusts to those of us who were there.

What a courageous thing to say.

On a different but related note, I will be in Berlin on July 13 to participate in a panel discussion as part of the Robert Bosch Stiftung's "Engaging with China" program. The topic is "50 years after the Cultural Revolution – how dealing with the past is shaping China's future."

Tuesday, March 1, 2016

An Overlooked Message of the Peter Liang Demonstrations

On Saturday, Feb. 20, I walked in Boston Common about 11 am, in time to see a large group of Chinese Americans gathering by the Brewer Fountain in front of the gold-domed Massachusetts State House.  Behind the crowd, a man in a black ski jacket and a woman in blue jeans quietly placed a small, home-made memorial under a tree.  They carefully laid down pine twigs and flower bouquets on the lawn, and set up a cardboard sign with hand-written words:

People came from as far away as Rhode Island to demonstrate in Boston, responding to former New York policeman Peter Liang's conviction.  The majority of the participants were middle-aged, and quite a few brought children with them. Led by a Boston University Professor named Wang Hua, the first thing the demonstrators did together was observe one minute of silence in mourning of Akai Gurley and as an expression of condolences to his family.
I watched them from a distance. I had decided from the very beginning to stay out of the mass rally, and advised my friends to do the same. In addition to personal reasons, I was also concerned about possible adverse consequences of racial tension. But I would be surprised this time.
My first surprise was that a friend, Hong Jiang, a former IT professional who had been skeptical about the rally early on, brought with her two hand-made placards. One read, "Condolences to Mr. Gurley's family," and the other "Fair Trial for Peter Liang."  She said she decided to get involved because she really didn't want the rally sending the wrong message to the public.
As it turns out, these were the two main messages of the rallies across the country that day.  Sadly, however, the mainstream media, and many in their readership as well, seem to have seen only the second message or, worse still, to characterize the demonstrations as a  "square-off" between the Asian and black communities. Few recognized that the Chinese American community as a whole has emerged from its customary quietness to make a collective bow to the victim's family, to express regrets and sorrow, to issue a profound apology, and to acknowledge the failure of Liang's defense team for not delivering an apology until after the verdict was read. Such a collective apology is something unheard of in the 190-year history of Chinese Americans.

The consensus on apologizing was not manifest at the outset. On WeChat, I early on saw an ambivalent question: Are we begging for leniency? In the week between the verdict and the demonstrations, I watched on my cellphone people debating passionately, sometimes fiercely, on whether mass rallies should be held and how.  There were no authorities anywhere; anyone could propose any idea, and people took or rejected ideas at their own discretion.  Despite endless arguments, some sort of convergence—though in no way unanimity—did seem to appear at the end. One example: inappropriate slogans such as "Support Peter Liang" stayed around for a while but were ultimately rejected by the majority.  "Support him for what? For shooting?" the question from a random person had made others think twice.

As a rookie cop, Peter Liang made a grave mistake on the evening of November 20, 2014, on the 8th floor of a dark stairwell in a Brooklyn public housing complex, when a bullet discharged from his gun, ricocheted off the wall, and fatally struck Akai Gurley one floor below. Though all evidence points to the fact that neither man was aware of the presence of the other at the time, and that even the victim did not immediately realize he himself was hit until he ran down two more floors and collapsed on the 5th floor landing, Liang, as well as his partner, made a further mistake by not performing CPR for the dying man after they saw what happened minutes later. While Liang's defense team had argued that a devastated and not well trained Liang was incapable of handling such a crisis, an unarguable fact is that a young man's life was lost because of him, and for that Liang must bear the responsibility.
Yet it is also a fact that the tragedy was a horrible accident, made even more tragic by the extremely low probability that a ricocheting bullet would strike someone in the heart. As Ken Thompson, the Brooklyn DA who prosecuted Liang, said in a video interview on Feb. 19, the day before the demonstrations, "I do not believe that Peter Liang intentionally killed Akai Gurley. We have never said that." 
An accident is not the best example of evilness. An individual who caused an accident without intent should not be symbolized for political causes or be given the harshest punishment. As far as I can tell, this is what pushed Chinese Americans to the streets on Feb. 20. But as they sought fairness for a member of their own, it also became clear to them that "fairness" might not mean the same thing to those on the side of the victim. Thus, as a grassroots movement, the Peter Liang demonstrations ran into a dilemma. That dilemma, embodied in the two slogans carried by my friend, also became part of the rallies.    
On the grass of Boston Common, I asked a demonstrator, who identified herself as a housewife, why she brought her children here.  She replied in Chinese, "I want them to know we are a minority. They have to know that unfair things happen to us because we are a minority." She paused, and then added somewhat ambivalently, "But we don't want our black friends to think we are against them. They are a minority too.  We are both disadvantaged groups."

