The Complete Works of Xu Zhimo's Classical Prose

Chapter 22
…That comments on where the world stands is very much the reverse or needless in these disordered years of a prematurely afflicted century: that amendment and not madness lies that way…that whether the human and kin, dred animal races survive till the exhaustion or destruction of the globe, of whether races perish and are succeeded by others before that conclusion comes, pain to all upon it, tongued or dumb, shall be kept down to minimun by Loving-kindness, operating through scientific knowledge, and actuated by the modicum of free will conjecterally possessed by organic life when the mighty necessitating forces unconscious or other, that have the'balancings of the cloud'happen to be in equilibrium, which may or may not be often.
Simple free translation, the meaning of the poet is so.First he does not admit that there is a pessimistic misanthropic motive behind his writings.He just does what he poets and thinkers should do, "apply thoughts to life".Second, he thinks that there is a way to go in life, and the starting point of this road is inevitably to recognize what the world and life are all about.Unfortunately, his personal and faithful observation caused misunderstanding and resentment among ordinary people.At the same time, there are also a few sensible people who sympathize with his views, thinking that the possible ugliness and weaknesses of human beings must be thoroughly exposed before people can hope for progress and improvement.People first have to get rid of the turbulent emotions, get rid of all kinds of prejudices and misunderstandings, and recognize the true colors of life before speaking.The status of reason must be restored.But with reason alone, we still can't go far.We need to know that the survival of human beings and other creatures on the ground is limited.There are forces in the universe that can destroy this little panting world at any time. When will we know that we will go?Secondly, even if this play has to be performed for a while, all our actions on the stage are directed by an invisible director.The powerful persecuting forces he mentioned are the invisible directors.Can we not feel the sympathy of our kind?Must we indulge our malignity in making life unsafe for our neighbors, while we ourselves live out the brief time in vexation?Even if life cannot be completely free from suffering, if we can arouse a little kindness and compassion for each other, can we reduce some crying, increase some laughter, relieve some pain, and spread some comfort?But do we have freedom of will?Most likely not.Even if there are, these opportunities are few and rare.We have to be actively prepared before we can hope to use occasional opportunities to find some room for ourselves.Isn't science a triumph of humanity?But we must be motivated by benevolence rather than cruelty, and mutual aid rather than mutual killing. Then we can enjoy this great intellectual success with peace of mind and guide our lives to a brighter, more beautiful and truer path.These are the "dangerous words" and "mediocre words" of our poets.

His words are solid and profound, although they are not new or peculiar, they are just a few old sayings, almost old-fashioned.This point is intriguing. Let us think about the words of Tolstoy, Romain Rolland, Teguer, and Russell. No matter how different their starting points are, their conclusions are compatible and corresponding, even if they are not totally consistent.Their soft voices are forever calling out the soft elements in human nature, asking them to wake up, and with the boundless power of love, to sweep away all kinds of obstacles. All kinds of doctrines and propaganda that restrict our freedom and insult human dignity.These grand sounds are scattered on the ground like sunlight, they give us light, heat, fresh vitality, and healthy colors, but because of their largeness and universality, they come without making any noise Not arrogant.They are on the eaves of your roof, on the hillside over there, in the ripples of the running water, in the eyes of lovers.They're there at your elbow, sir, if you get rid of your fascination, avert your gaze, change your direction, and you know what a difference it makes.Blessed and glamorous are sunflowers that are always sunny, why don't people?

Originally published in May 1928, "New Moon", Volume 3, Issue 1

an afternoon with hardy

一
"If you were a few years ago, maybe now, in the countryside of Daoqianshide, you might meet the author of 'Jude', an amiable old man in shorts and casual clothes, with a dashing spirit and a short face, With a short chin, he walks leisurely on the street, calling and answering questions. If you ask him about the places of interest in Wessacks' novels, he will happily explain them in detail; Jumped on his bicycle, rang the bell, and went into the crowd. Those of us who have read his works can even imagine this unremarkable saint on the vast, rolling grasslands of Wessex, in the Under the moonlight, or in the morning light, wandering thoughtfully. The clouds in the sky, the chants of insects in the grass, and the faint voices of people in the distance all imprinted indelible traces on his sensitive nerves; or in the dilapidated castle Wipe the moss and net knots on the chaotic rocks; or on the old roads of ancient Rome, meditating on the cavalry with bronze helmets and iron armor thousands of years ago. Under the big tree, listen to the young men and women in the village in front, singing and dancing to the joy of their festivals in the sound of flutes and qin; or quietly remember the magic of their art at the ruins of Zeitz, Shelley or Swinburne... In his eyes, as in Theophile Gautier's, the visible world is alive; in his 'The Inward Eye' (The Inward Eye), as in Watts In Hua Shi's mind, human emotions and natural scenes are united; in his imagination, as in the imagination of all great artists, not only the great historical sites, but also the most trivial and fleeting facts and impressions , all have profound meanings, which ordinary people ignore or can't see. From his 60 years of continuous spiritual life, observation, consideration, conjecture, and verification, and from his 60 years of unremitting pure experience, Hardy Like spring silkworms weaving silk to make cocoons, weaving his most delicate and arrogant tones, weaving his most meticulous and enduring poems, this is his precious gift to us.”

