In "The Banished Immortal" Ha Jin recounts the scene where Li Bai visits Tao's cottage some 300 years later.
"About eight miles north of Mount Lu was a hamlet called Shang-jing. The poet Tao Yuanming (376–427) had once lived there. It was remarkable that Li Bai journeyed to the small village to look at Tao’s homestead and pay his respects at his grave, which had fallen into disrepair, the words on the stone hardly legible. Like his deserted homestead, Tao had remained obscure for more than three centuries after his death. Only two decades prior to Li Bai’s visit had Tao’s poetry begun to be recognized by Tang poets, particularly for his presentation of immediate experiences in nature and the daily life of the countryside. Evidently Li Bai was one of his new admirers. Viewed from Tao’s homestead, Mount Lu loomed in the distance, often half-hidden in clouds, against which birds sailed in the misty sky. The sublime scene depicted in Tao’s poem “Drinking Wine” must refer to this view: “Picking chrysanthemums under my eastern hedge, / I raise my eyes and see the mountain in the south.”"
Ha Jin's translation here adopts "see" rather than "gaze". Although the scene he describes of the mountain in the clouds with birds brings to mind Du Fu's 望岳 where "gazing" is definitely the order of the day.
Hmm, discovered 300 years after his death. By analogy, I’m trying to imagine an obscure poet from the early 1700s dominating the conversation around 21st-century American literature.
(Huh -- apparently Substack doesn't allow HTML in comments. Lame! I had to edit this comment to change my references to endnotes, like an *animal*.)
Ha Jin is overstating the case more than a little bit here, I'm afraid -- Tao certainly wasn't "obscure" before the Tang! He was well-known enough to rate a biography in the dynastic history of the Liu Song (Song shu 宋書) in 488, 61 years after his death, as well as in the dynastic histories of the Jin (Jin shu 晉書) and the Southern Dynasties (Nan shi 南史), all of which place his story alongside biographies of other recluses and refuseniks. (Wang Guoying's "史傳中的陶淵明 Shizhuan zhong de Tao Yuanming" has a very good rundown on this, as does Wendy Swartz's "Rewriting a Recluse") And Xiao Tong 蕭統 (501-531), Crown Prince of the Liang, was enough of a superfan that he spent some of the last years of his short life putting together the first compilation of Tao's writings.
Admittedly, I'm an early modern prose weenie rather than a Tang poetry guy, so I could be missing something here, but I wonder what Ha Jin's source was for this.
I very much enjoyed your translation and commentary.
Some day soon, I may muster the courage “not [bend] at the waist for the sake of five pecks of rice” (不為五斗米折腰); although in my case, the bending may be the more heroic feat.
Very kind of you to say! And I'm with you on the waist-bending, though I think Tao would say that once one has 折'd their 腰, it's straightening up again that's the hard part.
Glad you liked it! It’s a quick and dirty translation, but I tried to use alliteration for things like that, as well as for reflecting some of the sound features of the original in lines like “Wind my way through narrow gullies / or cross the hills on rough and rugged paths.”
And of course if we believe the Zhuangzi passage that he's echoing here, not-having the words is better than having them! (荃者所以在鱼，得鱼而忘荃；蹄者所以在兔，得兔而忘蹄；言者所以在意，得意而忘言。吾安得忘言之人而与之言哉？"Fish-traps are for fish: once you get the fish you can forget the traps. Snares are for rabbits: once you get the rabbit, you can forget the snare. Words are for meaning: once you get the meaning, you can forget the words. Now where can I find a person who's forgotten words? I'd like to have a word with them!")
This problem of historical layers of shading is really interesting. One of the most interesting bits of writing that I can never find again was about the manuscripts of Li Bai, with a hint that one of his most "characteristic" lines may have been a later interpolation based on the myth of Li Bai that was already developing by the end of the Tang.
I chase my tail for days sometimes wondering how much it matters, given how poetry/writing in general is so much a form of self-mythologising anyway...
But yes, it's a nice translation, and it's certainly often true that these old writers absent their centuries of curation come across as weirder and more engaging.
I'd be interested to see that bit of writing, if you ever manage to find it again -- I'm neither a Tang poetry guy nor a Li Bai fan, so I may be way off, but Li Bai always struck me as a case of a guy tragically overcommitting to his own self-mythologizing, at least on the drinking front. (IIRC, Du Fu has a line somewhere urging Li to take it easy.)
I do think you could have a very droll translation book out in time for the World Series. "Cracking Open a Cold One with the Moon.”
花間一壺酒: "With a tallboy out in the parking lot"
For a few years I have amused myself rewriting John Donne. Un-Donne is the working title. Take say his poem Good Friday 1613. Riding Westward.
Let mans Soule be a Spheare, and then, in this,
The intelligence that moves, devotion is,
And as the other Spheares, by being growne
Subject to forraigne motion, lose their owne,
And being by others hurried every day,
Scarce in a yeare their naturall forme obey:
Pleasure or businesse, so, our Soules admit
For their first mover, and are whirld by it.
😀To Let mans Soule be a Briefcase, and then, in this,
The intelligent paper that moves, devotion is,
And as the other Spheares, by being growne
Subject to forraigne motion, lose their owne,
And being by others hurried every day,
Scarce in a yeare their naturall forme obey:
Pleasure filled Duty or merely money
so, our Soules admit
For their first mover, and are whirld by it.
In "The Banished Immortal" Ha Jin recounts the scene where Li Bai visits Tao's cottage some 300 years later.