            A park ranger on horse attracted children who came with their parents. The kids wanted to pat the horse.  They wanted to take pictures with the handsome policeman.

I couldn't help but wonder: when Peter Liang, at age five, witnessed her mother being robbed on the street, and vowed to protect her when he grew up, was it the mighty image of a policeman like this that inspired his dream career?  How could he have known there's so much behind a beautiful image!

By the Brewer Fountain, a woman speaker stood on a bench and called on Chinese Americans to actively participate in public affairs. The crowd responded with foot stamping while shouting in unison: "Vote! Vote! Vote!"  Hong Jiang, who became one of the provisional organizers with the BU professor, spoke next.  She told people to care not only about our own community, but also all other minority groups. 
After seven or eight men and women made impromptu speeches, people began to sing "God Bless America."  A man with a singer's voice held a megaphone and led the chorus. I was surprised that many remembered the lyrics; those who didn't hummed along.
As the demonstrators paraded along the outmost ring inside the large park, the procession stretched for more than half a mile. I asked the park ranger on horse how many people he thought there were.  
"More than 2000," he said, impressed. "I thought there'd be 50.  That's the estimate on the permit."
"Is it okay there are so many?" I asked.
"Oh yeah, " he said, "perfectly fine. It's a good thing."

The parade marched past my camera, shouting slogans. Suddenly, a white man standing next to me in the audience ran to the parade and stopped a woman holding a sign, on it were the words "Free Peter Liang." 
"Where is he being held?" the man, who later told me his name was Ed, asked her. The woman looked puzzled. Several others came around and tried to explain, but Ed cut them short. "You can't ask to free someone who's not being imprisoned," he said.
This slogan, in fact, had been one of those deemed inappropriate by most—albeit for different reasons than Ed's—during the WeChat discussions before the demonstration. Many seemed to want leniency for Peter Liang, not exactly "free," but unsure what term would be fair.  
  I spotted another friend, also an IT professional, at the tail of the parade. I asked her why she came to demonstrate. "If we didn't," she said in a Sichuan accent, "Peter Liang would be locked up for 15 years!"