two

The above is about Hardy written by me half from imagination and half from other people's narration when I admired him but never saw him three years ago.When I was in England in July last year, I was introduced by Mr. Dickinson, and I actually met this old hero. Although I met this old hero for less than an hour, it was a great honor for Yu Xiaozi, and I had to write down some traces.I don't shy away from my "hero worship".Mountains, we love to kick tall ones; people, why don't we want to get close to big ones?But approaching great people is like climbing a mountain. It is often a strenuous task; you must not only be enthusiastic, but also patient.Weakness on the way is to be expected, and the thorns in the grass may tear your skin, but you think about the pleasure when you climb to the top!It's strange, mountains are tall, and people are extraordinary!I saw Mansfield, say, for only two or ten minutes of conversation, but how can I describe the shock of my life at that time in the miraculous revelation of beauty?
I only met you once

But that twenty minutes of undead time!

Sure enough, if it wasn't for that coincidental meeting, I would never have seen her in my life. She died less than six months after the meeting.Since then, I have become more and more snobbish about my hero worship. When I have the strength to climb, I will never let go of an opportunity to "climb".My trip to Europe last year was entirely an "emotional trip"; I went because of Tegure, and by the way I wanted to pay my respects to a few more heroes.I want to see Romain Rolland in France; Dannon Schauer in Italy, Hardy in England.But I only saw Hardy.

When I was in London, I told Mr. Dickinson about my wish. He said it was easy. I will write you a letter to introduce it. It's like when you're tired!I went down from London to Dorchans that day, and got there just after three o'clock in the afternoon, in excellent weather.I didn't take the bus when I got off the station. I asked the direction of Max Gate, and I walked happily.The gate of the outer garden of his house is facing a piece of green Pyongyang, green to the horizon and green to the front of the gate; there is a stretch of flat forest in the distance on the left.Turning around the path into the garden is Hardy's self-built house, and the small square walls are covered with vines.A laborer was mowing the grass at one side of the garden, and I asked him if Mr. Hardy was in, and he nodded and pointed to the door.I rang the doorbell, and suddenly there was a dog barking in the room, which was very sharp in the silence, and then a young servant girl with a white gauze on her head opened the door.

"Mr. Hardy is at home," she answered my question, "but you know that Mr. Hardy never sees you."

I think badly. "Wait," I said, "here is a letter, please pass it in." "Then please wait," she took the letter in and closed the door again.

She came out with the prettiest smile on her face. "Mr. Hardy would like to see you, sir, please come in." What a handsome accent! "Aren't you afraid of dogs, sir?"

She laughed again. "I'm afraid," I said. "It doesn't matter, our Mei Xue just calls, she doesn't bite, and there are very few strangers here."

I am afraid of the dog's attack!I entered the door tremblingly, entered the living room, and the servant girl closed the door and went out. The dog hadn't appeared yet, so I was relieved.There is a portrait of Hardy by John Sargent on the wall, a portrait of Shelley on one side, and a large collection of Shelley on the bookshelf. Besides, the furnishings are simple, and the room is low and dark.