"About eight miles north of Mount Lu was a hamlet called Shang-jing. The poet Tao Yuanming (376–427) had once lived there. It was remarkable that Li Bai journeyed to the small village to look at Tao’s homestead and pay his respects at his grave, which had fallen into disrepair, the words on the stone hardly legible. Like his deserted homestead, Tao had remained obscure for more than three centuries after his death. Only two decades prior to Li Bai’s visit had Tao’s poetry begun to be recognized by Tang poets, particularly for his presentation of immediate experiences in nature and the daily life of the countryside. Evidently Li Bai was one of his new admirers. Viewed from Tao’s homestead, Mount Lu loomed in the distance, often half-hidden in clouds, against which birds sailed in the misty sky. The sublime scene depicted in Tao’s poem “Drinking Wine” must refer to this view: “Picking chrysanthemums under my eastern hedge, / I raise my eyes and see the mountain in the south.”"
Ha Jin's translation here adopts "see" rather than "gaze". Although the scene he describes of the mountain in the clouds with birds brings to mind Du Fu's 望岳 where "gazing" is definitely the order of the day.
Oh, that's really neat!
Hmm, discovered 300 years after his death. By analogy, I’m trying to imagine an obscure poet from the early 1700s dominating the conversation around 21st-century American literature.
(Huh -- apparently Substack doesn't allow HTML in comments. Lame! I had to edit this comment to change my references to endnotes, like an *animal*.)
Ha Jin is overstating the case more than a little bit here, I'm afraid -- Tao certainly wasn't "obscure" before the Tang! He was well-known enough to rate a biography in the dynastic history of the Liu Song (Song shu 宋書) in 488, 61 years after his death, as well as in the dynastic histories of the Jin (Jin shu 晉書) and the Southern Dynasties (Nan shi 南史), all of which place his story alongside biographies of other recluses and refuseniks. (Wang Guoying's "史傳中的陶淵明 Shizhuan zhong de Tao Yuanming" has a very good rundown on this, as does Wendy Swartz's "Rewriting a Recluse") And Xiao Tong 蕭統 (501-531), Crown Prince of the Liang, was enough of a superfan that he spent some of the last years of his short life putting together the first compilation of Tao's writings.
Admittedly, I'm an early modern prose weenie rather than a Tang poetry guy, so I could be missing something here, but I wonder what Ha Jin's source was for this.
王國瓔，"史傳中的陶淵明":
http://www.cl.ntu.edu.tw/uploads/root/臺大中文學報/第十二期/史傳中的陶淵明.pdf
Wendy Swartz, "Rewriting a Recluse: The Early Biographers' Construction of Tao Yuanming":
https://asianlanguages.rutgers.edu/images/stories/Faculty_Profile/facultydocs/swartz.rewriting%20a%20recluse.pdf
I very much enjoyed your translation and commentary.
Some day soon, I may muster the courage “not [bend] at the waist for the sake of five pecks of rice” (不為五斗米折腰); although in my case, the bending may be the more heroic feat.
Very kind of you to say! And I'm with you on the waist-bending, though I think Tao would say that once one has 折'd their 腰, it's straightening up again that's the hard part.
I thought the preface was fine!
I mean, it does exemplify a certain idealized image of the poet -- but you are never getting back any money you lend that guy.
富貴非吾願，帝鄉不可期。
I like the alliteration of your "Rank and riches," which captures the "respectable" aspect of 富貴 in a clever way...
Glad you liked it! It’s a quick and dirty translation, but I tried to use alliteration for things like that, as well as for reflecting some of the sound features of the original in lines like “Wind my way through narrow gullies / or cross the hills on rough and rugged paths.”
I liked your translation!
How about continuing a little further in Drinking Wine #5:
“I pick chrysanthemums by my eastern hedge;
far off I see the southern hills.
How fine the sunset through mountain mists,
and the soaring birds come home together.
There is some real meaning in all of this,
though when I try to grasp it I forget the words.”
What he was experiencing is hard to be put into words!
And of course if we believe the Zhuangzi passage that he's echoing here, not-having the words is better than having them! (荃者所以在鱼，得鱼而忘荃；蹄者所以在兔，得兔而忘蹄；言者所以在意，得意而忘言。吾安得忘言之人而与之言哉？"Fish-traps are for fish: once you get the fish you can forget the traps. Snares are for rabbits: once you get the rabbit, you can forget the snare. Words are for meaning: once you get the meaning, you can forget the words. Now where can I find a person who's forgotten words? I'd like to have a word with them!")
Beautiful! 得意而忘言 - much better than 得意忘形!
Just occurred to me that this was a Zhuangzi reference and came to the comments to see if someone had said so
This problem of historical layers of shading is really interesting. One of the most interesting bits of writing that I can never find again was about the manuscripts of Li Bai, with a hint that one of his most "characteristic" lines may have been a later interpolation based on the myth of Li Bai that was already developing by the end of the Tang.
I chase my tail for days sometimes wondering how much it matters, given how poetry/writing in general is so much a form of self-mythologising anyway...
But yes, it's a nice translation, and it's certainly often true that these old writers absent their centuries of curation come across as weirder and more engaging.
I'd be interested to see that bit of writing, if you ever manage to find it again -- I'm neither a Tang poetry guy nor a Li Bai fan, so I may be way off, but Li Bai always struck me as a case of a guy tragically overcommitting to his own self-mythologizing, at least on the drinking front. (IIRC, Du Fu has a line somewhere urging Li to take it easy.)