Friday, February 19, 2016

Tomorrow They Will Come Out Like Ants

"They came out like ants!"  Some years ago, William T. Vollmann wrote this headline in Harper's, adding the subtitle "Searching for the Chinese tunnels of Mexicali."  Tomorrow (Saturday, February 20), "they"—the Chinese Americans—might again come out "like ants" in more than 40 cities, this time not from the mysterious tunnels of Mexicali,  but from a cellphone-based social media network called WeChat.
(Before anyone attempts to protest the use of "ants" as a metaphor for people, let me say up front that it reminds me of a childhood song "Little ants, love to work" or "小蚂蚁,爱劳动".  It was a song adored by my grandmother, a poor peasant who worked nonstop her every waking hour. The metaphor also has an ironic connotation in the sense that ants work but don't speak.  Have you ever heard ants make a sound? But who knows, that might change.)
Ever since former NYPD policeman Peter Liang's guilty verdict last Thursday, plans for rallies all over the nation have been developed through grassroots campaigns on WeChat. Watching the efforts in full swing on a cellphone is no less breath-taking than an action movie. All kinds of voices, rational and irrational, calm and angry, fair-minded and extreme, can be "heard" on the palm-size screen. What a mass movement!
As someone who grew up during the Cultural Revolution, I am always wary of mass movements. Even with well-meaning participants, they have the intrinsic tendency to let people get carried away.  I prefer to stay out, and I don't plan to participate in Boston's rally tomorrow.
What made me write this piece, however, is that my fellow Chinese Americans surprised me with their earnest efforts in educating each other on public affairs, on how American democracy works.  Exactly because this movement is a grassroots action, many of the participants are lay people who have been busy feeding a family and not paying attention to the English media.  As all sorts of slogans were suggested for the rallies, many, including “All Lives Matter” were introduced at face value into the mix.  Quickly—and on WeChat everything happens quickly—others with the knowledge of the line's racist connotation spoke out, and it was dropped.  In a sense, this movement has become a "teachable moment." But because so many people are involved, it is still possible that the slogan will show up somewhere tomorrow. Let's hope it doesn't, but in case it unfortunately does, let’s hope the onlookers don’t compound the mistake by attributing racist intent.
Speaking of presumptions, I've heard that some thought Peter Liang showed no remorse after accidentally taking Akai Gurley's life.  I have been following media reports closely about the trial, and I had a rather different impression. If anyone interpreted Peter Liang's sobs during his testimony as acting rather than true regrets and remorse, then let me share with you some further information.  Peter Liang's mother, Fenny, said that Peter Liang was repeatedly banging his head against the wall at home, and he was so grief stricken about the tragedy that he kept saying he'd rather be the one who was shot.  Fenny did not sleep for 24 hours because she felt the need to watch her son so he wouldn't do something stupid to himself.
From all I can tell by reading Chinese information on the internet and WeChat, Peter Liang has a working class family, and his parents did not receive much education. Neither Peter nor his father are good with words.  Here's a small but telling detail: after the verdict, when a tearful Fenny Liang phoned her husband about the bad news, the old man said no words; all she could hear was his heavy breathing.
Cultural misunderstanding might have caused some to believe that Peter Liang did not have remorse.  I know way too many Chinese who don't express emotion through words, and that does not mean they don't have the emotion.
In fact, another thing that touched my heart as I watched the movement on WeChat this week is how much sympathy and compassion my fellow Chinese Americans showed toward Akai Gurley and his family.  Just two days ago, a fund was announced on WeChat for the purpose of helping both Akai Gurley's and Peter Liang's families, and another similar fund is in the process of being set up.  Rally organizers and participants are planning to have a one-minute silence to mourn Akai Gurley and express condolences to his family.  Slogans with the message of condolences are also being made.
One of the proposed slogans is "One Tragedy, Two Victims." I feel this is so true. I feel for Akai Gurley's family.  I feel for Peter Liang's family.  Peter Liang should take responsibility for Akai Gurley's death, and he is being punished morally for that.  But as Brooklyn DA Ken Thompson—the prosecutorsaid in an interview today, "This is a tragedy, and there is no winner here." He also stated, "I do not believe that Peter Liang intentionally killed Akai Gurley. We have never said that."
So, what is the point of seeking the maximum sentence for a young man who made a grave mistake without intent? 

Saturday, November 21, 2015

What an Honor

My essay, "Clouds and Rain over Three Gorges," is listed as a notable essay in the Best American Essays 2015.  This piece was the winner of American Literary Review's nonfiction contest last year,  and a finalist in Narrative's winter 2013 Story Contest.

Thursday, May 21, 2015

Poems After Poets

(Note:  I wrote poems in Chinese when I was young, and have also translated poetry from Chinese to English in recent years, but this is my first attempt to compose a few in English.)

  After Gregory Corso

Her death
is as vivid
as memory
can evoke
and as blurred
as my memory
is to me

Layers of Sand
    After C. P. Cavafy

The memories of the current flow down in me
like fine sand sliding into a pit on the beach—
sun-warmed, glittering, and slippery fine sand

The memories of the past sink deeper,
cold layers of sand now hidden beneath;
some grains near the top still occasionally shine through,
shortly before being covered, out of the sun

I want to dig them up; their disappearance upsets me,
and I'm upset, too, for the mix-up from my digging.
I look in, at the topmost grains

I don't want to stop digging for fear the sand at the bottom
will start to turn into mud, and the mud take over the pit,
as quickly as the river water takes over the beach

