The Complete Works of Xu Zhimo's Classical Prose

Chapter 18
In this storm, on the east bank of the lake, near the confluence of the Rhone River, among the small islets and white foam, floated a tired boat with torn sails, a broken rudder, and a broken rudder. Facing the blow of the huge waves, Zhouzi was busy praying.The passengers also lost their composure, and they all took off their coats, ready to fight with Taolan.This is the hometown of Lu Sao, and the adventure place of this small boat happens to be the famous site where Julia and St. Preux were killed.There was a beautiful young man in the boat who couldn't swim, but he never cared about the safety of his own bones. At that time, he was full of worries that his friends would take risks for him when the boat capsized, because His friends are the most fearless of dangers, and adversity is only the stimulus of his ambition. He once insulted the raging waves of the Aegean Sea and the Mediterranean Sea, not to mention the turmoil in the limited Limeng Lake. He crossed his hands and looked at Sappho quietly. The snowy peaks of Savoy loom in the clouds.This is a rare coincidence in history, where the ancestors of the modern revolutionary spirit were inspired, and they were carried in the same boat when the world was furious.A pair of great souls of poetry, a pair of beautiful demons, and a pair of glorious traitors who shared weal and woe!

He stood on the beach at Mesolonghi (January, 22-2000, 36).The sea water undulates in the setting sun, and there is no one around, there are only continuous sandy moraine, a few humble thatched houses, ruins of ancient temples, three or two gray colonnades, and a few broad wings flying in the sky. seagulls, a desolate twilight scene.He stood by the beach, meditating on the splendor of ancient Greece, the writings of Athens, the magnificence of Sparta, the color of the sunset has not disappeared for [-] years, but the ghost of freedom has never left traces on the sea sand... He stood alone , meditating on his own life experience, [-] years have been buried in the ashes of time, love and hatred, success and humiliation, fame and resentment, aspirations and crimes, hometown and friends, the flowing water of Venice, Rome The night of the ancient theater, the white snow of Alps, the beauty and anger of nature, the torment and honor of rebellion, the realization of freedom and the extinction of dreams... He looked at the long figure reflected on the sea sand, The cool wind was blowing his clothes, a lonely companion in the lonely world, a surge of emotion could not help being stirred up in his soul, and he buried his head with his palms.At this time, the sun has already faded, and the stars in the sky appear one after another. In this beautiful darkness, the voice of the poet flows, like the pine wind, like the waves of the sea, like the painful cry of Lan Okon, like Desperate sighs on the island of Helena:
This time this heart should be unmoved,

Since others it hath ceased to move;

Yet, though I cannot be loved.
still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf;

The flowers and fruits of love are gone;

The worm, the canker, and the grief;

Are mine alone!

The fire that on my bosom preys
As lonely as some volcanic isle;

No torch is kindled at its blaze—

A funeral pile!

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,

The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,

But wear the chain.
But'tis not thus—and'tis not here—

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now,

Where glory aecks the hero's bier
Or binds his brow.
The sword, the banner, and the field,

Glory and Grace, around me see!

The Spartan, born upon his shield,

Was not more free.
Awake! (not Greece—she is awake!)
Awake, my spirit! Think through whom
The life-blood tracks its parent lake,

And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down;

Unworthy manhood! —unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.
If thou regret'st thy youth, why live;

The land of honorable death
Is here:—up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!

Seek out—less sought than found—

A dier's grave for thee the hest;

Then look around, and choose thy ground,

And take thy rest.
Years have hardened my tender heart,

I can no longer call upon the sympathy of others;
But although I dare not dream of love and pity,
I don't want to be heartless!
The past has withered and drifted away with the yellow leaves;

The flowers and fruits of love never leave a trace,
Only rot and worms and heartbreak remain,

A long time with the future!

Inexhaustible flames on my chest,
Lonely, like a fire-breathing desert island;

Who is there to pay tribute to, who is more to pity

The burning of a pile of wreckage!

Hopes, fears, anxieties of the soul,
The inspiration and pain and sweetness of love,
I can no longer taste, I can no longer be proud
I'm in prison!

But here is the land of ancient heroes,

There is an immortal aura in the white clouds,
I shouldn't complain, feel melancholy, why

This unreasonable panic?

Greece and glory, banners and swords,
The dust of ancient battles, around me,

Ancient warriors should also envy my fortune,
Here, today!
wake!If it wasn't Greece, she would have already woken up!

