foxghost

This was my 2018 year end translation project. The text is a classic, and it seems appropriate for the first day of the new year. Bai Yu did a reading of this for 榜樣閱讀 (Example Reading), and I'll put together an abridged version of just the part he read and post it to the group later, but here's the whole thing.

Chinese character count: 3721
English translation word count: 3193 words

Full Chinese text link

如果你是从nodezero微博推荐来的，我的微博用戶名就是foxghost狐鬼，英文问题或者评论可以发私信。(I may write back in English 因为我打字很慢。。。)

I like being alive; life is like this, so brimming with delight.

I like the sunshine in winter, the way it unfolds in the hazy fog of dawn. I like that portion of mild and distant serenity; I like that light and heat given without clamour. Come noon, the playground is full of people leisurely sitting, sunning; that primal and genuine imagery always manages to profoundly touch my heart.

I like to tread narrow mountain footpaths in the spring breeze, with strawberries solicitously, diligently blooming and clustering with fruit like red lanterns all along the way. I like raising my head to see the sharp points of young buds on the tree tops; the youngest and most tender yellow green blushing with a hint of innocent pink, as if preparing to offer something, to present something. That poise so weak and yet overflowing with life would often teach me some of the most beautiful truths in its wordlessness.

I like to look at a patch of neatly laid out, glossy and shiny field full of young shoots. Those tiny seedlings lining up tightly together are like a finely woven rug, knitted to completion by gathering so many blue-green feathers, always rousing my desire to lie down atop of it.

I like the eternal days of summer; I like to sit alone on a windy balcony near the mountains at dusk. In the little valley, wind cutting through the rice paddies makes waves through the water, and the beautiful fragrance of rice surges forth like raging torrents. Slowly, the magnificent red wispy clouds of sunset are washed clean, and the gentle night stars ascend to their places one by one. I like to admire such a staged set; I like to sit in that comfortable box seat.

I like to look at the hills full of reeds as they brighten in autumn wind cold and mournful — on the hillside, by the water, so beautiful, forlorn. That time, Liu told me that in a dream he gained a line of poetry: misty trees flowering reeds joining the white of rivers. The conceptual imagery is beautiful to the extreme, but the level and oblique tones are hard to pronounce. He wants to put together an entire quatrain, but he does not have the heart to change it. He wants to write a counterpoint and tie it into antiquity style, but however much painstaking effort he puts in he could not come up with an adequate line. And so even today it remains a single line of poetry; a kind of beautiful and isolated artistic concept.

I also like dreams; I like the enjoyment of fantasy I can have in dreams. I keep dreaming that I can fly, that I can jump over hills and streams. I keep dreaming of fantastical colours and pleasing figures: I dreamt of a brown steed, its glossy mane rising with the wind; I dreamt of flocks of wild geese resting in clusters of grass by a river bank; I dreamt of a sea of lotus flowers, entirely boundless, flaunting their nebulous fragrance and beauty far and wide — these are all things I have never seen in my everyday life. The most unforgettable was that time I dreamt of watching the sunrise on an unbroken chain of purple mountain peaks; they must not have been purple to begin with — it is only the bluish-green jade of distant mountains reflecting the red sun as it begin to rise that such a peculiar scene could be realised in a dream.

It is only natural that I like mountains just as much in real life; the long windows of my office open toward the mountains. Every time I sit facing the window, I would be submerged in its boundless green, filled with a kind of ineffable tenderness like that of young shoots. In the relative distance, the white cross of a church steeple stands towering in the transparent sunlight, raising the blue sky high above.

I like flowers too, it doesn’t matter which kind; I like the meagre autumn chrysanthemums, the rich, full-bodied roses, the clean and lonesome lily, and the serenely idle royal jasmine. I like also the minute and nameless wildflowers that bloom deep in the mountains; ones shaped like crosses, funnels, stars, spheres. I believe with all my heart that when God made his ten thousand flowers, he bestowed upon them the same glory.

I like another kind of blossom; the kind that bursts forth upon a person’s smiling cheeks. On a wintry morning, in an alley, the lean missus who lives across the way would smile as she says, “'Morning!” And I would suddenly realise that the world is so very genial, and my fingertips closing in my leather gloves no longer feel as if they’re frozen stiff; the air would be filled with kindness.

When I arrive at the bus stop and begin to wait, I like to catch the sight of middle schoolers with their hair cut to the tops of their ears, those middle schoolers in great spirits, as cheerful as little birds. I like their pleasant and wide yet luminous foreheads, their vivaciously limpid gazes. Every time I see them I am always reminded of myself, feeling as though I am one of them still: still naive and full of delusions; still so easily moved.

When I sit down in front of my writing desk in my office, I like the letters that are delivered for me for that day. I like to read the letters from my friends; a day without letters is unthinkable. I like to read the letters of the little ones, those childish and unadorned sentences always lets me see again in the refraction of my tears that small southern town all ablaze with the blooms of royal poinciana trees. Most unforgettable, that summer when De mailed me a fern-type leaf from the highest mountain. In the climate of such intense heat, I suddenly felt such sweet and percolating coolness.