Three Paradoxes
    After Wistawa Szymborska

When I speed across the intersection
I'm delayed, all cars deadlocked by mine

When I walk toward the horizon
I make it further away

When I look forward to tomorrow's sunlight
I come closer to the ultimate darkness

Wednesday, December 17, 2014

On Ezra Pound’s Translation of Ancient Chinese Poetry

Can one translate poetry without knowing the source language?  Certainly that was what Ezra Pound did.  In his volume Cathay (1915), Pound translates a total of 19 pieces of ancient Chinese poetry, spanning a period from the 11th Century B.C. to 4th Century A.D.  But of course he couldn’t have done it without help from someone who had knowledge of the Chinese language, in this case Ernest Fenollosa, an American orientalist. The unusual situation, however, was that Pound was approached by Fenollosa’s wife after the man’s death.  At the time, in the 1910s-20s, English information about Chinese poetry must have been scarce, thus Pound’s only basis for the translation was Fenollosa’s meticulous unpublished notes. In addition to providing a word-by-word mapping between Japanese and English, the notes also include line-by-line draft translation into English.
Given Pound’s lack of knowledge of Chinese at the time, it is probably not a big surprise that Cathay contains quite a few citation errors. For example, the first poem in the collection, “Son of the Bowman of Shu,” is cited by Pound as from Kustugen (the Japanese name for Qu Yuan) in the 4th Century B.C., however it in fact is an anonymous work collected in Shijing (also known as Book of Songs), the earliest known volume of Chinese poetry.   Another example is the third poem, the famous “River Song.” Though correctly cited as from Li Bai (whom the Japanese called “Rihaku”), one of the most acclaimed poets in the Tang Dynasty, Pound had mistaken two poems as one.  The first 22 lines of “The River Song” correspond to a poem titled “江上吟” (“Humming on the River”), while the rest, starting from “The east wind brings the green color…”, correspond to a different poem by Li Bai titled “侍从宜春苑奉诏赋龙池柳色初青听新莺百嗽歌”, meaning literally “Following orders to write about listening to new birds singing in early spring, while serving the Emperor in Yichun Park.” Two completely different occasions in distinct settings.  It is curious that Pound would regard their contents as fitting perfectly in a single poem. There are a few other minor errors that I will skip here.
If the above errors are merely technical, wherever Fenollosa had missed the original Chinese meaning (though such occasions were few), the same problem also transferred into Pound’s “translation.”  Take “The River Merchant’s Wife: A Letter” as an example. In Li Bai's original poem, "长干行," there is this famous line that has since become a timeless allusion known as "bamboo horse and green plums":  
Which Pound translated as (underlines are mine):
You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,
You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.

Here, the word “床” usually means “bed,” but in ancient Chinese it also means the fence of a backyard well. The latter meaning happens to be what Li Bai is referring to in this poem. Such language nuance can present difficulties for even a native speaker, not to mention a foreigner. Curiously, In Fenollosa’s notes the word is translated as “seat” instead of the usual meaning “bed.” He might not have known the other, less-common meaning of the word, and felt that “bed” wouldn’t have made sense: the first part of the line obviously refers to an outdoor setting.  Either “you walked about my seat” or “you walked about my bed” wouldn’t read right, but apparently Fenollosa went for the less nonsensical.  Pound might or might not have noticed this inconsistency, but there was not much he could do about it, being unable to read the original text. In any case, a glitch like this could probably be explained away by “poetic license.” So the error is kept.  In the same line, “blue plums” should actually be “green plums,” indicating the fruits are unripe, a metaphor for the young girl and boy.  This metaphor is completely lost in the translation.  
Another interesting thing to note is that the original poem alludes to an allegory known as “Holding-pillar faith,” which originates from a book by ancient Chinese philosopher Zhuangzi. The allegory goes like this:  a man is waiting for his female date under a bridge. Before the woman arrives, however, the river water unexpectedly rises. To be faithful to his promise, the man doesn’t leave; he holds onto a pillar of the bridge until he drowns.  The moral of this allegory is one can place love above his own life. Li Bai's lines that allude to this


were translated by Pound as

At fifteen I stopped scowling, 
I desired my dust to be mingled with yours 
Forever and forever and forever. 
Why should I climb the look out? 