Awaken, my soul!ask who is yours

Fountain of blood, don't fail the occasion,
Inspire your courage!

husband!Suspended teaching and living Zhanlian
oppresses your breast like a nightmare,

The smile and tender love of a beautiful woman,

Not to mention being a pet!
Stop remembering your lost youth,
This is the hometown where athletes died,

Hear the drums of the battlefield, go forward,

Destroy your skin!

Ask only for a warrior's grave,

Gather your life, your time;
To choose the region of your destination,
Peace from now on.

When he finished reading the verse, he felt that the fever was all over his body, choking his breath, so he took off his coat, stepped into the water, and dived into the white foam of the waves, flapping his flippers like a seal, Swimmed out in the iron-blue water waves. ...

"Charge, charge, follow me!"

Charge, charge, come with me!Isn't this what Byron said 100 years ago when he was in a coma before the death of Mesoronki in Greece?At that time, his blood was exhausted by the cold-blooded doctor, but his banner of fighting for freedom was still tightly held in his hands...

Eight years later, an 82-year-old man shouted "Mere licht!"

"Not bright enough!" "Charge, charge, follow me!"

The fiery ash hung on the back of my hand, waking me out of my trance. I was about to answer the ridicule of that friend, but when I opened my eyes, he had already slipped away!
14 April [-]

Originally published in April 1924, "Novel Monthly", Volume 4, No. 15, included in "The Claws of Paris"

Dannon Snow

introduction
Here is a diary entry after I first read D'Annunzio's The Dead City:
On March [-], I read "Dead City" translated by Arthur Symons for the first time, an unparalleled masterpiece: it is pure force and heat; it is an ensemble of poetry of life and praise of death.The homophony echoes in space; it is the manifestation of the gods, an incomparable phenomenon.There are splendor, gold and jade, and beautiful flames in the text; there is the majesty and majesty of the mountains; it is like the sound of the sea, roaring infinite profound meaning in the lonely sky; it is like clouds, enveloping the earth and darkening the sky. Like wind, strong wind, storm, hurricane, caused by a leaf on an autumn branch, a faint tremor, finally breaks the river and cuts the mountains.Great passion!Great and magnificent tragedies are brewing invisible, life and death, victory and defeat, glory and perdition, sunshine and night, empire and nothingness, joy and loneliness; absolute truth and beauty lie in the bottomless pool; O brave seeker! ...

My original diary was written in English, and there were many fiery compliments, but now I feel dazzling when I read it myself, so I have to omit it.The awareness of a person's life and the awareness of art often come at the same time; this is a wonderful news, the moment you feel the hot liquid in your blood vessels for the first time, the moment you feel the beating of the heart; the shapeless desire , the indescribable pain, found in your heart for the first time; the color and fragrance of the petals, the singing of the birds, the clouds in the sky, the vines clinging to the rocks, and the stones at the bottom of the mountain stream all present an inexplicable charm , the profound meaning that cannot be hooked; in an instant you find that your inspiration has become more sensitive, your sympathy has expanded infinitely, and your curiosity has returned to the arrogance and insatiability of childhood; Your friend's silence, the wrinkles between his brows, you are willing to participate in his secrets, caring about his boredom; in the picture hanging on the wall, you will suddenly realize the fun that you have never experienced before, maybe it is Liu Si who is facing the wind, Maybe it's the sight of the Virgin Mary holding the Holy Child, maybe it's the gesture of the shepherd playing the flute, maybe it's the trembling sunlight in the rice field; in an instant, you also understand the signs of words, a short sentence, a single adverbial, Maybe it shows the magical color of truth and beauty... This is consciousness, art, and life.When I first read Dannong Xuewu, it was the most important joint in my life, and it was also the period when I was seeking liberation from the shackles of mechanical education, so my diary at that time was only full of floods and wild flames, The cry of pain is mixed with the cry of carnival, the hope of fantasy is looming like a mirage, and the unhappiness of self-pity is interlocked with the madness of pride; Here, quietly watching the transition of scenes on the stage, the phantom within the phantom, the puppet on the puppet field, I can't tell whether it is the brand of sorrow or the mocking ice-cream revulsion on the part that is hot in my heart. What Hamlet said when he closed his eyes was only silence.