I am especially fond of letters from my readers, even though it is not certain that I would have time to reply. Every time I hold up these precious letters, they would always make me feel an extraordinary kind of excitement. On this earth, there may be people who has already seen some things through me. Isn’t this enough? I have no need to exist forever. I hope for the truths I have ascertained to exist forever.

I sort these letters into many, many small boxes; all that concern and the friendship harboured by many are thus properly preserved.

Aside from letters, I also like to read some books, especially in the night time beneath the light of a lone lamp. I’m not a particularly diligent person; I only like to read books of lyrics and songs. Sometimes I would also touch on some older, rather simple essays, and occasionally I would force myself to read some easier English books. I like the lively variation in their script.

In between night reading, I like to open the curtains and look at the sky, to look at a vast sky brimming with stars, as brilliant as a garden full of spring flowers. I like even more to watch the slightly swaying lamplight in the bends of distant mountain paths: so blurry and veiled; so feeble and delicate. Could it be that among them another person is also reading in the night?

When it comes to books I cannot help loving those thread-bound tomes, pages seeping through with yellow; holding them feels like grasping the vein of a graceful tradition, that uneven and faded surface of the paper having accumulated a classical kind of beauty. I would naturally think of the many people that had held it, the many people that had read it. Maybe they had all passed away. How civilizations have flourished and decayed, how history’s characters are replaced have always been so ethereal — only the wisdom contained in the books are eternal.

I like to sit in Professor Wang’s drawing room, holding a Kunqu opera score in my hands beneath the soft illumination of a floor lamp. When he raises the body of a tea coloured flute, shiny with patina, up to his lips, I would begin to softly sing along to the beat. That gentle, exquisite melody like water running through a grindstone would reverberate quietly in the room, lonely and vacant, like a pond of mildly cool water in spring south of the Changjiang. I would be able to appreciate a kind of helpless worry then from that ancient music.

And in this way I’ve continued to like so many old things; that small towel was from participating in a children magazine’s Father’s Day writing competition in the fourth grade; that horn-shaped piece of granite, xiao-Man and I struck it into two as we graduated from elementary school, each of us taking half; that rag doll was my most steadfast childhood companion; that journal written in calligraphy brush I was compelled to finish writing by a teacher, at seven; those two candles were added to my cake by fellow students as I passed my twentieth birthday … I like these treasures, so much so that often in the evening I would sit dazed, sentimental, immersing myself in so many happy memories.

I like to flip through old photographs; I like to look at that little girl with big eyes and her hair in a long braid. I especially like the one with her sitting in a cradle: what a sweet and worry-free era! I often remember my mother telling me, “No matter what you encounter in the future, you must remember, people would have had a spell of happy days.” Yes, I’m proud, I had a spell of happy days — not only was it a spell, but I believe those years would linger an entire lifetime.

I like to examine my old works one by one; if I find flaws in my past work, then I would be so glad as to be unable to control myself — I have improved! I have not stayed in one place! This is the happiest thing for me. I like improvement!

I like small beautiful ornaments, things like earrings, necklaces, and brooches; those gleaming, sparkling, finely detailed, wondrously, skillfully made things. They’re all lying in a pretty bowl, flaunting each of their distinct beauty. I like to occasionally have a look at them, to wear them on my body.

I like life lived leisurely and loosely just like this; I don’t like to allocate my time precisely. I don’t like to arrange events until what time I have left is scarce. I like a lot of impractical things; I like having enough time to spend contemplating.

I like sunny and clear early Sunday mornings; when the low and deep sounds of hymns resonate against the four church walls, I would ascend into another realm: without turmoil, without conflict, without resentment and anger. There is a new radiance to the future of humankind; such a concrete conviction leads me into a higher plane.

I like to come to the side of a brook at dusk. I would check around to make sure I’m alone, then stretch my feet into the water — that running stream that has taken on such splendor from the light of the setting sun, the fine sand slipping between my toes, a petal of some kind of white flower drifting away with the ripples, vanishing in a moment — only then do I discover that it isn’t any white petal, but only a spray of water roused by a stone. Sitting, and sitting still, it feels as though a fine current of pleasant warmth flows between the heaven and earth. Head bowed and murmuring, with a brook full of the reflections of the red clouds of sunset, in that moment it practically feels like my feet are soaking in a basin of crushed flowers!

I like the dry river banks even more so, with climbing plants growing all over that reaches up to a person’s shoulder. At sunset, as far as the eyes can see are endless white stones possessing such a feeling of boundless melancholy. The stones are all stacked on top of one another, folding even the fervent moods of a person’s heart layer upon layer. I like that kind of mood — as if you’re listening to someone calling out in a ravine, the unending haunting echo that bleakly repeats and repeats.