In Fenollosa's notes, he had written a draft translation “I always had in me the faith of holding to pillars / And why should I think of climbing the husband looking out terrace.”  This is quite accurate literally; however it is unclear whether he was aware of the allusion. In any case he did not explain it. At this point Pound, who had faithfully followed Fenollosa’s translation so far, took the liberty to exclude that line completely, probably because he couldn’t make sense of it.  In its place he put “Forever and forever and forever.” The meaning of “forever” was indeed implied by Li Bai in his poem, but the great Chinese poet would never have said it so tritely; that would not be his poetic style. 
This example is one of a few places where Pound's translation departs from Fenollosa’s notes.  Reading the two men’s translations side by side for this poem, one can see that Pound  copied Fenollosa’s complete lines more often than not. T.S. Eliot said in a 1928 essay that “There is as much as to say that Chinese poetry, as we know it today, is something invented by Ezra Pound.”  It seems to me in that statement Ernest Fenollosa’s name should have at least been in line with, if not replacing, Ezra Pound’s.
Interestingly, Pound’s translation of the Chinese poetry – or should I say Fenollosa’s translation instead? – especially of the longer poems, often reads more fluid than what I’ve seen from ethnic Chinese translators.  Let’s compare two different translations of the first poem included in Cathay
The Chinese original:

采薇采薇 薇亦作止
曰归曰归 岁亦莫止
靡室靡家 玁狁之故
不遑启居 玁狁之故

采薇采薇 薇亦柔止
曰归曰归 心亦忧止
忧心烈烈 载饥载渴
我戍未定 靡使归聘

采薇采薇 薇亦刚止
曰归曰归 岁亦阳止
王事靡盬 不遑启处
忧心孔疚 我行不来

彼尔维何 维常之华
彼路斯何 君子之车
戎车既驾 四牡业业
岂敢定居 一月三捷

驾彼四牡 四牡骙骙
君子所依 小人所腓
四牡翼翼 象弭鱼服
岂不日戒 玁狁孔棘

昔我往矣 杨柳依依
今我来思 雨雪霏霏
行道迟迟 载渴载饥
我心伤悲 莫知我哀
Ezra Pound's translation:

Here we are, picking the first fern-shoots 
And saying: When shall we get back to our country? 
Here we are because we have the Ken-nin for our foemen, 
We have no comfort because of these Mongols. 

We grub the soft fern-shoots, 
When anyone says "Return," the others are full of sorrow. 
Sorrowful minds, sorrow is strong, we are hungry and thirsty. 
Our defense is not yet made sure, no one can let his friend return. 

We grub the old fern-stalks. 
We say: Will we be let to go back in October? 
There is no ease in royal affairs, we have no comfort. 
Our sorrow is bitter, but we would not return to our country. 

What flower has come into blossom? 
Whose chariot? The General's. 
Horses, his horses even, are tired. They were strong. 
We have no rest, three battles a month.

By heaven, his horses are tired. 
The generals are on them, the soldiers are by them. 
The horses are well trained, the generals have ivory arrows and quivers ornamented with   fish-skin. 
The enemy is swift, we must be careful. 

When we set out, the willows were drooping with spring, 
We come back in the snow, 
We go slowly, we are hungry and thirsty,
Our mind is full of sorrow, who will know of our grief?

A translation by Yang Yixian and Dai Naidie, from A Choice Selection of Ancient PoemsChinese—English, published by Foreign Language Press in China:

We Gather Vetch

We gather vetch, gather vetch,
While the young shoots are springing;
Oh, to go back, go back;
But the year is ending.
We have no house, no home,
Because of the Huns.
We cannot sit or take rest,
Because of the Huns.

We gather vetch, gather vetch,
While the shoots are tender;
Oh, to go back, go back;
Our hearts are sad.
Our sad hearts burn,
And we hunger and thirst;
But our garrison duty drags on,
And no messenger goes to take news home.