Most of the English translations of Dannon Xuewu's works are out of print; Simmons is a confidant of him in England, and his three most famous plays are all translated by Simmonds himself (1) The Dead City, (2) La Gioconda, (3) Francesca Remini (1) (2) is prose, (3) is poetic drama.I read it at that time, and I couldn't bear to let it go, but I visited countless bookstores, in Cambridge and London, and they were all disappointed. The borrowed books in the library were inconvenient to conceal, so I sent a ruthless, wanted to send The three books were translated into Chinese at the same time, and they were also a gift from a foreign country when they returned home.I started with "Dead City" first; it took six afternoons and evenings to complete one, regardless of wrist and back pain. After that, I read Dannon Xuewu's novels and poems. It has become a rough introduction, and it has been in my book case for three years. I don't know whether it's because of reluctance or embarrassment, but this small gift has never been given out.This kind of gift, even if it can be regarded as a gift, is really inappropriate. When I took it out in the mountains to read it, I didn’t feel ashamed: that thesis is like a steamed birthday peach. The fragrance of glutinous rice is still there, but the body is unbearable; the translation is like a village girl who has entered the city for the first time. Too much makeup is not good, and shoes and socks are too plain.The easiest way, of course, is not to show up; the least easy way, of course, is to start all over again; but I was neither willing to sacrifice nor had the courage, so I had no choice but to modify a method, although I knew it was unsatisfactory.

Italy with Dannon Snow
A nation has its unique genius, for all human beings.As Mazzini said, one has a specific vocation and should make special contributions.This ardent visionary, who loved humanity, freedom, and his race and culture, repeatedly declared his hope for the future of his country before Italy was unified.He is convinced that this "third Italy" can not only get rid of the shackles of foreign powers, eliminate the evils of the church, restore the honor, unity and independence of his nation, but also open the source of his creation, responding to the Romans at that time. The spirit and literary talent of the Empire and the Renaissance make new contributions to the endless flow of Western European culture; they display their unique geniuses, enhance the glory of mankind, and tune the syllables of evolution.It has been more than half a century since the unification of Italy. Has Mazzini's prophecy been fulfilled?Has his wish come true?Readers who know the ups and downs of European culture, needless to say, of course agree with it.This third Italy is indeed the second Renaissance, "his genius and intelligence", said Prof. CH Herford (The Higher Mind of Italy, 1920), "was once again a flowering And the result, what surprised us the most was his outstanding personality; it is a gratifying phenomenon that the culture of New Europe has discovered such a vigorous and lively spirit. We can easily imagine this new The power of the spirit to carry out their thoughts, and the new poetry and prose are also vigorous and cultivated. Looking back at the sloppy and lazy in the mid-nineteenth century, the difference is huge."

The Latin nation was originally a nation of women, and the beauty and gentleness of Italian landscapes are the birthplace of innately beautiful literature and art.But in the hundreds of years since the excitement of the Renaissance, Italy is like the ashes left by the flames, and occasionally there may be sparks dancing, and the most blazing hope is infinitely far away; The nation is constantly moving, which further reflects their delicate silence.But since the political unity, Italy has proved herself to be a temporary rest, not a slump, and now the great drive has awakened her dormant talents; She stood up on the couch, wiped the tiredness between her brows with a handkerchief, and smiled naturally at the beautiful morning light.What is the news of her smile, we only need to look at the recent achievements of thought and literature in Italy.Now their philosophers include Benedetto Croce and Gentile; Croce is not only a master of modern philosophy, but his theory and method of literary evaluation also integrates nineteenth-century criticism. The quintessence of weighing studies, he has just sat on the top chair of evaluation in recent years, and re-evaluated the value of immortal works of all ages and countries on his balance.Aliotta is also an incisive scholar, and his book The Idealistic Reaction against Science in the Nineteenth century, although not much is known, is also an extremely valuable work.The new colors in the literary and art circles are even more outstanding: Verdi's music (Verdi), Segantini's paintings, Carducci, Verga, Fogazzaro, Baba The poems of Pascoli and Dannon Xuewu are master craftsmen of a generation, pure artists.

But Dannon Xuewu especially radiates terrifying splendor among the brilliant stars, like a comet, dragging its bright long tail, sweeping across the vast sky.He is a grotesque, and I can only give him such an indecent name.He is a poet, he is a novelist, he is a dramatist; he is a soldier, he is an aviator; The protagonist of the mischief of the lintel (Fiume); he passed through a great patriotic dream, and fulfilled his fantasies of "poet and king" although for a moment; he is 62 years old; blind (in wartime), broken A leg, but his strength is said to have not yet exhausted; the comet may still shine once or twice before its final eclipse.

(End of this chapter)