The Bloomsbury Handbook of Modern Chinese Literature in Translation (Bloomsbury Handbooks) 1350215309, 9781350215306

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THE BLOOMSBURY HANDBOOK OF MODERN CHINESE LITERATURE IN TRANSLATION

ii

THE BLOOMSBURY HANDBOOK OF MODERN CHINESE LITERATURE IN TRANSLATION

Edited by Cosima Bruno, Lucas Klein, and Chris Song

BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA 29 Earlsfort Terrace, Dublin 2, Ireland BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain 2024 Copyright © Cosima Bruno, Lucas Klein, Chris Song, and contributors, 2024 The editors and contributors have asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the Authors of this work. Cover design by Terry Woodley Cover image © Alan Scales/ Unsplash All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Control Number: 2023941483 ISBN: HB: 978-1-3502-1530-6 ePDF: 978-1-3502-1531-3 eBook: 978-1-3502-1532-0 Series: Bloomsbury Handbooks Typeset by Integra Software Services Pvt. Ltd. To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

CONTENTS

L ist

of

F igures viii

L ist

of

T ables ix

Introduction  Mapping Modern Chinese Literature in Translation Cosima Bruno, Lucas Klein, and Chris Song

1

Part 1  The Plural Aesthetics of Translation 1

Translations as Versions in Modern Chinese Literature Nick Admussen

15

2

Translation, Visibility, Sixiang27 Michael Gibbs Hill

3

A Song not for Dancing: Translation, Adaptation, and Poetics in Soviet, Taiwanese, and Mainland Chinese Rock Music of the 1980s Hsiang-yin Sasha Chen

39

4

Translation and Avant-garde Fiction in 1980s China Paola Iovene

5

Negotiations Between the Queer and the Literary: Translations of Chinese-Language Queer Literature Ta-wei Chi

65

Voices from the In-Between: Chinese Internet Avant-garde Classicist Poetry at the Crossroad Zhiyi Yang

77

Bovaristic Renderings: Zhou Shoujuan’s Pseudotranslation and the Creation of an Alternative Romantic Space Jane Qian Liu

91

6

7

8

The Success of Chinese Science Fiction Cara Healey

9

Translating “Bird Talk”: Cross-Cultural Translation, Bergsonian Intuition, and Transnational Modernism in the Fiction of Xu Xu Frederik H. Green

49

103

117

vi CONTENTS

10 Ling Shuhua and the Bloomsbury Group: Modernism, Autobiography, and Translation Jeesoon Hong

129

11 Sappho’s Younger Brother: Shao Xunmei, Translation, and His Golden House Bookshop Paul Bevan

141

Part 2  Production and Reception of Chinese Literature in Translation 12 Perceptions of Power in Literary Translation: Translators and Translatees Bonnie S. McDougall

155

13 State-Sponsored Institutional Translation of Chinese Literature, 1951–1983 Huijuan Ma

167

14 Translating American Literature into Chinese during the Cold War Era: The Literary Translation and Cultural Politics of the World Today Press Te-hsing Shan 15 Value-Added Literary Labor in Chinese Literature Translation Jonathan Stalling 16 Chinese Crime Fiction in Translation: The International Circulation of a Peripheral Macro-Genre Paolo Magagnin

181 193

205

17 The Penumbra and the Shadow: Editing Translations of Modern Chinese Literature Ping Zhu

219

18 The Chinese Fiction Book Cover Archive Marta Dos Santos

229

19 Madmen, Marxists, and Modernists: A Century of Lu Xun in Translation Daniel M. Dooghan

243

20 The Translation of Migrant Worker Literature: China’s Battler Poetry Maghiel van Crevel

253

21 Fairy Tales in Action: Chinese Online Fiction, English Fan Translation, and the Fan as the Author Rachel Suet Kay Chan 22 Online Translation of Web Novels Yin Zhang

265 277

23 The Reader in the Condor Heroes289 Shelly Bryant

CONTENTS vii

Part 3  Living in Translation 24 Sinophone Routes: Translation, Self-Translation, and Deterritorialization Nicoletta Pesaro

303

25 Translation in a Multilingual Context: Six Authors Writing the City Cosima Bruno

319

26 Hong Kong and Macao Literatures in Translation: Reconceptualizing Inbound and Outbound Translation Chris Song

333

27 Language and Literature in Tibet Yangdon Dhondup

345

28 Taiwanese Literature in Translation: Sinocentric and Eurocentric Predicaments Wen-chi Li

357

29 Translation in Singapore Chinese Literature Tong King Lee and E. K. Tan

369

30 The Translator as Cultural Ambassador: The Case of Lin Yutang James St. André

385

31 “An Exercise in Futility”: Zhang Ailing as a Self-Translator Dylan K. Wang

397

32 Exophony, Translation, and Transnationalism in Gao Xingjian’s French/Chinese Plays Mary Mazzilli

409

33 Born Translated? On the Opposition Between “Chineseness” and Modern Chinese Literature Written for and from Translation Lucas Klein

423

Afterword 34 Teaching Modern Chinese Literature in/and Translation Michel Hockx

437

I ndex 

448

FIGURES

6.1 “The Internationale” music score

80

15.1 Value-chain economics in the US literary system

198

18.1 Chen Qiufan. 2019. Designed by Stephen McNally. Marea Tóxica. Barcelona: Nova. Front cover

232

18.2 Chen Qiufan. 2020. Designed by Esther S. Kim and Peter Lutjen. The Waste Tide. Translated by Ken Liu. New York: Tor. Front cover

233

18.3 Mo Yan. 2012. Designed by Love St. Studio. Peito Grande, Ancas Largas. Translated by João Martins. Lisboa: Ulisseia. Front cover

235

18.4 Mo Yan. 2013. Designed by Marcos Arévalo. Grandes Pechos Amplias Caderas. Translated by Mariano Peyrou. Madrid: Kailas. Front cover

236

18.5 Mo Yan. 2012. Designed by Szymon Wójciak. Obfite Piersi, Pełne Biodra. Translated by Katarzyna Kulpa. Warsaw: Wydawnictwo W.A.B. Front cover

238

18.6 Mo Yan. 2006. Designed by 46xy. Grande Seno, Fianchi Larghi. Translated by Giorgio Trentin. Torino: Eunadi. Front cover

239

21.1 Evolution of Chinese cultural soft power through online fiction

268

TABLES

7.1 Zhou Shoujuan’s Pseudotranslations

97

7.2 Possible Pseudotranslations by Zhou Shoujuan

98

21.1 The Initial Situation

272

21.2 The Repatory Situation

272

21.3 The Complication

272

21.4 Donors

273

21.5 From the Entry of the Helper to the End of the First Move

273

22.1 Number of Translated Novels on Wuxiaworld, Gravity Tales, and Volare by Genres (September 27, 2017)

280

22.2 Transliteration of “八卦” on Wuxiaworld

281

22.3 Translations of “四象” on Wuxiaworld

282

x

Introduction Mapping Modern Chinese Literature in Translation COSIMA BRUNO, LUCAS KLEIN, AND CHRIS SONG

This Handbook explores the many paths taken by Chinese and other literatures as they have been transmitted, reinterpreted, reinvented, and disseminated through translation. Targeting undergraduate and postgraduate students and scholarly readers of translation studies and Chinese, world, and comparative literatures, the Handbook measures an array of methodologies and theoretical propositions to present stories of literary encounters. A total of thirty-four critical-descriptive essays detail how translation crosses over time and space and operates within overt or covert aims and purposes, in the form of text selection, intertextual relationships, elective affinities, adaptations, pseudotranslations, and self-translations. Altogether these thirty-four excursions in translation from and into Chinese map the “significant geography” (Laachir, Marzagora, and Orsini 2018, 3) of Chinese literature, testifying to translation as a source of inexhaustible richness of information on geographical, historical, and cultural variations. After laying out a few methodological premises, this introduction will discuss the agenda of the Handbook by explaining its three transformative moves of re-presentation through translation of Chinese literature to the world: “The Plural Aesthetic of Translation”; “Production and Reception of Chinese Literature in Translation”; and “Living in Translation.” How do we understand literature in translation? Literature in translation is typically taught in departments of languages and cultures, either entirely in translation or alongside the “original.” This typical model, however, either instrumentalizes translation, making it invisible, or else emphasizes loss, focusing only on ways in which the translation fails to convey absolutely everything the instructor says the original conveys. But is translation simply a conduit, or can it be a piece of writing that can have a life of its own? When is translation an independent work of writing? What kind of dynamics lay bare to the researcher? Our dissatisfactions with the typical model have inspired us to propose a translation- and translation studies-centered discussion of modern Chinese literature. Our translation-centered approach studies the relationship between a (trans)national literature and the ways it interacts with the translating or translated cultural, linguistic, and literary tradition. It fruitfully extends and dialogues with issues of aesthetics, media studies, history, and of course translation studies, and shows how a literature builds its own identity through a transformative relation with another. Literature in translation carries out fundamental roles in the development of national literatures, determining new models, genres, and cultural systems. We confidently

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THE BLOOMSBURY HANDBOOK OF MODERN CHINESE LITERATURE IN TRANSLATION

assert that literature in translation helps shape the epistemological horizon of a people, since the development of a certain literature and culture cannot be separated from its relations with other literatures and cultures. Chinese works of translation arch back from the first encounters with other East Asian populations, with Buddhist, Jesuit, and Protestant missionaries, and with the works of writers, historians, linguists, and even state officials. This volume deals with the literary period spanning from roughly the beginning of the twentieth century to current times. While arguments for considering an earlier start date to modernity are compelling,1 we have used the generic denomination of “modern” for this period to encompass the twentieth and twenty-first centuries.2 These two centuries are comprehensive of several sustained efforts by Chinese intellectuals to put under scrutiny traditional Chinese literature and the always broader and broader variety of foreign schools and trends, by discussion, selection, and evaluation. Apart from the invariable genericity of labels such as romanticism, modernism, realism, and avant-garde, this period is characterized by many literary schools and trends that have had at the basis of their creation an aesthetic pursuit of themes and forms strongly interlocked with political and social questions. Readers of this Handbook should ideally have some knowledge of modern Chinese history and society. At the very least, readers should be aware of the basic themes pervading nineteenthand twentieth-century Chinese history: the huge wave of European imperialism from 1840, resulting in a condition of semi-colonialism lasting at least until 1926; the decline and fall of the Qing Empire and the founding of the Republic of China in 1911; the rigorous negation of traditional culture in the wake of the New Culture Movement of the late 1910s; the antagonism between the Communist and Nationalist parties in the 1920s and 1930s; Japanese invasion in 1937 and the eight-year-long War of Resistance; the founding of the People’s Republic of China in 1949 and the movement of the Republic of China to Taiwan; the endless and disastrous political campaigns of the 1950s and 1960s, culminating in the infamous Cultural Revolution, and resulting in waves of emigration to Hong Kong, Singapore, Malaysia, Indonesia, and beyond; the tremendous changes taking place in China’s political, economic, and social systems after the establishment of the “opening up and reforms” policy in 1978; Taiwan’s transition to a multiparty democracy in the 1980s and 1990s; the massacre in Beijing in 1989; the end of British colonial rule and the “handover” of Hong Kong to mainland Chinese rule in 1997; globalization and the changes and challenges to daily life under marketization; and so on. The reader should also have a passing familiarity with Euro-American literary history and the most canonical writers of world literature. At the turn of the twentieth century, translation was invested with the crucial mission of modernizing China, transmitting Western (“modern”) learning and thought, and connecting with ideas and worldviews from Central Asia. In such a context, China tried to reassess its own role in the international panorama even as it struggled to solve its serious internal problems. The

For example, A New Literary History of Modern China, edited by David Der-wei Wang (2017), situates the beginning of modern Chinese literature in the first half of the seventeenth century, and for The Columbia Source Book of Literary Taiwan, edited by Sung-sheng Yvonne Chang, Michelle Yeh, and Ming-ju Fan (2014), modernity starts in the eighteenth century. 2 If we wanted to follow the traditional Chinese literary periodization, which clearly tends to follow a political subdivision, we would have divided it into the following three periods: jindai 近代—for the literature written in the period that goes from 1842 to 1910; xiandai 现代—from 1911 to 1948; and dangdai 当代—from 1949 onward. 1

INTRODUCTION 3

period following the collapse of the Qing dynasty and the proclamation of the Republic of China was marked by the attempt from the government to build an adequate centralized political and bureaucratic organization able to support the newly established political order. Together with the creation of infrastructures (roads and railways networks) and the various reforms aimed at narrowing the economic and military gap, the territory was also connected via the great network of translations and literary production. Indeed, these modern Chinese writers read widely in translation and most produced translations themselves, convinced that translation could help them access new tools to reform the Chinese mindset. For example, Lu Xun read and translated foreign writings at the beginning of his literary life. He observed that the old cultures of India, Iran, and Egypt were in decline, and that only the “Mara poets” like Lord Byron and P. B. Shelley—who called for action and rebellion—were able to exert their influence on emerging national groups, as they did on poets of Poland, Hungary, and Russia. We must understand that such a process of comparison, of “cultural translation,” was neither simple nor mechanical, but a complicated process of acceptance, elimination, and transformation. This process had at least two stages: the making of a choice, then the transformation of the chosen foreign models so that they would fit into a familiar national style. Thus, when studying Chinese literary history, it is important to take into account the translation of Western literatures—and its processes of transformation. Indeed, so-called “global modernity” neither swept across the world unchallenged, nor was it adopted in similar ways in every colonized or semi-colonized area. As these chapters clarify, the values of global modernity were constantly mixed and challenged by native Chinese values and conceptions, resulting in a unique, though not isolated, Chinese modernity. During the Maoist era, again, literary translation played a fundamental role in the creation of China’s political dimension, its lexicon, themes, and styles revealing the often under-detected nexus with other agents in the cultural work. After the People’s Republic of China (PRC) was founded in 1949, foreign literature in translation consisted mostly of revolutionary, anti-imperialist, and anticolonial literatures from the Soviet Union and other countries with socialist movements from Asia, Africa, and Latin America with which the PRC could find ideological affinity. In fact, most of the literary translations of this period were from Russian, though in lesser measure there continued to be translations from Japanese, English, French, and German. Throughout the 1950s and 1960s, literary translation in China did not have the role of innovating the style or themes of the local literature. Similarly, in Taiwan, despite operating under the rhetoric of artistic freedom and international interconnectedness, literary translations promoted US supremacy and liberal values that limited the role of the artist or writer in the democratic process. While such an alliance between Taiwan and the United States Informative Services was quite visible and even coveted, literary translation in Hong Kong followed a more cautious and ambivalent triangular path. Having already experienced military intimidation from Japan in the first decades of the twentieth century, and contending with the British colonizer, the United States, and Communist China during the Cold War, Hong Kong literary translation attempted to carve out a space of its own by negotiating nationalism and patriotism within the international, trilingual (English, Mandarin, Cantonese) environment. In each of these places, literary translation was conceived mostly as a tool of political propaganda, with modalities that were dictated by purposes more ideological than literary, and yet it continued pushing changes to the literary conventions.