We gather vetch, gather vetch,
But the shoots are tough;
Oh, to go back, go back;
The tenth month is here again,
But the king’s business is unending;
We cannot sit or take rest;
Our sad hearts are racked with pain,
And no one comes to comfort us on our march.

What splendid blossom is that?
It is the blossom of the cherry tree.
What great chariot is that?
It is the chariot of a nobleman.
His war-chariot stands ready yoked
With four proud stallions;
How can we settle in one place?
We march to three different posts in a month.
The four stallions are yoked
To make a sturdy team;
The nobleman rides in the chariot,
We take cover behind;
Four stately stallions,
Ivory bow-ends and a fish-skin quiver;
Every day we must be on our guard,
We are hard-pressed by the Huns.

When we left home
The willows were softly swaying;
Now as we turn back
Snowflakes fly.
Our road is a long one
And we thirst and hunger,
Our hearts are filled with sorrow;
But who knows our misery?
The translators were/are all literary experts in their own native language.  However, when it comes to translation, neither party appears to have sufficient knowledge of the nuance of the other language.  Though both translations are fairly accurate in meaning, they read quite differently as poetry.
This Chinese poem, "采薇," from the 11th Century B.C., laments soldiers’ homesickness as they guard their kingdom’s border against nomad invaders from spring to winter. Its meaning is straightforward and there are no allusions, but like other poems in Shijing, this one maintains a singing/chanting rhythm throughout, in which a refrain occurs often, not only between stanzas but also within a line.    
The Chinese translators certainly understood the form and meaning of this poem better than Pound, and their translation attempts to render the folk song quality with the refrain pattern.  However their English is not nuanced enough to match their Chinese level of artistic quality.  For example, admittedly nitpicking: using “to go back” without context is a common Chinglish way of expressing “returning home.” It is rather unclear here and could lead to basic misunderstanding of the literal meaning. In comparison, Pound’s translation has lost the original poem’s style and folk-song quality, but reads much more fluid and natural (and "get back to our country" quite clear).  This is to say, each translation has its own strengths and weaknesses. This also implies that, it is possible to keep the strength of each and avoiding many of the weaknesses by combining the two.
Consider a modified version that blends the above two translations and fixes their errors. For the sake of the sounds, I'm adopting the word "vetch" for 薇, since there are so many interpretations for what this wild vegetable actually is/was – spinach, wild peas, fern shoots, vetch, etc., you name it – and I have no way to tell which is most accurate. For similar reasons, I'm keeping "Xianyun" from the original poem for the name of the "foemen" tribe.

Picking vetch, picking vetch, the first shoots are springing
Saying “Return,” saying “Return,” the year is already ending
No family, no home, because of Xianyun the foemen
No rest, no comfort, because of Xianyun the foemen

Picking vetch, picking vetch, the shoots are soft and fresh
Saying “Return,” saying “Return,” our hearts are full of sorrow
Sorrowful minds, sorrow is burning us, so is hunger, so is thirst
Our defense is not yet certain, no one can be sent home

Picking vetch, picking vetch, the shoots are getting tough
Saying “Return,” saying “Return,” it is October already the tenth moon
No ease in the king’s affairs, no break for us
Our hearts pain with sorrow, we still can’t go home 

What fabulous blossom is that?  It is the cherry tree’s
Whose great chariot is that? It is the general’s
The war-chariot is yoked, the four horses are tall
No one dares rest, three battles a month

Four horses are driving the chariot, four strong horses
The higher men are on them, the lower men are by them 
The horses are well trained, bows of ivory, quivers ornamented with fish-skin 
No one dares relax, the enemy is swift 

When we set out, the willows were drooping with spring 
When we come back, snowflakes fly everywhere
We go slowly, we are hungry and thirsty
Our mind is full of sorrow, who will know our misery?

If my modified version above is indeed an improvement in the translation, then a case can be made that better literary translation would be a cooperative project between two translators, one a native speaker and expert of the source language, and the other the target language.  Only in this way, can the nuances in both languages could be captured and presented in the translation.  This, of course, is mainly for the benefit of readers and the quality of the translated literature.  I do understand that not every translator would be willing to share his or her work or cooperate with another translator.