I like what other people don’t notice, like the cypress that no one pays attention to on the lawn. Every time I walk by it I must stop to sniff at its thread of clean sweet scent, to take a look at its humble bearing. There are times I suspect whether it is humble, for maybe it doesn’t even know the existence of the dragon juniper. Perhaps even though it knows of the existence of the dragon juniper, it doesn’t consider the difference between what’s grand and what’s commonplace; for in truth, there isn’t much difference between what’s grand and what’s commonplace.

I like friends; I like to call on them when they least expect; I especially like to knock on a wet door on a rainy day — how pleasant it is to reminisce behind a window as the rain falls. I remember that time I went to the central area to visit Zhi’s home in the mountains; I will never forget the way she cried out in surprise when she saw me. When she ran out, half skipping, to greet me, suddenly the sunlight on the mountains appeared to ignite. We walked slowly in the shade of the sunflowers as we had our long conversation. That fascinating afternoon was like a stanza from a light and nimble song, played through in mere moments.

What I like to the utmost, with a liking bearing a few parts awe and reverence, is the ocean. That vastness, that lofty distance like diluted ink, all of it enchants me. And that majestic ambience, that steadfast manner, and immeasurable depth, always raising its wordless challenge towards humankind.

I like home; I never knew before that I would like home this much. Every time I come back from the outside, the moment I laid eyes on that narrow red door I would be filled with such happiness and pride. I have a home — what a wonderful thing that is!

I also like to sit in front of the window waiting for him to come home. Even though there are so many passersby, I can always tell apart the sound of his footfalls. That’s very easy. If there are sounds of footsteps that begin to race the moment they enter the alley, and sounding like heavy and hurried great strides, then that is definitely him coming back! I like the sound of his key being pushed into the lock; I like to listen to him already calling my English name, gasping still, as he steps through the door.

I like the time I spend sitting in the living room after dinner, with lamplight spreading gently like muslin. I like to listen to some concerto music while warming my hands with a little fine china teapot. At times like those, I can almost imagine a bucolic life in the countryside, remote and closed off from the world.

I also like the outdoors; I like riding a bicycle by his side. On Sunday mornings, when we attend church together, the two bicycles would fly forward on a road at dawn like arrows unstrung, parting waves of light to either side. Then I would feel like it isn’t a bicycle, but an airship, that could ride the wind and brave the billows, gliding on a joyous, soundless song. I would feel as if I’ve returned to the age when I first learned to ride a bicycle: that excitement, that happiness, that naive arrogance — I like that time.

I like rainy days; I like to listen to the cry and the music of rain on a roof as I sit facing a lamp burning low. Fine drizzle comes down like silk, like a day full of gentle reminders from above. I like to take walks with him holding up the same old umbrella then; on the edge of the umbrella, sparkling, translucent water droplets would form into strings — a beautiful pearl curtain. So a serene and isolated world begins for us beneath the umbrella, a string of stories from our past curling around us.

I like to look up as I finish reading a chapter to speak with him; I like to hypothesise a lot of things:

“If I die first,” I say this calmly, as sorrow rises from the depth of my heart for no reason at all, “What will you be like?”

“Don’t speak nonsense, you silly kid.”

“I’d like to know. You have to tell me — if I die first, what will you do?”

He looks at me, expression grave.

“I’ll have to leave this place, and go somewhere far away. What I’ll do — I don’t know that either. As long as it is somewhere remote and still undeveloped.”

“Will you leave this house?” I ask urgently, looking around at our little cottage decorated like a violet dream valley. My heart is struck violently with such pain in my visualisation.

“No, I would work desperately to make a lot of money, and buy this house,” he says slowly, his voice becoming miserable and mournful, suddenly cast deep and low:

“I will have every single item kept here as they are. Oh, no. Let’s not speak of these idiotic things anymore!”

I could not stop my tears from falling then. I don’t understand why I like to ask questions like these.

“Oh, don’t be silly anymore.” He comforts me, saying, “We’ll die together. Think about it, how perfect that will be — we will have to attend the great gathering in the heavenly kingdom together!”

I like to believe in his words; I like to imagine walking into eternity by his side.

Alone, I also like to imagine days of growing old; those days must be pleasant, like a scene of evening light filling up the entire sky. There will be nothing left to compete for then, nothing to linger for. Everything will be diluted, becoming remote, indifferent, wouldn’t cut so into my heart. By then wisdom will have deepened, giving me a new clarity, love will have slowly become richer and purer like wine, life will have also slowly gone through its metamorphosis; better to enter the next quiet and beautiful world. Oh, by then, by then, when I raise my head to see that fine road paved in gold, those city gates made of jasper, and the million bugles welcoming me, I will definitely be motivated and be so very content.

I like — I like. All this, I like with a deep fondness! I like how in my heart I can be filled with so many kinds of ‘like’!