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THE BLOOMSBURY HANDBOOK OF MODERN CHINESE LITERATURE IN TRANSLATION

Between 1960 and the beginning of the 1970s, China’s relations with the Soviet Union deteriorated while those with the United States improved. While inspiration was found by underground writers in clandestine translations published for internal circulation among Chinese Communist Party officials during the Cultural Revolution, afterward literary translation from Western countries resumed, culminating with the new wave of translations of the end of the 1970s, when the “four modernizations” and the policy of “opening up and reforms” were launched. Economic reforms changed the publishing industry too, and all cultural products joined the marketization processes. Translation in the 1980s appeared much more diversified in terms of styles, themes, languages, and countries of provenance. New translations of nearly all major works from Western countries were commissioned, even or especially when those works had previously been banned for ideological reasons. The figure of the translator started to be recognized socially, allowing for a freer choice in source texts. By the twenty-first century the publishing industry, including literature in translation, has begun to address children and young adult readers (as shown by the huge success of Harry Potter in China). Meanwhile, Chinese literature has also been translated in the East Asian region as well as in the United States and Europe. British universities began opening courses in modern Chinese literature in the 1960s, designing modules based on a syllabus of works sanctioned by the establishment of the PRC. Such a selection of texts helped create and promote a certain view of the Chinese literary text as merely worthy for its purported documentary information on Chinese history. In contrast, in the United States, international writers’ programs such as at the University of Iowa, perhaps with support from the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), invited Chinese-language writers from Taiwan to be instructed in the workshop model of literary creation that would buffer literature from revolutionary aims. At the same time, prominent American poets—often without much education in the Chinese language—published their versions and visions of classical Chinese poetry, especially from the Tang dynasty, giving Chinese poetry a countercultural cachet. As these international responses to Chinese literature have recirculated back to Chinese writers and readers, the international and translational dynamic has only gotten more complex and interesting. And yet, for students and scholars who want to learn more about this discipline of studies, there are not many volumes available. Hence the idea of putting together these essays into the first Handbook of modern Chinese literature in translation. The volume, while revindicating the autonomy of a text in translation, shows translation as a model for tracing critical aspects of the encounters and clashes between Chinese literature and other literatures of the world. We hope with this move to strengthen a fuller understanding of Chinese and international literatures. Students in Chinese programs will, on their year abroad, learn firsthand aspects of Chinese cultures, linguistic idioms, and literatures. But this almost perceptual knowledge of Chinese culture needs to be accompanied with a more reflexive activity that enables awareness of the important cultural refractions translation engenders. Obviously, the word “Chinese” in the term “modern Chinese literature in translation” can refer to a culture and a language as well as to a country. We predominantly discuss writings in Chinese from mainland China and translated into English; but we also have included writing in foreign languages and translated into Chinese, writing from the Sinosphere (online, Singapore, Hong Kong, Taiwan, Tibet, etc.), works written in foreign languages by culturally Chinese writers living abroad, and we could have discussed writings by foreigners living in China and writing in Chinese or English (such as Pearl S. Buck, who spent nearly half her life in Zhejiang and was awarded the

INTRODUCTION 5

Nobel Prize in 1938 for her writings on China). Our notion of “Chinese” is as encompassing as our notion of “translation.” Under the term “literature,” we have gathered all main genres of human letters: fiction, poetry, drama, essays, and song lyrics. The chapters forming this Handbook have footnotes and lists of cited works, and there is an index appended at the end. The essays aim at complementing theoretical chapters with studies focusing on authors, texts, and genres. Each of them constitutes methodological examples of the different ways in which translation operates as model. Some of the most recurring methodologies include systems theory, transnational studies, and media studies, but the reader will also benefit from new and nuanced takes on these methodologies. Overall, the volume shows translation as a significantly complex operation, creating gaps in mutual understanding at all levels, from language to ways of behavior. Our first part, “The Plural Aesthetics of Translation,” explores translation as a communication system emerging in specific historical junctures, and in currents of cultural and literary translation into Chinese, and of cultural and literary translation from Chinese into English. The section features a series of readings of how modern Chinese literature has been translated in the context of larger patterns of cultural translation, or the give-and-take between China and the rest of the world (usually the West) that have defined so much of modernity. In these chapters and their negotiations of local acts of translation in global contexts, we see discussions of versions, audience, community, sex and sexuality, weaponization, fiction and belief, and untranslatability—topics that are not unfamiliar in discussions of translation but that take on new urgency in these readings of translation in terms of modern Chinese literature. Starting from the various editions, revisions, and translations of Lao She’s famous《駱駝祥 子》(Rickshaw Boy, Rickshaw, Camel Xiangzi), in “Translations as Versions in Modern Chinese Literature” Nick Admussen considers translations in the same light as other factors responsible for the publication of various editions, such as censorship and ideological concerns, arguing first that we interpret literature as “the product of an authorial group that shares, doubles, or struggles over authorial functions,” but also that versions “be seen as additive, not hierarchical: a problem or lacuna in one version, or a problem a version presents in a particular context, is best addressed not by critique, but by an additional version.” Working toward a version history, Admussen contends, lays bare the way that texts interact with the world and the way that the world transforms texts. Following that, in writing about his translations of Chinese sixiang 思想, “thought” or “intellectual writing,” Michael Gibbs Hill in “Translation, Visibility, Sixiang” looks into the tension between claims of a definable “global pomo” style and the specificities of audience. “Who reads difficult writing,” Hill asks, “and do these readers, simply by their decision to engage with difficult writing, show themselves to have a particular political orientation? These questions interest me as a translator because the position-taking signaled by difficult writing in North America may not be transposed easily into PRC contexts (or vice versa).” The examination of tensions between global and local, manifest in individual translational decisions made in the broader context of cultures changing through translational contact, continues in Hsiang-yin Sasha Chen’s “A Song not for Dancing: Translation, Adaptation, and Poetics in Soviet, Taiwanese, and Mainland Chinese Rock Music of the 1980s,” which looks at how Taiwanese and PRC rock music was shaped by lyrics and the understanding of lyrics in Russian and anglophone environments, demonstrating how “totalitarian and democratic systems have interacted and influenced the notion of rock and the birth of rock musicians.” When ABBA’s 1979

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THE BLOOMSBURY HANDBOOK OF MODERN CHINESE LITERATURE IN TRANSLATION

song “Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!” was adapted by Taiwanese pop singer Frankie Kao, for instance, it was romanticized and desexualized in part to avoid being censored. Similarly, Paola Iovene, looking at “Translation and Avant-garde Fiction in 1980s China,” describes a complex “translating machine” that has operated around Chinese avant-garde fiction, employing “forms of intralingual translation involving transcription and incorporation,” adopting foreign forms “as a form of intralingual cultural translation,” and engaging critics who represent cases “of interlingual cultural translation.” The tensions or dynamism between individual acts of translation and broader contexts continue. In “Negotiations Between the Queer and the Literary: Translations of Chinese-Language Queer Literature,” Ta-wei Chi posits that “‘queer literature’ is an oxymoron to modern nation-states,” because even as sexual minorities have often been treated “as threats to various regimes, which presume every citizen should be heterosexual and reproductive,” queer literature has nevertheless been mobilized to win points for nation-states in strategic and ideological battles such as the Cold War, for example, in the English-language translation and marketing of Pai Hsien-yung’s Crystal Boys. In a seemingly opposite realm, Zhiyi Yang’s “Voices from the In-Between: Chinese Internet Avant-garde Classicist Poetry at the Crossroads” looks at Chinese avant-garde classicist poetry (that is, written in classical forms), which she calls “the bastard child of canonicity (Chinese classical poetic traditions) and revolution (starting with the 1917 Literary Revolution).” Like with queer literature having to negotiate between contrary positions, the “features of in-betweenness” characterized by such poetry poses new versions of a familiar challenge: “how to reconstruct the meaning conveyed by the form?” The chapters in this section not only look at translation proper but also at the literary acts adjacent to translation, which shed light on translation (and which require translation to shed light on themselves). Jane Qian Liu’s “Bovaristic Renderings: Zhou Shoujuan’s Pseudotranslation and the Creation of an Alternative Romantic Space” looks at the pseudotranslations of Zhou Shoujuan, which “create an appearance of translation,” she says, though “they do not build themselves upon a single corresponding source text.” The pseudotranslations are “Bovaristic in nature,” Liu argues, as they build “on a blending of life and books, of reality and illusion, in the same way Flaubert’s Emma Bovary is ‘hallucinated’ by the ‘romantic’ literature that she reads.” Continuing in the vein of heightened fictionality, Cara Healey’s “The Success of Chinese Science Fiction” looks at the “authors, translators, editors, publishing professionals, fans, scholars, critics, investors, startup employees, and officials” that make up Chinese science fiction and the “domestic sf infrastructure” they have developed, which, as she shows, allows “Chinese sf in translation to permeate and, increasingly, to shape global sf communities of practice.” The section ends with three looks at modern Chinese writers’ specific relationships with European literature, which raise questions about translatability itself. Frederik H. Green’s “Translating ‘Bird Talk’: Cross-Cultural Translation, Bergsonian Intuition, and Transnational Modernism in the Fiction of Xu Xu” discusses how Henri Bergson’s ideas of intuition are translated into Xu Xu’s story《鳥語》(Bird Talk), how that story in turn depicts translation, and how different translators (including Green himself) have translated the story. “Bird talk, poetry, and Buddhist sutras all convey meaning and truth value … even though they may defy definitions of what constitutes logical and verifiable transfer of meaning,” Green writes. Following this, Jeesoon Hong in “Ling Shuhua and the Bloomsbury Group: Modernism, Autobiography, and Translation” discusses Ling Shuhua’s translations alongside her interaction with the English

INTRODUCTION 7

modernists of the Bloomsbury group (Virginia Woolf, Leonard Woolf, Julian Bell, and others). “As much as the Bloomsbury group maintained their fascination with the exoticized ‘wild’ Other through distancing, Ling Shuhua … does not show serious efforts to narrow the distance,” Hong writes. “In Ling’s logic, the ‘real Chinese mind’ cannot be conveyed to the ‘West’; or if it is conveyed, it is not ‘real’ anymore. Ling’s perspective on incommunicability continues in her translation practice, which is imbued with untranslatability.” The section closes with Paul Bevan in “Sappho’s Younger Brother: Shao Xunmei, Translation, and His Golden House Bookshop,” which looks at the remains of the influence of decadence in Shao’s infatuation with the ancient Greek poet Sappho. “It might be said that Shao’s love affair with the poetry of nineteenthcentury England and France was actually one with Sappho, as each one of the poets included in his collection had been influenced by the Greek poet to some degree or other,” writes Bevan. But “Shao’s work became immersed in the decadent version of Sappho that had circulated within Western literary circles during the nineteenth century.” So which is it? Can such distinctions ever really be made? These questions and more, about the interrelationship between translation in its many guises and modern Chinese literature as it has usually been presented and understood, permeate these chapters. “Translation has to do with authority and legitimacy and ultimately with power” (Lefevere 1992, 2). The papers in part two, “Production and Reception of Literature in Translation” investigate issues of translation production that have played a direct or indirect, but always central, role in the representation and reception of modern Chinese literature around the world. The first chapters contribute to the study of institutional translation, a topic that is only very recently receiving scholarly attention. The latter focus on issues of editorial operations on translations, selection of works to translate, marketing, circulation, and reception. The part starts off with Bonnie S. McDougall’s “Perceptions of Power in Literary Translation: Translators and Translatees.” Through the coinage of the flexible expression “translation zone,” McDougall (2011) defines an opened space in which translation relationships between different language acts take place. McDougall thus explores two different kinds of zones and entailed power relationships: the first is situated in the first half of the 1980s, stretches out to farer geographical areas, and observes an authoritarian model, under the guidelines of the Foreign Language Press in Beijing; a second, slightly later in the same decade, encompasses her personal interaction with the translatees and follows a gift-exchange model. McDougall thus details an incredibly crucial moment in the history of literary translation in contemporary China, revealing scenes, methods, and practices of literature in translation. The translation operations of the Beijing Foreign Language Press are also the focus of Huijuan Ma’s study, concerned more specifically with questions of state-sponsored translations of modern Chinese literature in the Foreign Languages Bureau of the PRC. Set up by the Chinese Communist Party in the 1950s, the Foreign Languages Bureau followed the Soviet Union model to commission both translation from foreign languages into Chinese and translations of Chinese books into English. Basing her study on archival materials and historical documents, Ma looks at the Bureau’s translation policies in the three decades from 1951 to 1983, showing a complex picture of institutional translation activities, determining choice of texts, translation strategies, and reception of translated texts in other countries. Presenting the journal Chinese Literature as case study, Ma allows access to a body of Chinese literature in translation that had considerable impact on many students of Chinese literature throughout the world.

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Te-hsing Shan’s chapter examines translation activities in Taiwan from the inverse direction, looking at the contribution of the World Today Press in translating American literature during the Cold War era. Sketching a general picture of US containment policy and cultural diplomacy during the Cold War era, Shan discusses the periodical World Today, a means of political propaganda aimed at the Chinese-reading public outside mainland China and supported by the United States Information Service (USIS) in Hong Kong. The journal had much to do with the global deployment by the United States against the spread of communism in the Cold War era. Closely related to it was World Today Press, which selected classical or representative texts of American literature and thought, and invited famous translators, writers, and scholars in Hong Kong and Taiwan to translate them into Chinese. The translation series of American literature of the World Today Press included literary history and criticism, fiction, poetry and prose, and drama. Shan reviews related materials and interviews editors, translators, and specialists, to situate these translations in their historical context and weigh their cultural significance for many students and general readers of American literature in Taiwan. Of more recent focus are the four following chapters. In “Value-added Literary Labour in Chinese Literature Translation,” Jonathan Stalling adopts a term used in macroeconomics to describe the compositional process of literary work and translation. Stalling notices a crucial difference in the ways literary actors conceive of their authorial work in the United States and in China, which impacts on the respective communities’ sociolinguistic and aesthetic norms. Observing research conducted at the Chinese Literature Translation Archive (CLTA) of the University of Oklahoma, and in particular on the translation of Mo Yan’s work, Stalling relates agential power in translation networks to speech act theory, actor-network theory (ANT), and complex systems theory. This fascinating study thus offers significant insights into the multiscale networks of translation. ANT theoretical tools are also used in Paolo Magagnin’s exploration of the global circulation of Chinese crime fiction. Magagnin situates this literary genre against the background of the broader literary exchanges between China and the world, highlighting the political, economic, and cultural constraints that influence the flow of Chinese crime fiction in translation. He analyzes the translation of Mai Jia’s and Xiao Bai’s works to gauge information on the role this genre has in the promotion of Chinese literature and culture, on the criteria of selection of the source texts, and on the agential network, mechanisms, and constraints that govern the transnational circulation of Chinese crime fiction in translation. In her chapter on the editing of the translation of modern Chinese literature, Ping Zhu shows how the work of writing, translation, and editing are strictly interconnected, despite how the roles of translator and editor are often invisible. Dealing with a radically heterogeneous culture, she defines translators of Chinese literature as “shadow writers,” while editors recede even further in the dark, as shadows of shadows, or “penumbra writers.” The chapter offers illuminating examples of the essential role of editors in mediating between authors, translators, and readers. Translation editing is detailed as an operation that can be done by translators themselves or by someone else; it can be monolingual, bilingual, or multilingual (which is oftentimes the case in translating modern Chinese literature, if one considers classical Chinese and most of the Chinese dialects as distinct languages). Drawing on her own experience as an editor of modern Chinese literature, Zhu considers that her role also consists of encouraging the translator to be more creative, just like the penumbra urges the shadow to be free in the Zhuangzi fable. Marta Dos Santos presents the project of the Chinese Fiction Book Cover Archive (CFBCA),