I was thinking about how the old man liked Shelley so much, and how far apart the tastes of the two were, when there was a sound of hurried footsteps on the stairs outside and the sound of a dog bell, Hardy pushed the door open and entered.I don't know how tall he actually was, but I was standing there looking over him and barely seeing him at first, and my impression was that he was a very short little old man.I was about to express my enthusiasm for admiration when he pulled me to sit down and kept saying "sit and sit" in his mouth, but he didn't allow me to speak, as if he had already counted my "opening" words, and kept asking Me, with his rapid tone and dry old accent, "Are you from London?" "Dickinson is your friend?" "Hello?" "Do you translate my poems?" "You How did you translate it?" "Do you use rhyme in Chinese poetry?" There was no need to answer the first few questions (Dickinson mentioned in his letter that I translated his poems), so he didn't wait for me to answer until the last sentence. He just stayed.He is also very short when sitting, and for some reason, I only look tall, and I can't help it in private, as if we mortals should not have the upper hand in front of the gods! (Ah, you have never seen Bernard Shaw, you are an ant by comparison!) At this time, he was sitting sideways, with one hand resting on the stage and his head slightly lowered. He also has a mane of hair that is not fully flowered; his face roughly looks like an equilateral triangle with pointed corners downward, and his cheeks seem to be very wide, sweeping down from the wide and thick eyebrows and tied in a short The chin is pointed; his eyes are not big, but deep, and when he looks down, he can only see the color of his cheeks and his expression.The most special, the most "Hardy" is his cheek clip that hangs loosely on both sides.While the other eyebrows and eyes are only melancholy and deep, the expression on his mouth and brain is clearly bored and negative.No, his face is strange, I have never seen such an intriguing face.His upper part, the bald broad forehead, and the horns of the hairy head, look amusing to you, just like a child's head, which makes you feel a kind of innocent interest, but the more you look down, the more unattractive it is, and the more you feel it. Feeling uncomfortable, his wrinkled and mottled face reminds you of an old rock, the fierceness of thunder and lightning, the invasion of wind and frost, the erosion of rain and thunder, the contamination of moss, the colorful insects and birds, all the changes of time and space are irrelevant. There are traces left on this!You know he is non-resisting, enduring, but look at that cheek, who says it doesn't reveal his bitterness, his boredom, his vindictive silence!He doesn't smile at all, and it's hard to believe that he has the same instinct to laugh as we do.Just as his back tends to be stooped, so the expression on his face is one of oppressive stooping.Oh, Hardy!
Back to our conversation.He asked if we use rhyme in Chinese poetry.I said that we used to have prose with rhyme and no poetry without rhyme, but recently... But he doesn't want to listen to the recent ones, he favors the use of rhyme, which is a good reason.You throw a stone into the center of the lake, and circles of water ripple away, rhyming like ripples.must.Lyric poetry is the quintessence of the quintessence of literature.An unbreakable diamond, no matter how small.Indelible brilliance.I don't take my novels seriously.It is difficult to do a small poem without doing anything [he recited Shakespeare's "Tell me where is Fancy bred", Ben Jonson's "Drink to me only with thin eyes", looking happy].I said that I love his poems because they are not only tightly structured like buildings, but also have the blood of thought flowing away, like an organic whole.I said the word Organic; he repeated it twice: "Yes, Organic yes, Organic: A poem ought to be a living thing." Practicing words is the best way to learn to write poetry; many people learn from poetry to write good prose, poetry is the secret of words.

He pondered for a while. "A friend invited me to China 30 years ago. He is a priest. My friend is Mold. He has lived in China for 50 years. When he comes back to England, he thinks of Chinese first and then translates English every time he speaks! He knows everything about China, he asked me to go, it was too inconvenient, I didn't go. But what about your writing? It's very difficult, isn't it? Why don't you throw it away and switch to English or French, isn't it convenient? ?” Hardy’s words startled me.A poet of genius who knows most languages ​​wants us to throw away thousands of years of writing!I argued with him for a while, but fortunately he didn't insist.

Speaking of our mutual friends.He asked about Dickinson's recent situation, saying that he was really a friend of China.I said I was going to see Russell in Cornwall tomorrow.who?Russell?He did not add words.I asked about Edmund Blunden, and he said he had a letter from Japan, and he was a poet.Speaking of John M. Murry, he worked hard.

"You know Mai Ray?" he asked. "He lives here at Quest by the sea, and he bought a queer little house, right by the sea, a queer little house, as if it could be swallowed up by the sea at any moment. He himself Come to town in a broken car to buy groceries. He is (very) capable. He can write. You also met his ex-wife Manshfield? He is married again, you know? Let me tell you McRae's story. Manshfield died, he was so sad, so bored, he started his newspaper (I'm afraid his paper won't last), and he was still sad. Well, one day there was a woman who contributed several articles. Mai Lei found the poem interesting, so he wrote to ask her to visit him, and she went to visit him, a young woman, the two of them agreed to speculate, and they got married, and now he is probably not sad anymore."

He asked where I was going that night.I said to go to Exeter to see the church, he said yes, he will talk about architecture, his profession.I ask, you often have architects in your novels, is there any shadow of yourself?He said no.At this time, Mei Xue went out and came back again, crawling on my body and scratching.Seeing that I was a little embarrassed, Hardy stood up and called Meixue away, and at the same time said, let's go for a walk in the garden. I know this means to see off the guests.We went out together and went around to the left side of the house to see the flowers, and Mei Xue followed along wagging her tail.I said, Mr. Hardy, can you give me a little souvenir from afar.When he turned around and saw that I had a camera in my hand, he hurriedly said, I don’t like taking pictures. Once the Americans came and gave me a lot of trouble. Autograph, you know?He walked faster, with his back slightly bent, and his legs slightly bent outwards as he walked, as if he was afraid that the visitor would snatch something from him! "Come here, here are flowers, I'll pick two flowers to commemorate you, okay?" He bent down to the flower bed, picked a red one and handed it to me: "You can plant it for a while. Put it on the lapel, it's just right for you to catch the six o'clock car, forgive me for not accompanying you, goodbye, goodbye, come, Meixue, Meixue..." The old man raised his hand and walked through the door.

(End of this chapter)