INTRODUCTION 9

an open-access database that catalogs the book covers of modern Chinese fiction translated into other languages. Considering that the adaptation of book covers to different audiences is an under-explored area of research in translation and Chinese studies alike, Dos Santos argues that this database has the potential of becoming a useful resource for the study of Chinese literature in translation, cataloging the genealogy of the dissemination of a particular work. According to Dos Santos’s initial findings, her compilation of book covers can reveal some clear trends in marketing Chinese literature in translation. She identifies the aim to visually mark the books as being from China, rather than attempting a visual connection with the contents of the book. She also identifies changes in the visual representation of China throughout the 2010s, noting science fiction as an exception, as it aims at inserting the book into its genre, no matter the nationality of its author. As a case study demonstrating the trends that emerge, Dos Santos investigates a series of book covers of Mo Yan’s Big Breasts and Wide Hips from different Western European translations. Daniel M. Dooghan’s contribution gives an account of the numerous translations of Lu Xun’s work over the course of a century and examines their effects on the representation of this prominent modern writer in the English-reading context. Dooghan argues that the aesthetic variations in Lu Xun translations reflect the translators’ different conceptions of modernity and their takes on his idiosyncratic style, which resists classification. Dooghan examines salient aesthetic differences both between different translations and between translations and the Chinese originals. All together these translations illustrate the ventriloquy of Lu Xun and the conceptions of modernity they aim to represent. Maghiel van Crevel’s contribution reflects on issues of selection, translatability, and reception of battler poetry, a genre that has emerged in the wake of rural-to-urban labor migration since the 1980s. Van Crevel raises questions about the local and socioeconomic global conditions of these “foot soldiers of China’s economic rise,” and about the literature they write. How does their poetry travel in translation? Is this poetry something Chinese? What does it mean outside China? This analysis probes the nexus of precarious labor and cultural production, and the entanglement of what he calls the aesthetic impulse and the moral impulse in translation. Rachel Suet Kay Chan’s “Fairy Tales in Action: Chinese Online Fiction, English Fan Translation, and the Fan as the Author” turns our attention to fan translation within the global phenomenon of online self-publishing. Chan highlights a publishing model unique to the English-language fandom of Chinese folklore, and, building on the scarce scholarship on the topic, she examines Chinese online fiction sites featuring author-reader interactivity. Chan observes that some fans have evolved into authors of their own English-language stories. As most of these stories center on Chinese myths and ethnic cultural heritage, the authors and readers (or fans) deliberate on the authenticity of the author’s interpretation. Chan’s methodological tools include Propp’s theory of the creation and propagation of fairy tales and folklore (as well as Lévi-Strauss’s critique). Through these, she analyzes selected Chinese online novels and offers a netography of their corresponding Englishlanguage fan-based translation community, Wuxiaworld. Her guiding question is: how do authors and readers in a translation community participate in the creation of web novels as a form of crosscultural folklore? Following up from Chan’s chapter, Yin Zhang explores the development of international platforms dedicated to the translation of Chinese web novels and their role in the promotion of web literature for the international book market. She looks at translators and readers of the three

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translation websites Wuxiaworld, Volare Novels, and Gravity Tales, identifying a “mother-tongue model” of native English speakers of Chinese descent, primarily residing in North America and Southeast Asia. The system of writing, translating, and consuming web novels also entails incentive measures of evaluation and compensation, as well as aids for the translation of cultural-specific terminology in novels. Based on a limited number of international reader-respondents, Zhang also identifies preferred themes and translation quality assessment. Retracing the debate over the translation of names in Jin Yong’s fiction, Shelly Bryant gives us an account of the challenges and pressures facing the translator in conveying culture-specific elements in the original. She acknowledges differences in readership responses and shows how these interlace with issues of race, gender, Chineseness, exoticism, and particular tropes and stereotypes in the source text and in translation. Bryant considers not only the content of the story but also the context into which it was first told and the media formats through which it was disseminated, finally identifying reasons for the positive response to the series from its Englishlanguage readership. Does the bilingual Chinese-English community even contemplate the “right” issues about the translation of this work? The final part, “Living in Translation,” consists of ten chapters that engage with Sinophone literature. These chapters show the various ways in which the discussions of translation of modern Chinese literature could contribute to, and at the same time go beyond, the debates about Sinophone literature as conventionally understood with categorical non-Han and explicit anti-PRC ideology. The part opens with Nicoletta Pesaro’s chapter, “Sinophone Routes: Translation, Selftranslation, and Deterritorialization.” Pesaro draws on the framework of Sinophone studies to analyze what she calls a “third Chinese space” and an identity of “translated beings” in the works of three migrant or exiled writers. She argues that Eileen Chang’s, Yiyun Li’s, and Ma Jian’s voluntary deterritorializations from their original ideological environments led to differences in their practice of translation and self-translation. The three writers represent three different interpretations of the paradigm of migration, and their double identities, as Pesaro analyzes, can be expressive, politicized, and/or repressed. Next, Cosima Bruno’s “Translation in a Multilingual Context: Six Authors Writing the City,” discusses the works of Mary Jean Chan, Sue Cheung, Sarah Howe, Jennifer Lee, Nina Mingya Powles and Yilin Zhong. Most of these writers of Chinese descent do not write in Chinese, but the heteroglossic complexities in their literary works contribute to the shaping of London as a translational space for multicultural negotiation. Bruno looks at these works as works in translation, because they require the reader stop being monolingual. In turn, as Bruno argues, such space prompts migrant authors to re-engage with the cultural traditions they inherit. Their different translational writings and differing associations with the Sinosphere signify the varieties of writing and translation practices to which Sinophone studies must not overlook. The part then introduces four chapters that focus on the relationships between translation and Sinophone literatures in different countries or regions. Chris Song’s chapter on Hong Kong and Macao literatures in translation challenges the conventional binary conceptualization of “outbound” and “inbound translation” with the two cities’ bilingual literary traditions. Song investigates how official patronage has confirmed the conventional understanding of dualistic two-way traffic in these cities, even as they became both original and receiving cultures of their own literatures in translation. Song argues that as “inbound” and “outbound” translations partially merge in these bilingual cities, they entail a reconceptualization that challenges how they have been understood in translation studies in mainland China. Yangdon Dhondup takes a historical approach to studying Sinophone Tibetan writers and provides insightful reflections on

INTRODUCTION 11

the definition of “Tibetan literature” in relation to complex identity politics imminently linked to the clash among Tibetans’ multi-ethnicities and multi-languages. Along these lines of analysis, Dhondup’s chapter lays out the reasons why Sinophone Tibetan writers have been viewed by Han Chinese and Tibetan reader differently in terms of their representation of Tibetan literature and how such reasons affect the selection of texts for translation. Dhondup argues that these writers’ works not only diversify but also challenge the dominant discourse around “ethnic minorities” in the PRC. Wen-chi Li’s chapter supplies a thorough overview of the translations of Taiwanese literature into various languages, including English, French, German, Korean, Japanese, Czech, and Mongolian. Li uses André Lefevere’s theory of rewriting to tackle the complicated phenomena of manipulation of multilingual translations and the transnational circulations of literature in Taiwan under state patronage with an express interest in ideological promotion, while the translations and manipulations are also affected by literary professionals’ poetological preferences. In spite of this, Li acutely observes that such translation projects that seek to project the Free China image of Taiwanese literature suffer from both Sinocentrism and Eurocentrism, increasingly isolating it to the margins of world literature. Tong King Lee and E. K. Tan’s chapter on Singapore Chinese literature in translation in the entwined context of domestic language politics begins with the opposition between Chinese literature “indexicalized as a master signifier of heartlander sensibilities,” in contrast with English’s projection of a cosmopolitan outlook for Singapore. It then delves into perceptive studies of translation of Singapore Chinese literature under state patronage, how Chinese and English have created a literary heteroglossia, the translation of which creates interpretive dilemmas, and the intricate ideologies involved in reading works in which translation is a motif. The richness of Lee and Tan’s critical inquiry into this topic parallels the complexities of Singapore Chinese literature overall. The heterogeneous internal language politics in Hong Kong, Macao, Tibet, Taiwan, and Singapore underscores a multilingual landscape of Sinosphere literatures, laying the foundation for their encounters with the overpowering discourse of “Chinese” literature. What follow are three chapters that emphasize the translatedness of the non-Sinitic works of three forerunning Sinophone writers: Lin Yutang, Eileen Chang, and Gao Xingjian. James St. André’s chapter scrutinizes Lin Yutang’s wartime writings, postwar writings, and translations. He starts by surveying certain facets of the preexisting stereotype of China in the AngloAmerican world. In his meticulous analysis, St. André points out Lin’s works reinforce, and at the same time challenge, the stereotype within the conditions it imposed on the English-language publishing world. St. André argues that Lin adopted an intrusive strategy in translating works featuring strong Chinese female figures and that his works testify to a give-and-take attempt at intercultural negotiation, while tackling the stereotypes the receiving culture had on the culture of origin. Dylan K. Wang’s chapter emphasizes Eileen Chang’s self-translations: Wang argues that the considerable bilingual corpus she left behind suggests a regular, even normative, bilingual practice in Chang’s writing career. According to Wang, while Chang was encouraged by praise for her self-translations, sponsored by the USIS in 1950s Hong Kong, this was followed by serious disappointments in the United States. With inspiration from Matthew Reynold’s concept of “prismatic translation” and Yayoi Kusama’s ethereal installations, Wang offers the “infinity mirror” as a metaphor for Chang’s “bilingual shuttling,” which collapses the divisions between source and target language. Similarly, Mary Mazzilli draws on Steven Kellman’s concept of “translingual writing” to categorize the plays Gao Xingjian wrote in French, in contrast with his writings in his primary language, Chinese. Similar to Wang’s argument, Mazzilli’s chapter points

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out that a writer’s multilingual practice blurs the boundary between original and translation. Mazzilli furthers her argument through an analysis of Gao’s post-1997 plays written in French, which exhibit a postdramatic transnationalism in his political stance, filling the gap of studies on Gao’s bilingualism. The translingual quality in these three Sinophone writers’ works represents their respective struggles with non-Sinitic languages in response to the conditions and constraints their writing confronts. This part aptly closes with Lucas Klein’s chapter investigating the relationship between Chineseness and modern Chinese literature written for and from translation. The ambitious chapter goes beyond the modern: tackling a single topic of translation to connect writers from classical, modern, and contemporary times, his chapter questions the critique of literary works perceived as being created for translation into other languages as less “Chinese,” arguing against any a priori essence of Chineseness. Klein also points out the possibly alarming effects that the PRC’s inwardturning policies could have on translation, a worry shared by many contemporary translators of modern Chinese literature. The title of the part, “Living in Translation,” suggests the multifarious ways in which writers engage with translation. In other words, how do they embody translation? Or, how is translation lived? As shown in the ten chapters in this part, for these Sinophone writers, translation is not necessarily the translator’s or self-translator’s use of interlingual code-switching, but may instead be the multilingual conditions they face, the translingual qualities they consciously or unconsciously incorporate into their writings, their linguistic negotiations with the migration from a Sinospheric region to a foreign locale, and the language politics and various discursive forces they deal with on a day-to-day basis. Their translation strategies differ along with the different problematics of translation in its various contexts. But translation is as much in their works as in their life. To them, as much as to us, the readers of modern Chinese literature, translation is a many-splendored thing. The last chapter in the volume is by Michel Hockx, whose lucid account of his pluriannual experience in teaching Chinese literature in translation not only offers insights on how translation is in fact constantly overlooked but also well summarizes the very questions at the heart of this volume. To frame all this in another way, the key trajectories of reading translation reflexively in The Bloomsbury Handbook of Modern Chinese Literature in Translation map a world that is everything but interchangeable and neutral. In its stead we hope to show a wide-ranging constellation of multiple conjunctures and perspectives.

REFERENCES Chang, Sung-sheng Yvonne, Michelle Yeh, and Ming-ju Fan, eds. 2014. The Columbia Source Book of Literary Taiwan. New York: Columbia University Press. Laachir, Karima, Sara Marzagora, and Francesca Orsini. 2018. “Significant Geographies in Lieu of World Literature.” Journal of World Literature 3: 293. Lefevere, André. 1992. Translation/History/Culture: A Sourcebook. London: Routledge. McDougall, Bonnie. 2011. Translation Zones in Modern China: Authoritarian Command versus Gift Exchange. Amherst, NY: Cambria Press. Wang, David Der-wei, ed. 2017. A New Literary History of Modern China. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

PART ONE

The Plural Aesthetics of Translation

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CHAPTER ONE

Translations as Versions in Modern Chinese Literature NICK ADMUSSEN

WHAT ARE WE READING? What does a reader do, and what do they get, when they pick up a translation of《駱駝祥子》 by Lao She 老舍 (1899–1966)? They make a choice, informed or not, between several possible translations, all of which have arguments in their favor: for example, there is Howard Goldblatt’s readable, widely distributed 2010 translation Rickshaw Boy; Jean M. James’s more scholarly 1979 translation Rickshaw; Shi Xiaoqing’s 1981 translation Camel Xiangzi, featuring an introduction by Lao She’s spouse and an afterword by him; or Evan King’s 1945 translation Rickshaw Boy, which was a bestseller in the United States and a selection of the very influential Book of the Month Club.1 Whether they know it or not, their choice takes a side in an interpretive and political dispute: after the formation of the People’s Republic of China (PRC) in 1949, Lao She chose (perhaps under duress) to revise the novel, excising some political references, sexual scenes, and the tragic final chapters.2 Rather than embracing nihilism and hedonism as the 1939 story does, in versions after 1955 the novel’s main character Xiangzi asks a question in the novel’s final lines—why should a working person have hope?—that the communist revolution could answer. Goldblatt and James translate the text as it was before state communism; Shi translates the more recent edition and adds Lao She’s apologia as an afterword, in which the writer says “I expressed my sympathy for the labouring people … but I gave them no future, no way out … This was because, at the time I could only see the misery of society and not the hope of revolution, I did not know any revolutionary truths” (Lao 1981, 230). Choosing a translation, then, might also include deciding whether or not political pressure forced Lao She to change his novel, deciding whether the rules of art in the early People’s Republic improved or detracted from artistic works, or alternatively choosing which readers of the Chinese one prefers to draw near to—a fifty-year-old Chinese person would be familiar with the shorter and later book, but a twenty-year-old Chinese person may have seen the longer and bleaker one, which was legal to publish again in the 1980s and is the text that is usually posted at free literature websites. All this is in addition to more familiar ways of judging a translation, like

Goldblatt’s 2010 version was published in trade paperback by Harper Perennial and has gone through many printings. James’s 1979 version was on a small university press with comparatively limited circulation. 2 This shortened text is available in English in Shi’s 1981 version; that translation was later extended in Lao (2005), a reprint of Shi’s version from the Chinese University Press that restores the lost chapters. 1

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assessing its fidelity or style. Many of the decisions that used to be made at the editorial level—which edition to mark as authoritative and make available to readers—are now, because of new structures in the sale, circulation, and digitization of books, partially in the hands of readers as well. What is it, though, that ends up in those readers’ hands after their decision-making is done? If we call all these books translations, we run into a problem with the 1945 bestseller, translated by a pseudonymous translator reputed to have been a prisoner of war in Japanese-occupied Manchuria during the Second World War (Lao 2010, xii). It invents characters, changes plot points, and creates a totally new ending, one in which Xiangzi scoops his love interest up in his arms and runs off into the forest. It ends, “He was alive. They were free” (Lao 1945, 384). This is so substantially different from the book in Chinese, and was so intensely loathed by Lao She, that calling it a translation seems like praise.3 Even among the more faithful versions, however, exclusively assessing their quality as translations can downplay or overlook the role of their paratextual material, which often extends or explains what is in the translated sections themselves. A copy of the post-1955 Camel Xiangzi with Lao She’s explanation about why he revised the final chapters is very different from a copy that never mentions the missing sections. Goldblatt’s version gives in its introduction a very general sense of what is missing from the Shi translation—the last “chapter and a half” of the novel (Lao 2010, xiv)—but not quite enough for a reader to reconstruct the shape of Lao She’s revision. Because Lao She revised mostly by deletion, it would have been possible with more careful annotation to create a book that you could read either way: both as a translation of the text as it was in 1939 and as it was after 1955. That book might be the same translation—the way that Chinese was represented by English would be the same—but a different experience than Goldblatt offered. There are other concepts hiding behind or inside the word “translation,” concepts Rickshaw Boy and Camel Xiangzi help bring into the light. Translation as a category has soft boundaries and gradations. Translations have margins, marginalia, paratexts and contexts, and these all have the ability to determine not only how we read translated texts but also whether they count as translations or not. Today, Evan King’s translation of Lao She feels easy to reject and replace, but other parts of the margins around translation are too important to ignore. The work of the poet Li Jinfa 李金髮 (1900–1976), especially as it is read transnationally, insists that its readers come to terms with the uncomfortable spaces around translation. Born in 1900, Li Jinfa (the pen name of Li Shuliang 李淑良) wrote his deeply influential poetry on the basis of his experience studying abroad in Paris in 1922–1923, when he adopted his pen name (literally, “Li of the Golden Hair” or “Blond Li”) and became enamored with French symbolists, especially Baudelaire and Verlaine. This intensity led to imitative and transformative participation in symbolist poetics. A good survey of the situation is provided by the poet Bian Zhilin 卞之琳 (1910–2000), writing in 1982: “It was indeed Li Jinfa who first introduced French symbolist poetry into China … The fact is that his far from adequate knowledge of French and his no less inadequate mastery of his mother tongue, both in baihua (the vernacular) and wenyan (the literary language), did gross injustice to the French Symbolists” (quoted in Bien 2013, 132). The untrustworthiness and incomprehensibility of Li’s renditions from the French, though, did not hamper the impact he had on readers (indeed, the incomprehensibility may have added to

For a sense of the intensity of his feeling—which George Kao says became generalized to an antipathy toward American culture in general—see Iwasaki (2015, 126–28).

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his impact). Bian admits that he “somehow caught the aroma of the Symbolist poetry of the late Nineteenth Century” (quoted in Bien 2013, 132). Bian Zhilin does not explicitly object to Li’s free mixing of translation with imitation and invention, but contemporary scholar Jin Siyan summarizes the generic disorientation his work creates: “Is it borrowing, echoing, synaesthesia, modeling, or accidental similarity? Perhaps it’s all these things” 是借用,共鸣,联觉,模仿,还是偶然相似?或许都有 (Jin 1994, 261). This type of imitative, citational creation was not offensive to the mores of the early twentieth century in China, when Lu Xun 魯迅 (1881–1936) found fame for《狂人日記》(Diary of a Madman), the title supplied by a story of Gogol’s, and when many poets, particularly Bian Zhilin himself, drew their poetry from complex negotiations between nativization and foreignization.4 What this means in terms of individual poems is that Li Jinfa’s work feels vastly different to different audiences. To readers of his day, who, as Bian points out, had no prior encounter with French symbolism, Li’s poetry would have felt exotic, even foreign in its diction and style—as Klein points out in his chapter in this volume, he can seem to write “from translation” rather than from an identifiably Chinese tradition. His frequent citations and appreciations of the symbolists would read as claims to affiliation with a community that, because the texts from which he drew inspiration were absent and unknown to his readership in the 1920s, could not gauge his particular balance between imitation and originality. To a more initiated transcultural reader, though, including contemporary scholars, the works are hard to read outside their relationship to specific French texts. In the poem《夜之歌》(Nocturne) (Li 1987, 37), written in 1922, Li adopts the central image of Baudelaire’s “A Carcass” (Une Charogne; Baudelaire 2008, 59–62), in which an amorous couple encounters a dead woman’s corpse during a summer’s walk together. As he proceeds through the poem, Li also reproduces a moment from Baudelaire’s poem “Voyaging” (Le voyage) in which the speaker, bored and disgusted with the life they see, insists that an anchor be raised and a journey begun (Baudelaire 2008, 292). The effect, to the reader of Baudelaire, is what Paul Manfredi calls an array of “the ruptured elements of the phenomenal and textual world” (2014, 26). As Manfredi points out, the poem is not reducible to transcription or translation: its juxtapositions, its classical roots, and the way it shifts Baudelaire’s tone and ideology are all novel in the poem. But the uncited, reperformed elements from the textual world give one, in the words of Feng Naichao 馮乃超 (1901–1983), “the impression that they are reading a translation” (Manfredi 2014, 9). The poem feels like not-quite-translation, not-quite-original. At the same time, the presence of such problems might have little or no impact on those who enjoy Li Jinfa’s poetry as the decadent, associative, earthy verse that it also is. The ruptures of Li Jinfa’s work are extreme cases of a phenomenon endemic in the world of translation. When poets are translated, their work is often selected and reordered in a way that tells a new story for a new context, whether that be the fracturing and authorizing effect of an anthology, an introductory, historical overview of a poet’s most famous (or most translatable) work, or just a market-oriented, editorial decision that some poems are more worth translating than others.5 Fiction is, of course, not immune to similar types of excision and reorganization: Howard

Kowallis (2002) gives a point-by-point comparison between Gogol’s “Diary of a Madman” and Lu Xun’s. Klein (2018, 25–67) describes Bian’s intercultural and interlingual practices. 5 Just as an example, the past three contemporary Chinese poetry volumes to win the Lucien Stryk Prize for Translation from the American Literary Translators Association—Xi 2016, Wang 2014, and Xi 2012—were all made up of selections from several Chinese-language collections, spanning decades. 4

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Goldblatt’s celebrated translations of Mo Yan 莫言 (1955–) make editorial cuts that consistently excise mentions of the Chinese Communist Party or contemporary Chinese politics (Du and Zhang 2015, 4–5; Klein 2016, 188), and his translation of the《天堂蒜薹之歌》(Garlic Ballads) excises chapter 21 (Du and Zhang 2015, 5). Ken Liu’s pathbreaking translation of Liu Cixin 刘慈欣’s (1963–)《三体》(The Three-Body Problem) takes its structure from the novel as it was serialized in the magazine《科幻世界》(Science Fiction World) in 2006, rather than the stand-alone novel that was much more widely circulated after its publication in 2008. Cao Xuenan describes the publication history of the novel as itself having three “bodies” with distinct relationships to transnational Orientalism and self-orientalization, state politics, and the history of global science fiction. She writes, “It is crucial to note that what is often presumed to be one novel, The ThreeBody Problem, is actually only one of multiple versions,” and rather than imagining a binary pair in which a singular novel is translated once, she conceptualizes the two Chinese versions and the English version as three distinct and separable experiences (Cao 2019, 184), related by subtle but legible forces. She compares the problem of the relationship between versions to the three-body problem in physics that gives Liu’s novel its title (184–85): it is conceptually difficult but quite powerful to understand the forces that operate between multiple moving bodies. Cao’s method—to see a translation as a version and to attend to its genetic relationships with (potentially multiple) previous versions—feels increasingly necessary when encountering the ruptures, gray areas, and most of all the choices that translated Chinese literature provokes. The relationship between the six versions of Lao She’s novel discussed at the start of the chapter are a meaningful part of the artwork—in some cases they play a determining role in the work’s reception—and yet that relationship exists in no single book. The versions of literature are archives from which we can draw an understanding of literature’s movements in life. Knowing about versions tells us a lot about what readers saw in Li Jinfa: by seeing his poems as versions of Baudelaire rather than either failed translations or failed original poems, we can learn something useful about the difference between an aesthetics that is cited or translated, on one hand, and one that is inhabited by a poet, on the other. We can see people reacting to Li as an inhabitant, rather than a translator, of decadence. The three-body problem is a convenient metaphor that provides a starting point for a study of versions: this chapter will attempt to go further, trying to create a workable theory of the version that identifies the active role that readers must play in versioning translated literature.

A THEORY OF THE VERSION Christopher Plaisance defines the version as follows: “a particular immaterial textual accident of a universal immaterial textual substance, which is materially caused by the text of its instantiating class of documents, formally caused by the contextual author function, efficiently caused by its author or authorial network, and finally caused by the author’s intention” (2019, 14). Some back translation from his Aristotelian terminology will be useful to open this concept into the demands of modern Chinese literature.6 The version is an accident: it is an attribute of a text “which may As well as comparison to his definition of the text: “an artifactual pattern of letters, punctuation marks, and spaces, which is materially caused by the physical document(s) instantiating it, formally caused by the contextual author function, efficiently caused by its author, and finally caused by the author’s intention” (Plaisance 2019, 10).

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or may not characterise the being at a given point in time” (7). It is immaterial because like texts, it does not necessarily have a given physical shape: the Goldblatt version of Rickshaw Boy exists across many different physical books that have minor differences, none of which has priority over another. Their identity as “the Goldblatt version” is a result of an idea we hold. Versions have a set of documents as their material cause: this means that they draw their raw materials from other writings. The material cause—the type of raw materials used as a source—is the signal difference between the text and the version. Plaisance says that the material cause of a text, the ingredients from which a text is constructed, is its instantiating documents, the books or pamphlets or pages that give us an idea of a text. The book or PDF you are reading right now is the raw material from which you will draw your idea of this chapter. In the case of the version, though, it becomes itself on the basis of some other class of documents, things that are not present. The Three-Body Problem in Ken Liu’s translation is made from an absent set of documents called《三体》. It is a version, and as such quite different from《三体》itself, which is a textual idea materially caused by books and other documents titled《三体》. The absent documents that provoke the version and the potential absence of the author of those documents lead Plaisance to emphasize that the version can be created through an authorial network. This is important but not quite sufficient for readers in translation: it opens a space to think through the connected difference between authors and translators, who have shifting textual, social, legal, linguistic, and aesthetic relationships. But it does not quite describe the way in which their functions overlap, with translators acting as authors in some cases (making decisions about, for example, which poem should go first in a collection), authors acting as editors (pushing back against translators’ decisions), and editors acting as authors and translators (deciding how long a work should be, deciding how it should sound or feel). We may instead think of the version, whether it is a translation or not, as the product of an authorial group that shares, doubles, or struggles over authorial functions, and which may have little overt connection or collaboration past their individual labor in the same textual tradition.7 Plaisance finishes his definition by writing that both the text and the version have their final cause (their goal, their underlying reason to exist) in an author’s intent. But this assertion needs to be specified: if the definition is to make sense in context, a distinction must be drawn between the author (or the authorial network) of the text and the author of the version. Richard Jean So writes that Evan King’s version of Rickshaw Boy “transforms from a Dickensian exposé of the evils of capitalism to a celebration of individualism and personal freedom” (2016, 186). He further points out that King also monopolized the economic and social profit from the translation, so if Lao She intended to enrich himself by writing, this version failed him on that level, as well (186–87). This is not an uncommon feature of versions: they may be pirated, twisted, or contested. The author or authors of a version often do their work from a separate or even contradictory intent to the original, and translation is no exception. When seeing a translation as a version, it is easier to see the translator (and their editor, their publisher, their censor, and everyone else who shapes the translation) not as a subsidiary or invisible worker laboring to fulfill the intent of the source author, but as an independent author who naturally has independent intent. This is even true when a single

For a longer discussion of the metaphor of the network, its cultural underpinnings, and its cross-cultural limitations, see Admussen (2019).

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author creates multiple versions, or self-translates: Lao She wanted one set of things from and for his novel in the 1930s and a very different set of things in 1955. The importance Plaisance gives to authorial intent as the motive force of creation reinforces the fact that many readers read to hear and understand a human voice: we compare translations, we distinguish versions, and we create concepts of author and translator not exclusively because of perceived hierarchies of value, but because we want to know who we are hearing. In a 2011 essay, Lawrence Venuti describes the “poet’s version,” a twentieth-century European tradition of monolingual artists producing adaptive imitations of foreign works that he calls “an amalgam of what we understand today as translation and adaptation, close rendering and free rewriting” (234). In many ways, he too attempts to knit translation to the more interpretive “poet’s version,” pointing out that “The translation or adaptation inscribes its interpretation at every stage in the writing process, starting from the very choice of the source text and including every verbal choice” (234). But as befits a scholar-translator working in translation studies, rather than a person who is reading through translation toward some other goal, he concludes by calling for a focus on the “interpretants” of discourses and conventions in the receiving culture, arguing that a translator has an ethical call to extend and open those conventions through the creation of translation (246). That makes sense as a task for the translator: figure out, react to, and perhaps transform the way that people in a particular locality read texts. But what should a reader do, a reader less interested in whether “interpretants” in local culture have been destabilized by a given translation and more interested in reading a book, hearing a voice, even perhaps learning something about life in China or elsewhere? Reading translations as a type of version drawn from a preexisting set of documents does concrete work in helping us revise old senses of the intention of authors as singular, internal acts of will. Thinking through the version conceptually justifies the endless fascination that readers have with the documents from which the version is drawn (the “original” of the translation), even though those documents are not themselves the translation: to see how the translation was drawn from its raw materials is to interpret an author as an actor in a context, whether that author be the translator, the translator and the original artist together, or the institutions and pressures that affect authorial function. When readers assemble and interpret a version history for translations— building a sort of software-style version tree, with roots, forks, and branches—they can see authors react to transnational givens. They can watch Lao She work as he contests and is contested by Chinese communism and Euro-American anti-communism: what will Lao She, whose novel is about the injustice of working life, do when a capitalist attempts to steal his labor? What will he do when a socialist government dictates revisions? Similarly, readers can see the way in which Li Jinfa chooses participation in French symbolism over citation or mastery of it, a symbolist bleeding of boundaries between image and feeling transposed onto the edges between translation and creation. The ideas of a text come into a generative and concrete relationship to decisions made around the creation of versions; the authorial voice, rightly seen as voices in chorus, becomes bigger and richer than the words on the page. Version histories and version trees historicize and situate literature; additionally, though, the concept of the version produces futures. Because a version is immaterial—an idea of a work—and based on documents rather than contained in them, we can think about versions that are not, or are not yet, represented by their own documents. This feels quite common in reviews of translated literature when reviewers, as they compare versions, produce a third, often preferable version that

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they describe but do not present. This chapter did something similar when it thought through a version of Goldblatt’s Rickshaw Boy that contained the information necessary to reconstruct Lao She’s story in its post-1955 shape. That is a future version, as yet unmade, that appeared as a direct result of thinking through iteration. It is less an assessment of lack in Goldblatt’s version as it is an understanding that version trees act like living organisms; it is readerly, but also participatory.8 The futurity accessible via participatory reading through the version creates complex and exciting opportunities and responsibilities for readers: it is to the specificities of that expanded role that we will now turn.

VERSIONERS Visualizing a translation as a text encourages thoughts of its reception; visualizing it as a version, with an open and extensible authorial group, sharpens attention to its further iteration. A translator creates a version through translation, selection, ordering, and the composition of paratext. A teacher creates a new version by adding to the paratext through lecture and discussion, by assigning multiple documents, and through the framing that both course and classroom provide. The reader creates their own version by skipping around in a book, by reading multiple versions, by having an independent interpretation of the relationship between any given version and its author. There are two common discourses around these acts of versioning—one that centers on authority, objectivity, and continuity, and one that centers on authoring, subjectivity, and contextuality—but at heart, both discourses are arguments that a new entry in a version history is necessary and useful, and the choice of discourse has no predictable impact on the conservative or transformative effect of a given version. In his 2019 essay “The Babel Fallacy,” Joseph Allen observes that different literary traditions have different mythic assumptions around translation. In the West there is the story of Babel, in which humanity is cursed with mutually unintelligible languages and forced into the labor of translation as punishment. Ancient China, meanwhile, has the myth of Cang Jie 倉頡, who creates writing by reproducing the tracks and marks of animals.9 Writing here is transcribed and transmediated instead of created and passed down in a continuous lineage that unifies not only human beings with nature but also humans with one another and the present with the past. Myths can never be determinants, and in any event a tropic description of a translatorial process need have no fixed relationship to how a translation is made or what it does: we can describe translations one way and make them in another. But it is useful to imagine how much fits into the gap between Babel and Cang Jie. The transformative, transgressive concept of translational versioning, in which translators are traitors to God’s insistence that languages must be distinct, is quite distant from a Szymanska (2019) talks about translation multiples—volumes in which many different translations of the same piece are collected together—in terms of “journey,” “path,” and “promenade,” works that replace a concrete product with a process open to extension and continuation (147–48), concluding that they offer “artistic intuitions” (151) that are fundamentally creative and future-oriented. 9 Klein (2021) contains a thorough discussion about whether the Cang Jie myth and the Babel myth can or should be used to represent Chinese and Western cultures, respectively: being here focused on twentieth-century translation, I find them useful as tropes to represent models of translation extant in both cultures and am trying to draw out the way they overlap and interpenetrate. 8

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model in which the translator or transcriber reliably refreshes a text into a new script, language, or idiom while retaining its nature and full authority. Between the extremes of these two models sit innumerable options for translators and their readers. In the authoritative construct, a versioner discovers a knowable and pre-extant version, superior to all others, which he or she can lift to the status of the text. This is the task to which the scholars of imperial China often bent themselves: cultural heroes such as Sima Qian 司馬遷 (145?–86? bce) or Zhu Xi 朱熹 (1130–1200) created versions of preexisting works that suppressed what Plaisance calls the accidental nature of versions—the way in which versions are not representative of the documents from which they are drawn. These versions were designed to be authoritatively contiguous with previous work, the very image of Cang Jie’s natural signs being drawn up into a portable, contemporary literary mark.10 It is easy to identify this discourse as a way for a versioner to colonize texts and occupy history, and this does in fact take place repeatedly—《史記》(Records of the Grand Historian) assembling, for example, a partisan version of historical materials that reflects the beliefs of the Han dynasty (Pines 2006). This discourse of versioning, however, is highly sensitive to changes in textual evidence—changes in the availability, verifiability, and interpretation of documents—in a way that can uniquely destabilize and open textual traditions. In his book Rewriting Early Chinese Texts, Edward Shaughnessy outlines the process through which new archaeological discoveries provoke rethinkings and rewritings of the canon—and demonstrates that this process of unearthing and version adaptation has gone on at least since 279 ce, when long-forgotten texts were found in the tomb of the King of Wei (Shaughnessy 2006, 5), sparking a substantive, transformative debate over the nature of the classics. The fact that this debate proceeded under tropes of objectivity, authority, and correctness made it no less dynamic.11 Allen argues that much of classical scholarship, and especially the kind that this chapter describes as ancient Chinese versioning, stands in the place of what we would today call translation《說文解字》(Explaining Graphs and Analyzing Characters) was not just a dictionary, he argues, but the “world’s first intra-lingual dictionary,” created in part to make ancient smallseal writing legible to later readers (Allen 2019, 125). Its gloss for yi 譯, a character now used for translation, was chuan 傳, to transmit. The authoritative versioner is comfortable—has always been comfortable—with altering, recontextualizing, and questioning texts, because the implicit, mythic goal of preserving the flux of nature is clearly impossible. Cang Jie drew the Chinese characters up from the tracks of animals, but those characters have changed drastically in the years since, even under the aegis of so many stories of their ultimate continuity. To put this in terms of Lao She, even the versioner who wants to create the most authoritative translation of《駱駝祥子》will not re-serialize it in a literary magazine, or use vintage paper from 1939. It is understood that time has moved on, and in the definition of what accuracy and authority can possibly mean there lies a naturalized embrace of transformation and change. The second broad discourse around the versioner is that of the transformative, subjective, “unfaithful,” contextual creator of versions—Li Jinfa, Ezra Pound, Lin Shu 林紓 (1852–1942). This

As Stillinger (1994, 132) points out, this kind of seizure of authority is rampant in nineteenth- and twentieth-century work on English literature, in which scholars vie for the power associated with authorized editions. 11 Pines (2006), as well, uses excavated manuscripts and new evidence to assess the accuracy of the Qin history that is reproduced in The Records of the Grand Historian, simultaneously finding the Han text lacking and seizing a new level of authority on behalf of the excavated materials he is reading. 10

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rationale for the production of versions focuses on the need to create, with creations ranging from new audiences and communities in the receiving culture to new cultural fusions between translated and translating cultures to a change, as Venuti proposes, in the “interpretants” of the receiving culture. One of the richest examples of this kind of versioning is the practice that gives this section of the chapter its name—the film versioners of Thailand, who gave live vernacular performances of imported foreign films between the late 1940s and the 1970s. As May Adadol Ingawanij describes the practice, versioners traveled to towns and villages with and without theatres, projected films outdoors, and transformed the film dialogue by performing in verse (2012, 108), using direct address (101), and improvising (112–13), as well as through the creation of new occasions for film viewing that ranged from the funeral of a senior monk (2018, 13) to anti-communist propaganda (16). The transformations and transmediations of these foreign films were so many and so deep that comparisons between text and version seem quite beside the point: besides, each act of versioning was immanent, momentary, and unrepeatable, something Ingawanij has reconstructed through painstaking attention to film journalism and memoir. At the same time, though, an “original” celluloid print of a film, a procession of images in a fixed and repeatable pattern, was present at every act of versioning. The performance entailed acts of profanation—“acts that return to common usage what had been set apart through consecration” (Ingawanij 2018, 21)—but it also spread the experience of cinema far wider than more precisely repeated performances of texts ever could. The role of the film versioner helps us explain and understand Li Jinfa’s practice, and much of the gray zone between translation and creation, where standards of equivalence and faithfulness are fluid and the receiving culture’s context is foregrounded at all times. Li Jinfa, though he does not always demonstrably say what Baudelaire or Verlaine says, often performs the actions in poems that French symbolists do: he breaks an aesthetic and moral boundary by discussing a corpse with his lover or encounters the world with an air of bored disaffection. As close as an authoritative translator might get to crafting sentences equivalent between two languages, the core performer of their version is someone else, usually the “original” author. The film versioner, by contrast, stands in front of the screen and thereby assumes a specific kind of aesthetic and moral responsibility for what results: this counterintuitively has the power to transmit important elements of an original text. Li Jinfa, renaming himself after golden hair, throwing himself into his role as a symbolist, himself performs decadence and dissipation in a way that a translator rarely would. This process does not require, or necessarily involve, the transmission of textual patterns: rather, as Bian Zhilin pointed out, it is the “aroma” of symbolism, the sense of it, something more elemental than its language, pattern, or ideology. This sense is transmitted through kinds of learning and experience that avoid or profane authoritative structures of training and reproduction: film versioners in Thailand, especially women, were able to learn the craft and the films without engaging either in the patrilineal master/student relationships of Thai traditional art or in transnational film communities (Ingawanij 2018, 29–34), but were still able to remain adjacent to both. Rather than learning symbolism through diligent language study and textual mastery, one can simply get a sense for the context, identify some of the feelings at play, and take what one wants from symbolist texts. In both cases, these kinds of versioners opened new spaces for imitators and inheritors, deeply influencing both the Thai film industry to come and the future of contemporary Chinese poetry. When versioners identify their project as authoritative and objective, they make drastic changes to their documents. When versioners identify their project as inventive and profaning, they transmit

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important senses of a work to their audience. In neither case can the rhetoric attached to versioning be matched in a trustworthy way to the nature of the version’s relationship to its documents. Accepting this helps, perhaps, in abandoning consideration of the amount of retention between versions in favor of questions about what a version does, and how it fits into its own history. Versions, after all, should be seen as additive, not hierarchical: a problem or lacuna in one version, or a problem a version presents in a particular context, is best addressed not by critique, but by an additional version.12 In encounters with translated literature, whether in the classroom or out of it, comparing versions always makes sense; it is well worth extending, varying, and iterating them, as well. Which versions seem better than others, and why? How would you retranslate the versions you encounter? How would you improve them? What would you explain or situate to make the experience of a new version even more faithful and legible than the old? If you were adapting a text for your people, your social context, what would you change, what would you leave out? How would you imitate a text, how might you write in a way that makes its gesture, performs its act?

REFERENCES Admussen, Nick. 2019. “Network Analysis as Modernist Intervention: The Case of Chinese Poetry Readings.” In Chinese Poetic Modernisms, edited by Paul Manfredi and Christopher Lupke, 261–82. Leiden: Brill. Allen, Joseph R. 2019. “The Babel Fallacy: When Translation Does Not Matter.” Cultural Critique, 102: 117–50. Baudelaire, Charles. 2008. Flowers of Evil, translated by James McGowan. Oxford: Oxford World’s Classics. Bien, Gloria. 2013. Baudelaire in China. Newark: University of Delaware Press. Bruno, Cosima. 2012. Between the Lines: Yang Lian’s Poetry through Translation. Leiden: Brill. Cao, Xuenan. 2019. “The Multiple Bodies of the Three-Body Problem.” Extrapolation 60 (2): 183–200. Du, Ping, and Lili Zhang. 2015. “Rewriting, Ideology, and Poetics in Goldblatt’s Translation of Mo Yan’s 天堂蒜薹之歌 (The Garlic Ballads).” CLCWeb: Comparative Literature and Culture 17 (1). Available online: http://docs.lib.purdue.edu/clcweb/vol17/iss1/8 (accessed June 18, 2021). Ingawanij, May Adadol. 2012. “Mother India in Six Voices: Melodrama, Voice Performance, and Indian Films in Siam.” BioScope 3 (2): 99–121. Ingawanij, May Adadol. 2018. “Itinerant Cinematic Practices in and around Thailand during the Cold War.” Southeast of Now 2 (1): 9–41. Iwasaki, Claire. 2015. “Towards an Itinerant Sinophone: Transnational Literary Collaboration in the Writings of Xiao Hong, Zhang Ailing, and Lao She.” PhD diss., University of California Los Angeles. Jin Siyan 金丝燕. 1994.《文学接受与文化过滤》Literary Reception and Cultural Filters. Beijing: Zhongguo Renmin Chubanshe. Klein, Lucas. 2016. “A Dissonance of Discourses: Literary Theory, Ideology, and Translation in Mo Yan and Chinese Literary Studies.” Comparative Literature Studies 53 (1): 170–97. Klein, Lucas. 2018. The Organization of Distance: Poetry, Translation, Chineseness. Leiden: Brill.

In this I echo Bruno, who writes that “translations of a text exist laterally, not vertically. A translation and the source text are not linked to each other by a hierarchical relationship, but are isomorphic” (2012, 14). I extend this idea to include competing original versions as well as versions of translations. Rather, though, than focusing on the shape of the text and a formal correspondence between versions—two versions can be different in form and shape, as in the case of Rickshaw Boy—I see the nonhierarchical relationship between one version and another version to be historical, social, and variable in type.

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Klein, Lucas. 2021. “The Babel Fallacy Fallacy: Against the Lack of Interest in and/or Hegemonic Blindness to Translation in Premodern China.” Sino-Platonic Papers 316: 1–27. Kowallis, Jon Eugene von. 2002. “Lu Xun and Gogol.” The Soviet and Post-Soviet Review 28 (1–2): 101–12. Lao She. 1945. Rickshaw Boy, translated by Evan King. New York: Reynal and Hitchcock. Lao She. 1979. Rickshaw: The Novel Lo-t’o Hsiang Tzu, translated by Jean M. James. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. Lao She. 1981. Camel Xiangzi, translated by Shi Xiaoqing. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Lao She. 2005. Camel Xiangzi, translated by Shi Xiaoqing. Hong Kong: Chinese University Press. Lao She. 2010. Rickshaw Boy: A Novel, translated by Howard Goldblatt. New York: Harper Perennial. Li Jinfa 李金发。1987.《李金发诗集》Poems of Li Jinfa. Chengdu: Sichuan Wenyi Chubanshe. Manfredi, Paul. 2014. Modern Poetry in China: A Visual-Verbal Dynamic. Amherst, NY: Cambria Press. Plaisance, Christopher A. 2019. “Textual Realities: An Aristotelian Realist Ontology of Textual Entities.” Variants: The Journal for the European Society for Textual Scholarship 14: 23–40. Pines, Yuri. 2006. “Biases and Their Sources: Qin History in the ‘Shiji.’” Oriens Extremus 45: 10–34. Shaughnessy, Edward. 2006. Rewriting Early Chinese Texts. Albany: SUNY Press. So, Richard Jean. 2016. Transpacific Community. New York: Columbia University Press. Stillinger, Jack. 1994. Coleridge and Textual Instability: The Multiple Versions of the Major Poems. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Szymanska, Katya. 2019. “Literary Metatranslations: When Translation Multiples Tell Their Own Story.” Prismatic Translation, edited by Matthew Reynolds, 140–55. Cambridge: Legenda. Venuti, Lawrence. 2011. “The Poet’s Version; or, An ethics of translation.” Translation Studies 4 (2): 230–47. Wang Xiaoni 王小妮. 2014. Something Crosses My Mind, translated by Eleanor Goodman. Brookline, MA: Zephyr Press. Xi Chuan 西川. 2012. Notes on the Mosquito: Selected Poems, translated by Lucas Klein. New York: New Directions. Xi Xi 西西. 2016. Not Written Words, translated by Jennifer Feeley. Brookline, MA: Zephyr Press.

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CHAPTER TWO

Translation, Visibility, Sixiang MICHAEL GIBBS HILL

Many of the contributions to this collection focus on literature—fiction, poetry, drama, essays—in translation. Although I study literary translation and especially the translation of fiction between English and Chinese, and more recently, between Arabic and Chinese, I have spent little time translating what is commonly called, in English, literature. Instead, the work that has found me is the translation of scholarly writings, especially what is called “thought” or sixiang 思想 in Chinese. A translation that better captures the term today is “intellectual writing,” and usually public intellectual writing. Sixiang writing is usually scholarly to some degree and takes up major issues of the day: politics, the economy, culture, and so on. Although we rightly decry the small number of books from around the world that are brought out each year in English translation, we should not be quick to believe a publisher’s claim that a new translation of Chinese intellectual writing is rare or unprecedented. A quick glance at Sebastian Veg’s bibliography of Chinese intellectuals in English (2021) shows a remarkable amount of material published since the 1990s, especially in periodicals. The problem is not that translations are not published, but that these translations rarely find readers outside of Chinese studies. Gloria Davies noted that by the 1990s special issues of major anglophone journals such as Social Text and Critical Inquiry had featured writings by Chinese intellectuals, only to meet “an absence of engagement” and “an exemption from critical review, which is really a polite form of exclusion” (Davies 2001a, 38). With such uncertainty concerning audience, the translation of sixiang writings into English is bound to be uneven. Dedicated individuals or groups of collaborators translate what they find to be of value for different groups of implied readers. For example, the China Heritage website, edited by Geremie Barmé, has played an important role in bringing attention to the work of Tsinghua University professor Xu Zhangrun 许章润 (2018). Other translations, such as Cai Xiang’s Revolution and its Narratives (2016), edited by Rebecca Karl and Xueping Zhong, bring new voices into discussions in English that push back against the widespread condemnation of the “seventeen years” period (1949–1966) and seek a reevaluation of the legacies of the Chinese Revolution. Collective efforts, such as the Reading and Writing the China Dream project, which was initially funded by the Canadian Social Science and Humanities Research Council, took a more systematic approach to the translation of recent public intellectual writing into English, resulting in an excellent collection, Voices from the Chinese Century (Cheek, Ownby, and Fogel 2019) and articles and shorter pieces on the contemporary intellectual scene in the People’s Republic of China (PRC) (Cheek, Ownby, and Fogel 2018a, b). Finally, the PRC state plays a murky role in promoting translation. The juggernaut behind the translation and publication of works by the Chinese New

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Left economist and public intellectual Hu Angang 胡鞍钢 (1953–), for example, appears to have state backing, although it is not clear that these books are widely read.1 The PRC intellectual who has received perhaps the most attention from anglophone publishers and academics is Wang Hui 汪晖 (1959–), who has had six books translated into English since 2000, four published by Harvard University Press and two by Verso. These works have passed through the translation bottleneck and gained a level of engagement that is unusual for any thinker from East Asia. His first book in English, China’s New Order (2003), was cited well beyond the China studies field in writings such as David Harvey’s Brief History of Neoliberalism (2007, 120–51) and Naomi Klein’s The Shock Doctrine (2007, 187–91). Readers on the academic and political left, who were baffled by Deng Xiaoping’s economic and political agenda, found in Wang a critic who could made arguments about China’s Reform and Opening 改革开放 that resonated with Western left critiques of globalization and argued for the relevance and value of socialist politics and policies. Intellectuals associated with the Chinese New Left highlighted the negative effects of rapid development on workers and on the natural world; called for new focus on “state capacity” instead of total marketization of the economy; and defended the importance of radical, participatory democracy that they saw as a legacy of the Chinese Revolution and the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution (Davies 2007, 71–105; Rofel 2012). These positions were repellent to many mainstream PRC thinkers and policymakers who disavowed the Mao era, supported marketization, and sought to curb state power. The term “New Left” 新左 was originally used to tar critics of liberalization as the inheritors of the radical leftism of the Cultural Revolution (Vukovich 2012, 61–5; Zhang Xudong 2008, 82–5). Even as the conditions that created an opening for the Chinese New Left have shifted or even disappeared, the prominence of this group has not waned, despite the fact that Wang Hui’s and others’ turn toward more explicit support of the PRC party-state has led some critics to argue that New Left thinkers have become a statist, even conservative force (Xu Jilin 2018, 20–94). Shu-mei Shih’s complaint that Western Marxists have treated Chinese New Left intellectuals like “Marxist golden boys and girls” and “threw resources at them [and] published their books through venerable university presses” (“Critical Issues in Sinophone Studies” 2019, 187) is more than a gripe about the academic star system in North America and Western Europe: it suggests a growing and poorly understood disconnect between left thought in China and the anglophone world. What made this alignment, or mis-alignment, possible? I am interested in part because I translated China from Empire to Nation-State (Wang 2014), which is an English-language version of the introduction to a much larger work,《现代中国思想的兴起》(The Rise of Modern Chinese Thought) (Wang 2008). The longer work gained significant attention before any portion was translated into English, and China from Empire to Nation-State was reviewed in Times Literary

When I undertook a preliminary survey of full-length books of Chinese thought and public intellectual writing translated into English, I was surprised to find that Hu Angang was, far and away, the person with the most books in English. I counted at least a dozen single-author, co-authored, and edited books attributed to Hu. Some of these works are by highprestige publishers, such as the Brookings Institution (Hu 2011), but many others have been brought out at a rapid clip by Singapore-based Enrich Professional Publishing and by Springer Verlag, for which Hu also edits an open-access series called Understanding Xi Jinping’s Governance. In these latter cases, it appears that the PRC may be outsourcing the work of the Foreign Languages Press to other publishers.

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Supplement and was named an Outstanding Academic Title by Choice.2 Looking beyond awards and publishers’ prestige, I also wonder: what can we learn about reception and appropriation from the text of the translation itself? I search for partial answers by venturing into the very anecdotal territory of book reviews and my own reflections on the translation process, followed by my reading of a broadside against the prominence of the Chinese New Left (and Wang Hui in particular) in anglophone discussions of China. Throughout these discussions, the question of so-called difficult writing plays a prominent role. Difficult writing, or what some call bad writing, usually stands in for theory. It also raises questions about audience: who reads difficult writing, and do these readers, simply by their decision to engage with difficult writing, show themselves to have a particular political orientation? These questions interest me as a translator because the position-taking signaled by difficult writing in North America may not be transposed easily into PRC contexts (or vice versa). The uneven circulation of theoretical language and its encounter with the Maoist language—itself another important theoretical language—ensures that cases of misrecognition, where one kind of difficult writing is taken for another, will happen. As always, problems that surface in the original work take on new meanings in translation, sometimes in ways that allow us to open new forms of dialogue with the source text and its purported sources.

TRANSLATION STYLE AND TRANSLATION When I worked on China from Empire to Nation-State, I worried about the usual problems in a scholarly translation: how to maintain consistent terminology, how to provide context for references that readers might not know, and when to direct readers to existing English translations of sources cited in the original language. I also worried about style more than I had expected I would when I began the project. Wang Hui is known for writing in a so-called translation style (翻译体 or 翻译文体) that does not conform to the values of elegance found in much Chinese-language intellectual writing. It is difficult writing, and for some readers, especially those who disagree with its arguments, it is bad writing. I tried to replicate this style as much as possible in English, especially the long, meandering sentences; a single punctuation mark, the poor semicolon, did much of the work. I also brushed off pleas from the copyeditor to break up long paragraphs or to cut down on repetitive phrasing, because I wanted to bring some of the uncomfortable experience of the original to the English reader. Almost no one noticed. This surprised me, because I expected that China from Empire to NationState would run afoul of long-held expectations that a translation not read like a translation. Lawrence Venuti (1995) showed the prevalence of these standards long ago, and I think they still hold sway over readers, perhaps even more so for a translation from Chinese: making the work accessible is paramount, lest the translator invite even more polite exclusion. I wondered: did I accidentally make the book too readable?

Zhang Yongle (2010) is an example of how Wang Hui’s work could garner attention in left-wing venues outside of Asian studies. (See Hill [2014, 147n2] for a list of reviews and interviews related to The Rise of Modern Chinese Thought.) For the review in TLS, see Monro 2015.

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The one review that did take up the question of style, written by the intellectual historian Peter Zarrow, saw no cause for worry: I think … Western scholars will have relatively little trouble with the prose, for it reflects the original style that might be termed a Chinese dialect version of global pomo (not a thick Lyotardian brogue but the BBC version)—and Wang works as much within English-language scholarship as Chinese. (Zarrow 2015, 265) I do not want to overread Zarrow’s generous review, but I think his comment on “global pomo” or global postmodernist style expresses a widely held sense that Wang Hui’s style performs or imitates the difficult writing found in the anglophone humanities of the 1980s and 1990s. This style animated debates and regularly became a subject of debate itself. Zarrow’s turn of phrase might then lead us to a layered discussion on debates about literary style and the status of intellectuals and their audiences in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries—one that takes into account shifting historical landscapes in the PRC and in anglophone academia and critical circles in North America, Europe, and increasingly, Asia. I think it would be wrong to call Wang’s translation style a straightforward imitation of an already-existing global style or to say that Wang’s style is uniquely out of line with existing standards for good writing. To do so would mean overlooking the many other translation styles that have troubled readers since the waning days of the Qing dynasty (1644–1911). Complaints about the wretched style of translations were common throughout the late nineteenth century (Hill 2013, 31–6), and Lu Xun’s “stiff translations” 硬译 of theoretical works by Kuriyagawa Hakuson 廚川白村 and many others led to debates about style, audience, and the intellectual commitments of difficult language (Chan 2001, 202–11). Although I do not have space to quote or retranslate some of Lu Xun’s stiff translations, I urge readers to look at his version of《苦闷的象征》(Symbols of Anguish) (Kuriyagawa [1924] 1959) to see just how much he pushed the limits of the written language. Since Wang Hui began his career as a Lu Xun scholar, he surely knew these works and the debates they sparked, so it makes more sense to ask what kind of intervention may have been made possible through Wang’s choice to write in his particular translation style. In the 1980s and 1990s, enthusiasm for methods and theories from different places and periods was a key part of intellectual life. For example, the explosion of interest in so-called postmodernist theory following Fredric Jameson’s visit to China in 1985 marked one of many moments when texts and ideas marked as foreign generated attention and enthusiasm (Liu Kang 2018). This is very much the moment when intellectuals drew power and prestige through the work of the “localization of signs” (Barlow 1991, 223–26), a practice that had long continuities with colonial modernity. These developments also touched off many instances of debate about “New Pidgin Scholarship,” “Postisms” 后学, and concerns about theory, interpretive authority, and the relationship between Chinese intellectuals and the rest of the world. This story continues to play out in PRC and Sinophone academia and in Chinese Studies in North America and elsewhere, with many rounds of debate and, from time to time, recriminations about theory, written style, and the need to appeal to broader readerships.3 For overviews, see Davies (2001a); Liu Qingfeng (2001); and Zhang Xudong (2008, 25–101); for discussion of objections to theories and terms related to postmodernism, see Dirlik and Zhang (2000, 9–15); for two essays from this period, see Liu Dong (1995); Zhao (1997).

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This history is where Zarrow seems to locate Wang Hui’s rhetoric and style, and I think some of that background does come through in the translation. What does not emerge as clearly in China from Empire to Nation-State is the dialogue between translation style and the history of modern Chinese literature. Late twentieth-century versions of translation style emerged alongside many changes in reading and writing that took place during the Cultural Revolution and in the Reform era. Li Tuo 李陀 (1939–) mapped out these changes in “Contemporary Literature and the Modern Chinese Language” ([1991] 2015), an important essay that placed Maoist writing style 毛文体 in the history of the many changes in the Chinese language across the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. According to Li, after the Chinese Revolution, Maoist style eventually came to dominate written discourse. Maoist language and Maoist style was unprecedented in the way it “used [its] discursive authority [话语权力] to control people’s thoughts.” In every field, from scholarly work to daily life, it exercised such dominance that all speech became “an endless repetition of synonymous language” 同义语的无休止的重复 (Li Tuo [1991] 2015, 123). In this same essay, Li argued that experimental writings such as so-called Obscure Poetry 朦胧诗 had made important moves to break away from Maoist style and create new spaces for thought and practice of language (124). Li’s discussion of the break from Maoist language influenced how many critics understood poetry and fiction of the 1980s and 1990s. Bei Dao 北岛 (1949–) also gave an account of a translation style that thrived alongside official discourse in journals like《译文》(Translation) that rendered modernist literature into Chinese and, by the end of the 1950s, began to offer “a mature Chinese language style which was totally different from the official discourse” (1993, 62 and 64). In an interview published sixteen years later, Li Tuo returned to the topic of translation style and Maoist language, but did so in reference to intellectual debates and controversies of the 1990s, particularly those between China’s so-called New Left and liberals. Li commented on complaints about the style of writing in the journal《读书》(Reading) under the editorship of Wang Hui and Huang Ping 黄平 and noted that, as early readers of The Rise of Modern Chinese Thought, both he and Lydia Liu objected strongly to Wang Hui’s writing style. In Li’s view, “Wang Hui believed that existing modes of rhetoric in the Chinese language made it difficult to express the full complexity of his ideas (sixiang) in relation to history and society, and preferred to maintain a certain synchronistic structure in the elaboration of each sentence” ([2007] 2015, 244–45). As for readers’ objections that Wang’s language or the language of Reading was incomprehensible 看不懂, Li contended that this charge may have resulted from the threat it posed to established interests. “It reminds me of the attacks on ‘Obscure’ poetry in the early 1980s,” because “at that time the greatest crime pinned on Obscure poetry was that it was ‘incomprehensible’” (243). It’s worth noting that, even though Li Tuo likely shared many of Wang’s political and intellectual positions, he spent more time making a negative case for Wang Hui’s style than he did defending it. By critiquing the attitude of Wang’s critics, Li upholds the need for a space for experimentation between literary style and sixiang writing but refrains from defining what should take up that space. Li Tuo’s assessment of the charge of incomprehensibility resonates with an essay Barbara Johnson wrote on bad academic writing. “It has become commonplace to allow difficult or transgressive writing to authors but not to critics,” wrote Johnson. “Poetic badness and critical obscurity seem very different, but the condemnation of any writer for obscurity is itself colored with moral indignation. ‘Don’t understand!’ becomes an accusation” (Johnson 2003, 160). So, even if we do not draw a direct line between Reading and the Obscure poets, we can note a shared concern: the need for writers and intellectuals to create space away from Maoist style and to borrow, strategically, from other sources without becoming enmeshed in them. It may also be useful to return to Wang Hui’s

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well-known essay “Contemporary Chinese Thought and the Question of Modernity” (1998) for its comments on changes in the habitus of Chinese intellectuals after the watershed year of 1989, which saw not only the Tiananmen Square massacre but also the end of the Soviet Union. Wang argued that in the years following 1989, “under pressure from the harsh environment and through their own choices, a large majority of intellectuals engaged in the humanities and social sciences gave up their 1980s New Enlightenment style and … clearly turned to a more professionalized style.” Those who had identified as intellectuals in the 1980s “were gradually transformed into experts, scholars, and professionals” (1998, 11). This transformation coincided with intellectuals’ move to “abandon the analysis of capital” right at the moment when “capital [was] penetrating to every corner of social and political life” (12). Combined with Li Tuo’s account, Wang Hui’s comments suggest that his approach to writing should be viewed in response to these developments: if “modern Chinese thought embodies [or contains] a reconceptualization of modernity” (15), then it may be through this particular style of language—already in evidence in this essay—that Wang Hui intends to rescue that critique. In my translation of Wang Hui, I was faced with many choices about how to treat his style in English. Rather than smooth out his sentences, I attempted to maintain aspects of the construction of the original writing, even if it meant difficulties in English. This is best demonstrated through an example taken from the opening pages of China from Empire to Nation State: 然而,中国究竟是一个帝国,还是一个国家,以及如何理解中国认同本身,对于检讨中国与现代性 的关系却是一个至关重要的问题:在帝国叙事中,中国被描述为一种非现代的、专制主义的(反民 主的)政治形式,一种与地域广阔的农业文化(非城邦的、商业的或工业的)相关联的生产形态的 组织者,一种多民族的、依赖文化认同的(而非民族和政治认同的)“想象的共同体” 或 “文明”,一 种自我中心的、朝贡体系的(而非形式平等的、条约体制的)世界体系或大陆;上述诸特征不但构 成了中华帝国与欧洲近代国家及其文化的区别,而且也构成了中国与现代性之间的深刻鸿沟。 (Wang 2008, 2) Essential questions remain, however: whether China really is an empire or a nation-state, how to understand Chinese identity in and of itself, and how to determine the relationship between China and modernity. In the narrative of China as empire, China is described as a nonmodern, despotic (antidemocratic) political form; as an agrarian (nonurban, noncommercial, or nonindustrial) ecology of production spread out over a vast geographical space; as a multiethnic “imagined community” or “civilisation” that relies on cultural identity and identification (and not national and political identity); and as a world system or landmass that sees itself as at the centre of a tribute system (and not subject to formal equality or a treaty system). These traits have defined not only the differences between the Chinese empire and early modern European nations and other cultures, but also the vast gulf between China and modernity itself. (Wang 2014, 3–4) What constitutes “translation style” in this writing? Three aspects of this passage immediately come to mind. Even without knowing Chinese, a reader can follow the punctuation to see that this is an extremely long sentence—257 characters in total. After that, we notice a repetitive but thorough and probing argumentative style and the use of certain grammatical constructions that, although correct, still sound or feel in Chinese as if they are from a translation. The best example for this

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last point is the repeated, almost cascading use of nominalizing de 的 phrases, namely, “nonurban, noncommercial, or nonindustrial” 非城邦的、商业的或工业的, which circle around aspects of the meaning of “agrarian”: to my eye, this phrasing builds up the synchronistic structure that Li Tuo referred to. The translator has some choices in how to deal with this type of writing. In this case, I made more concessions than I would have liked. Although I was able to preserve the long list in the middle of the sentence that describes views of China as an empire, it seemed impossible to avoid breaking my English rendition of Wang Hui’s 257 characters into three sentences. (This was disappointing to me, because in many other cases, I was able to preserve the full sentence length.) Semicolons also did the work of holding together the long enumerations in the second sentence. Here and in other places in the translation I did not translate the classifier yizhong 一种, “a type of” or “a kind of,” which, when reproduced in English, makes the argument look more tentative than what I see in Chinese. In another passage, I managed to stay closer to the source’s style. Here is the original text: 追随这一假说的学者从不同的方面对公元十世纪前后发生在北宋王朝的一系列变化进行细致 的观察和综合的分析,最终指认出一系列构成“东洋的近世”的社会的和文化的特征:贵族制的瓦 解和平民文化(包括乡村地主制)的形成,具有世界史意义的长途贸易的发展和多边的民族意识 的形成,以皇权、发达的官僚制和新的军事制度为骨干的国家结构,城市经济和文化的兴起,以 及与上述发展相配合的世俗性儒学和“国民主义”的发展,等等。 (Wang 2008, 5–6) The translator must deal with yet another nearly paragraph-length sentence, this time 196 characters. Here is my version in English: Working along the lines of this argument, a number of scholars have conducted detailed investigations and broad, synthetic analyses to identify a number of social and cultural characteristics of an “East Asian modern age”: the dissolution of the system of hereditary aristocracy and the formation of a folk culture (including the rural landlord system); the development of long-distance trade and the formation of an awareness of the existence of multiple nationalities, two developments with world historical significance; a national structure buttressed by the power of the imperial throne, a well-developed bureaucratic system, and a new military system; the rise of urban economies and cultures; and the development of a secular Confucianism and “national ideology” that complemented the aforementioned developments. (Wang 2014, 7–8) Here I was able to keep the translation as one sentence. If I were to work a little bit on behalf of the implied reader, or on behalf of my particular imagined version of standard US written English, then I would, at the very least, divide the source sentence into two English sentences and seek to reduce the wordiness that comes from the careful thoroughness of phrasing. Such revisions would make the text more approachable and perhaps more convincing to some English readers, but they would also render the rhetorical approach of Wang Hui’s writing invisible. These choices at the sentence level should lead us back to the point about “global pomo”: Zarrow asserts that Wang Hui’s writing might be called “a dialect version of global pomo,” but

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I wonder if it is my writing that’s producing that response. Rather than reproduce the effect of Wang Hui’s translation style in English, my rendition may not challenge readers much at all. The style might be too familiar, so much so that this BBC version of global pomo simply reinforces the unequal relationship between “Western theory” and Chinese intellectual discourses at the same moment that it establishes and represents commensurability between Wang Hui’s writing and the English language. The stylistic choices of the translator can make the original appear derivative of styles and approaches that are already well established in the target language. By the mid-2010s, when the translation was completed, this phenomenon would be made possible in part because the type of academic English found in China from Empire to Nation-State no longer stands out as translation style. This was not so much the case in the 1990s, when the problems of theory/style/translation often surfaced in debates about difficult or bad writing. Johnson noted how a type of writing in English that used untranslated or untranslatable words—Aufhebung, différance, and the like—could irritate readers and even drive them away: “take your Nachträglichkeit and shove it!” (2003, 161). In a less irreverent vein, Karen Bennett has suggested that foreignizing or stiff translations of works by Michel Foucault “may have backfired” (2017: 228), making a writer who was celebrated for masterful style in French into someone known in English for needless difficulty. More generally, it is recognized by a number of scholars that the selective adaptation of styles of German writing in French later made their way into English (Klein 2018, 441). This style no longer wields the power to unsettle and therefore may not be able to capture the effects of Wang Hui’s own approach to writing The Rise of Modern Chinese Thought. In any case, I should not attribute too much power to my choices in translation. Once we move beyond familiar arguments about whether difficult writing repels or draws in readers, it is clear that some readers will engage with the work in ways that surprise us. We see this in a review of China from Empire to Nation-State by the eminent historian of political theory J. G. A. Pocock (1924–), who expresses deep disagreement with Wang Hui and yet deploys some of the book’s translated and transliterated terminology in his counterarguments. Pocock rejects the book’s fundamental arguments about the empire/nation-state binary (帝国/国家二元论) in European historiography as far too reliant on the Hegelian idea of the state. He also sees scant reason for Wang Hui to link this idea of the nation-state to what Wang calls Universal Principle (gongli 公理). In Pocock’s view, the empire/nation-state binary oversimplifies European intellectual history and politics: The Euro-American reader … sees the nation-state order presented in 1648–1713 as early modern rather than modern: the product of a history post-Roman and Christian, in which the monarchies and city-states west of the Holy Roman Empire—the French and Anglo-British in particular—were formed by and in a heterogeneity of histories, ecclesiastical and jurisdictional, Roman and barbaric, spiritual and secular, presenting a diversity of narratives and therefore—if the term may be used in the plural—of li. There were universal principles, but these existed to dissent from those of empire and state. (Pocock 2016, 329) Pocock’s use of li 理, untranslated, was jarring to me as an anglophone reader, even as it advances his argument against Wang Hui’s genealogy of Western intellectual history and political philosophy. (It is also quite adept: li on its own does refer to “principle” and “reason,” singular and plural.) In his rejection of Wang Hui’s arguments about Western models of empire and nation-state, Pocock

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does more than most to make the question of translation visible and to show what is at stake when different sets of terminologies that may not be interchangeable encounter one another. Pocock’s review, which disagrees so fundamentally with China from Empire to Nation-State, is perhaps the most thoughtful when it comes to thinking in translation—precisely because it defamiliarizes the language of the discussion by experimenting with a translation style of its own.

BREAKTHROUGH AND BACKLASH When critical writings from an underrepresented or, as Davies notes, under-engaged place start to achieve wider circulation, some rethinking and even rejection is likely and probably healthy. We see one case of the ongoing reevaluation of the Chinese New Left in a broadside against an essay on Wang Hui by writer and theorist McKenzie Wark that appeared on the Verso Books blog in 2017. Wark’s essay and the response from New Bloom founder and editor Brian Hioe raise important questions about how anglophone readers use translations, especially when they appear to be looking for interlocutors from faraway places. Difficult language or theoretical language also stays in the spotlight—as an object of suspicion. Wark’s essay was billed as an “additional chapter” to her recently published book, General Intellects: Twenty-One Thinkers for the Twenty-First Century (2017). Although Wark offered a close and generous reading of Wang Hui’s China’s Twentieth Century (2016), the lack of attention paid to any of Wang’s other works in English makes the essay read like an expanded book review that happens to be about another title in Verso’s list. Hioe, who was not hindered by his confusion about whether Wark’s essay was a part of General Intellects, used the occasion to blast both Wang Hui and Wark, holding them up as an example of an unholy alliance between the Chinese New Left and uninformed Western leftism. Hioe argued that the piece was a sign that “western academic leftists are always on the lookout for individuals to see as equivalents of themselves in western contexts.” According to Hioe, East Asian thinkers such as Wang Hui, Kōjin Karatani 柄谷行人 (1941–), and Hiroki Azuma 東浩紀 (1971–) are “promoted by western academic leftists because they use similar theoretical vocabulary to western leftists that allows them to be read as analogues to western leftists but are sufficiently ‘native’ that they can be held up as genuinely and authentically of these non-western contexts” (Hioe 2017).4 Hioe argues that ideas Wark ordinarily would reject, such as Wang Hui’s justifications, put forward in many publications, for the statism of the Chinese Communist Party get a pass “because Wang can phrase what are fundamentally statist and nationalist concepts in the language of western theory, so as to seem as someone on the same page as western leftists as Wark” (Hioe 2017). Hioe’s essay raises questions about engagement and exemption from critique that go back to Davies’s discussion of the late 1990s and early 2000s. How does the publishing industry, including an established left-oriented publisher like Verso, shape how anglophone readers understand China? Does the promotion or over-promotion of certain writers by publishers warp readers’ perspective? Why do some thinkers gain traction with audiences who read them in translation, but not others? Although many liberal and left-liberal critics from the PRC, such as Xu Jilin 许纪霖 (1957–), Qin 4 Hioe wrote that Wang Hui, Karatani, and Azuma were included in General Intellects, but Wark’s essay on Wang Hui was an online-only post and did not appear in the published edition of the book.

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Hui 秦晖 (1953–), and Ge Zhaoguang 葛兆光 (1950–), have been published in English, they have yet to garner the attention given to—or, in Hioe’s view, lavished on—thinkers like Wang Hui. Hioe writes a strong polemic, and his essay makes convincing arguments against what the Chinese New Left has become, especially since Xi Jinping took office. Hioe also seems to blame Wark for not holding Wang Hui accountable for views on events that happened after the pieces Wark read in translation were written (most of China’s Twentieth Century was written before 2015). This amounts to blaming Wark for not reading Chinese or for being a bad, out-of-date China-watcher, though Wark did not pretend to such knowledge or expertise. This line of argument also misses the effects of any lag created by translation. Wang’s comments on Xinjiang, for example, come from an essay that was first published in 2011.5 As I write this chapter in 2021, his words would draw censure from all sides: the criticism of Han chauvinism and language-based disadvantages faced by Uyghurs likely would be deemed too sensitive to be published in the PRC today, and many readers outside of the PRC would see the same argument as tepid to the point of complicity with the political repression and mass incarceration of Uyghurs and other Muslims. Much of the problem seems to revolve around what we understand to be theoretical language, especially in English translation, and maybe even global pomo. In Hioe’s view, theoretical language and vocabulary can mask objectionable ideas and hoodwink readers, a fact Wang Hui counts on to make Western leftists stan nearly anything he puts to paper. This argument resonates with the kind of long-standing apprehension about difficult writing seen throughout the 1990s and 2000s. In the North American context, complaints about theoretical language quickly lead to accusations of obscurantism that “goes hand in hand with charges of professional irresponsibility, neglect of political realities, and even collaboration with evil” (Culler and Lamb 2003, 4). Hioe makes just these charges, but the crucial difference is that, in his version of the story, theoretical language takes on even greater power in translation. I think it might be useful to return to Wark’s General Intellects. Wark argues that public intellectuals have disappeared, at least in the West: “There is no more Sartre nor de Beauvoir, no more Pasolini, no more James Baldwin,” in part because of the way intellectual labor and knowledge work have been integrated into the production process under capitalism (Wark 2017a, 1). Wark seeks, then, to introduce the reader to important general intellects, “people who are mostly employed as academics, and mostly pretty successful at that, but who try through their work to address more general problems about the state of the world today” (2). The changes in the role of the intellectual and public intellectuals have a very different history in the PRC, of course, beginning at least with the creation of intellectuals as a particular class after the Chinese Revolution, as Eddy U (2019) has shown. When these different histories meet in debates about global pomo, a number of problems surface in the same place: the visibility of the translated language (and the translator), the visibility of non-anglophone, non-Western writings in a linguistically insular anglophone intellectual world, and the sometimes misrecognized convergence and divergence of the agendas of left politics. These questions matter in making sixiang writing and its commitments visible in translation, and in my own practice, I will continue to experiment with ways to make that visibility possible. Wang (2016, 266–72). The original essay, 《再问:什么的平等?》(Equality of What?), is published as two chapters in China’s Twentieth Century, titled “Three Concepts of Equality” (2016, 222–51) and “The Equality of All Things and TransSystemic Society” (2016, 252–83).

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REFERENCES Barlow, Tani. 1991. “Zhishifenzi [Chinese Intellectuals] and Power,” Dialectical Anthropology 16 (3/4): 209–32. Bei Dao. 1993. “Translation Style: A Quiet Revolution,” translated by Wei Deng. In Inside Out: Modernism and Postmodernism in Chinese Literary Culture, edited by Wendy Larson and Anne Wedell-Wedellsborg, 60–4, Aarhus: Aarhus University Press. Bennett, Karen. 2017. “Foucault in English: The Politics of Exoticization.” Target 29 (2): 222–43. Cai, Xiang. 2016. Revolution and Its Narratives: China’s Socialist Literary and Cultural Imaginaries, 1949–1966, edited and translated by R. Karl and Zhong Xueping. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Chan, Leo Tak-hung. 2001. “What’s Modern in Chinese Translation Theory? Lu Xun and the Debates on Literalism and Foreignization in the May Fourth Period.” TTR: Traduction, Terminologie, Rédaction 14 (2): 195–223. Cheek, Timothy, David Ownby, and Joshua Fogel. 2018a. “Mapping the Intellectual Public Sphere in China Today.” China Information 32 (1): 107–20. Cheek, Timothy, David Ownby, and Joshua Fogel. 2018b. “Research Dialogues on the Intellectual Public Sphere in China (Part II).” China Information 32 (2): 293. Cheek, Timothy, David Ownby, and Joshua Fogel, eds. 2019. Voices from the Chinese Century: Public Intellectual Debate from Contemporary China. New York: Columbia University Press. “Critical Issues in Sinophone Studies: A Dialogue between Shu-mei Shih and Kim Tong Tee, Moderated by Yu-cheng Lee.” 2019. Concentric: Literary and Cultural Studies 45 (3): 171–93. Culler, Jonathan, and Kevin Lamb, eds. 2003. Just Being Difficult? Academic Writing in the Public Arena. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Davies, Gloria. 2001a. “Self-Made Maps of Chinese Intellectuality.” In Voicing Concerns: Contemporary Chinese Critical Inquiry, edited by Gloria Davies, 17–46. New York: Rowman & Littlefield. Davies, Gloria. 2001b. Voicing Concerns: Contemporary Chinese Critical Inquiry. New York: Rowman & Littlefield. Davies, Gloria. 2007. Worrying about China: The Language of Chinese Critical Inquiry. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Dirlik, Arif, and Xudong Zhang. 2000. “Introduction: Postmodernism and China.” In Postmodern and China, edited by Arif Dirlik and Xudong Zhang, 1–20. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Harvey, David. 2007. A Brief History of Neoliberalism. New York: Oxford University Press. Hill, Michael Gibbs. 2013. Lin Shu, Inc.: Translation and the Making of Modern Chinese Culture. New York: Oxford University Press. Hill, Michael Gibbs. 2014. “Translator’s Introduction.” In China from Empire to Nation-State, by Wang Hui, translated by Michael Gibbs Hill, vii–xiii. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Hioe, Brian. 2017. “McKenzie Wark’s Take on Wang Hui and Leftist Orientalism.” New Bloom, August 23. Available online: https://newbloommag.net/2017/08/23/wark-wang-left-orientalism/ (accessed February 22, 2021). Hu, Angang. 2011. China in 2020: A New Type of Superpower. Washington, DC: Brookings Institution Press. Johnson, Barbara. 2003. “Bad Writing.” In Just Being Difficult? Academic Writing in the Public Arena, edited by Jonathan Culler and Kevin Lamb, 157–68. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Klein, Naomi. 2007. The Shock Doctrine: The Rise of Disaster Capitalism. New York: Metropolitan Books. Klein, Lucas. 2018. “Figures of Configuration.” Symplokē 26 (1–2): 439–41. Kuriyagawa Hakuson 廚川白村 [1924] 1959.《苦闷的象征》[Symbols of Anguish], translated by Lu Xun 鲁迅. In《鲁迅译文集》[Collected Translations by Lu Xun], vol. 3. Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe. Li Tuo 李陀. [1991] 2015.《现代汉语与当代文学》[Contemporary Literature and the Modern Chinese Language]. In 《雪崩何处》[After the Avalanche], by Li Tuo, 115–17. Beijing: China Citic Press. Li Tuo 李陀. [2007] 2015.《九十年代的分歧到底在哪里》[What Were the Real Points of Disagreement in the Nineties?]. In 《雪崩何处》[After the Avalanche], by Li Tuo, 237–53. Beijing: China Citic Press.

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Liu Dong 刘东. 1995.《警惕人为的洋泾浜学风》[Beware “Designer Pidgin Scholarship”]. 《二十一世纪》 [Twenty-First Century] 32 (December): 4–13. Liu Kang. 2018. “A (Meta)commentary on Western Literary Theories in China: The Case of Jameson and Chinese Jamesonianism.” Modern Language Quarterly 79 (3): 323–40. Liu Qingfeng. 2001. “The Topography of Intellectual Culture in 1990s Mainland China: A Survey,” translated by Gloria Davies. In Voicing Concerns: Contemporary Chinese Critical Inquiry, edited by Gloria Davies, 47–70. New York: Rowman & Littlefield. Monro, Alex. 2015. “From the Beginning.” TLS: Times Literary Supplement, September 4. Available online: https://www.the-tls.co.uk/articles/from-the-beginning/ (accessed March 1, 2021). Pocock, J. G. A. 2016. “Chinese Historicity” (Review of China from Empire to Nation-State). Common Knowledge 22 (2): 327–330. Rofel, Lisa. 2012. “The Geopolitics of the New Left in China.” In China and New Left Visions: Political and Cultural Interventions, edited by Ban Wang and Jie Lu, 43–60. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books. U, Eddy. 2019. Creating the Intellectual: Chinese Communism and the Rise of a Classification. Berkeley: University of California Press. Veg, Sebastian. 2021. “Bibliography of Chinese Intellectuals in English.” Available online: https:// vegsebastian.wordpress.com/research-projects/bibliography-of-chinese-intellectuals-in-english/ (accessed March 3, 2021). Venuti, Lawrence. 1995. The Translator’s Invisibility. New York: Routledge. Vukovich, Daniel F. 2012. “The Battle for Chinese Discourse and the Rise of the New Left: Toward a Postcolonial Politics of Knowledge.” In China and New Left Visions: Political and Cultural Interventions, edited by Ban Wang and Jie Lu, 61–80. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books. Wang Hui 汪晖. 1998. “Contemporary Chinese Thought and the Question of Modernity,” translated by Rebecca Karl. Social Text 16 (2): 9–44. Wang Hui 汪晖. 2008.《现代中国思想的兴起》[The Rise of Modern Chinese thought], 2nd edn. Beijing: Sanlian shudian. Wang Hui 汪晖. 2014. China from Empire to Nation-State, translated by Michael Gibbs Hill. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Wang Hui 汪晖. 2016. China’s Twentieth Century: Revolution, Retreat, and the Road to Equality, edited by Saul Thomas. New York: Verso. Wark, McKenzie. 2017a. General Intellects: Twenty-One Thinkers for the Twenty-First Century. New York: Verso. Wark, McKenzie. 2017b. “Wang Hui on China’s Twentieth Century.” Verso, August 8. Available online: https://www.versobooks.com/blogs/3345-wang-hui-on-china-s-twentieth-century (accessed February 1, 2021). Xu Jilin. 2018. Rethinking China’s Rise: A Liberal Critique, edited and translated by David Ownby. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Xu Zhangrun. 2018. “Imminent Fears, Immediate Hopes: A Beijing Jeremiad,” translated with commentary by Geremie R. Barmé. China Heritage, August 9. Available online: http://chinaheritage.net/journal/ imminent-fears-immediate-hopes-a-beijing-jeremiad/ (accessed January 28, 2021). Zarrow, Peter. 2015. “China from Empire to Nation-State by Wang Hui (review).” Twentieth-Century China 40 (3): 263–65. Zhang, Xudong. 2008. Postsocialism and Cultural Politics: China in the Last Decade of the Twentieth Century. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Zhang, Yongle. 2010. “The Future of the Past: On Wang Hui’s Rise of Modern Chinese Thought.” New Left Review 62 (March–April): 47–83. Zhao, Henry Y. H. 1997. “Post-Isms and Chinese New Conservatism.” New Literary History 28: 31–44.

CHAPTER THREE

A Song not for Dancing: Translation, Adaptation, and Poetics in Soviet, Taiwanese, and Mainland Chinese Rock Music of the 1980s HSIANG-YIN SASHA CHEN

This chapter provides a comparative analysis of problems of translation, adaptation, and poetics in the development of Soviet, Taiwanese, and Chinese rock music of the 1980s. The first section investigates the Russian term “rock poetry” and shows how it relates to the historical movement, literary tradition, and cultural differences generated by the communist system in the Soviet Union in the 1980s. The second section articulates how certain ideological similarities between the Stalinist legacy and the political environment of Taiwan simultaneously interfered with strategies for the writing and translation of rock or pop songs as poems in Taiwan. The final section further demonstrates how the “authenticity” of the proletarian “self” of rock musicians, such as Viktor Tsoi Виктор Цой (1962–1990) and Cui Jian 崔健 (1961–), evolved amid the social transformation that occurred in the face of rising capitalism and commercialism. Such comparative analysis of rock and lyrical works enables a re-reading and scrutiny of the place of rock music in RussianSoviet, Taiwanese, and Chinese cultures and the relationship among musicians, audiences, and critics under the social transitions of the 1980s.

TRANSLATION AND ASSIMILATION OF WESTERN ROCK MUSIC IN RUSSIAN POETRY DURING PERESTROIKA It is noteworthy that the controversial and contradictory term “rock poetry” (рок поэзия) was gradually acknowledged and shaped among Soviet Russian poets, songwriters, rockers, critics, and fans between the period of thaw and the breakdown of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR). The term became more stably employed after 2001, when Russian academics at the Tver State University first included Russian rock as part of Russian literary “high culture” (Domanskii 2001). A few scholars thus suggest that in the Soviet Union the tradition of approaching rock

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lyrics as a form of poetry has held a firm grip on research on rock since before perestroika, mainly because “Russian rock critics and writers underline the central position and special qualities of Russian rock lyrics and their priority over the music” (Steinholt 2003, 90). Ridding a song of its words, as Russians often say, is impossible (80–108).1 With the breakdown of the USSR, not a few Western researchers came to believe that omnipotent Anglo-American rock music penetrated the Iron Curtain in the mid-1960s, and the influence of the Beatles on Soviet youth prevailed enough to rock the Soviet regime (see, for example, Leslie Woodhead’s 2009 documentary and 2013 book How the Beatles Rocked the Kremlin). Holding such a viewpoint would easily lead people to treat Soviet rock music as translated, adapted, and imported goods. Indeed, translations of Anglo-American rock songs, in particular by the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, and Bob Dylan, had occupied the majority of the Soviet underground market from the second half of the 1960s to the opening years of the 1980s. Nonetheless, particularly after the establishment of the Leningrad Rock Club at the beginning of the 1980s, the more authenticity Russian musicians sought, the more localized and culturally diverse Soviet rock songs became. Steinholt (2003) provides several literary and sociohistorical reasons to argue why Russian rock should be regarded as a literary form of poetry and treated as a local product of Soviet society. His study pinpoints that Russian rock makes use of traditional poetics and cultural roots rather than simply being a mimicry or variation of Western rock music. Apart from the fundamental difference that Russian rock is more romantically oriented and promotes strong notions of authenticity without the interference of marketing and commercial distribution networks, Steinholt demonstrates how the Russian new wave contrasted to that of New York and the United Kingdom in the 1980s. Firstly, the mode of Russian rock is tightly bound to the tradition of storytelling in folksong classics such as “The Black Raven”; this is a genre that is listened to and sung, but not danced to. It is hard to ignore the fact that dancing at concerts or gigs was banned in the Soviet Union until 1987, and that rock hardly existed there until the mid-1980s. It is therefore not a surprise that a music journalist and former member of the Leningrad Rock Club Council, Andrei Burlaka, comments: Before rock music started sounding through the media, the song as a means of communication was crucial to songwriters and bands. Songs were their way of communicating their thoughts, values, tastes and ideas- what books, poets and musicians they admired and so on. (quoted in Steinholt 2003, 96) Synthesizing most of the Russian studies of Russian rock, Steinholt finds that it has a strong tendency toward focused lyrics clearly dictating the meaning of the music. That is, Russian rock emphasizes the significance of spirituality (духовность), which stems from a Russian hippie understanding of rock. Such spirituality is also linked to romantic notions of authenticity; for example, rock journalist Aleksandr Starcev indicates that Russian rock is always an art form and as such should not submit to the conjuncture of the moment but deal with universal human values (Zhitinskii 1990, quoted in Steinholt 2003, 98). What is more, in terms of the authenticity of poetry, the bardic tradition (бардовская песня), also known as the “author’s song” (авторская песня), is influential on the development and creation

1

A Russian saying: “Из песни слова не выкинеш,” translated by Steinholt (2003).

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of Russian rock. This lyrical genre performed by guitar-playing poets, most famously Galich, Okhudzhava, and Vysotskii, treated themes such as religious faith or love for the motherland, and the problems of everyday life in the postwar Soviet Union after Stalin’s death. The romantic and lyrical trend of these literary themes associated with religion, spirituality, and civic awakening was later utilized in Russian underground rock. The acknowledgment of the role of poets and lyrical folk prevailed among rock producers, intellectual critics, and over very few media until the end of the 1980s. Unlike performers of the Anglo-American new wave, their Russian counterparts did not get much media coverage, so the utilitarianism of lyrics and the social function of the poetic tradition both played a more active part in conveying information from band to audience. It is paradoxical that marginalized “amateurs,” namely, Russian rock musicians, utilized every possible means to legitimize rock as a worthy part of official culture alongside the “serious arts” and in contrast to the counterculture of Western rock or commercialized pop music (Steinholt 2003, 105). For that reason, they skillfully avoided the possible foul of Soviet censorship and selected safer literary themes, for instance, asexual love or spirituality, to fit in with Soviet political correctness. Meanwhile, they aspired to gain public exposure and to enter the Soviet media and mainstream. As Steinholt suggests, the conceptualization of Soviet and Russian “rock poetry” lasted until 1995 when more alternatives, such as profane rock or pop-rock mainstream, became marketable and commercialized (105).

FROM RUSSIA WITH LOVE? IDEOLOGICAL PARALLELS TO THE STALINIST LEGACY IN TAIWAN The plentiful investigations of Russian rock shed light on the gravity of cultural differences, and it is meaningful to scrutinize texts of songs in the Russian “rock poetry” genre (for example, Domanskii 2001; Steinholt 2003; Beumers 2005; McMichael 2005; Kalgin 2019, 2021). Based on and inspired by the research on Soviet rock, this chapter will go further, examining the early developments of Taiwanese and Chinese rock and attempting to raise more questions. According to Steinholt, most of the cultural differences between Anglo-American and Russian rock caused by the ideological disparities between democratic and totalitarian systems during the Cold War pertain to the social and literary value of individual and collective consciousness, respectively. If it is true that the cultural differences are mainly the result of the social and political systems, and that these stimulate variegated and localized developments of rock and pop, are there similarities or nuances that can be found among the communist or socialist countries? Furthermore, would these similarities be altered, or would they remain in the wake of the social transformations of these countries as time goes by? Regardless of the regnant capitalism and commercialism in China after the policy of reforms and opening up began in the late 1970s, it is widely accepted that the People’s Republic of China (PRC) is a country ruled by the Chinese Communist Party (CCP), and it is frequently a subject of comparison with the Soviet Union. This section, however, will begin to explain why the development of Taiwanese rock music is a comparable and remarkable instance that demonstrates how totalitarian and democratic systems have interacted and influenced the notion of rock and the birth of rock musicians. Although

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nowadays Taiwan is widely regarded as a democratic country and a society that embraces freedom and encourages cultural diversity, between the Second World War and 1987 the Taiwanese regime was under the severe control of the Republic of China Armed Forces of the Kuomintangled government. This historical period is also known as martial law in Taiwan, and during it the so-called Kuomintang-led government was in fact mastered by Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek 蔣介石 and his son Chiang Ching-kuo 蔣經國. Only when secret files of the Comintern were released after the breakdown of the USSR did more and more scholars become aware that Chiang Kai-shek had acquired substantial military and financial support from the Soviet Union. Not many Chinese people know that he was even entitled the “Red General” in Anglo-American newspapers before 1927. However, for the reason that the Kuomintang-led government had been politically opposed to the communist USSR and China throughout the Cold War, it is very easy to ignore that Chiang Kai-shek’s son Chiang Ching-kuo, also known as Nikolai Vladimirovich Elizarov Николай Владимирович Елизаров in Russian, had been educated, lived, and “reformed” in the Soviet Union under Stalinism for more than a decade. He was a member of Komsomol in the Soviet Union, a classmate of the Chinese communist leader Deng Xiaoping 鄧小平, and once had been an enthusiastic Trotskyite. Moreover, because of the anti-Soviet political propaganda during the period of martial law it was easy to overlook the fact that President Chiang Ching-kuo had a Russian wife and children of Sino-Russian mixed blood. Nevertheless, it is not surprising that the well-educated Red Guard Chiang Ching-kuo was inclined to believe in Stalinist communism rather than liberalist democracy; he grafted almost every twig of the Soviet system onto that of Taiwan to control Taiwanese society, including the literary policies, censorship, and intelligence organizations, namely, the Taiwanese version of the KGB, albeit that his political manifesto was counter-communism. The Chiangs’ father-and-son sovereignty during the period of martial law had constructed a Taiwan where abundant patriotic and military songs were frequently sung in everyday life, creating a resemblance to Soviet society. Similarly, due to the ban on dance and the severe surveillance at concerts and gigs in Taiwan, it was almost impossible that songs were written purely for dance or pleasure. In the face of literary censorship and publishing regulations, words played an extremely weighty role in song composition until 1987. Although the Stalinist system camouflaged in Free China was sponsored by the Kuomintang in Taiwan, it is also noteworthy that a cultural revolution of the scale of the one that took place in China never occurred in the Soviet Union or Taiwan. The narrative and storytelling modes of traditional lyrics and poetics have therefore remained in these two areas. Themes such as traditional spirituality, bardic self-expression, the desire for inner freedom, and asexual love are all easily found in Soviet and Taiwanese rock songs. There are historical and environmental similarities that establish the connection between Soviet and Taiwanese rock music and make them comparable. Despite these systematic similarities in the Soviet Union and Taiwan, it is significant that the US military was deployed in the latter between 1950 and 1979, and the influence of American popular culture, for instance, folk songs, disco, rock and pop, was evident within Taiwanese society. Commercial products of American popular culture in Taiwan were not regarded as bootlegs as they were in the Soviet Union, but they provided those intellectuals who were bilingual, particularly on university campuses, with an opportunity to absorb, imitate, and translate them into Chinese versions.

A SONG NOT FOR DANCING 43

Full of sexual indications, ABBA’s famous 1979 disco song “Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight)” may be taken as an instance. It was soon adapted under the Chinese title《惱人的秋風》(Annoying Wind in the Autumn) and sung by Taiwanese pop singer Frankie Kao 高凌風 (1950–2014). The original text of the English song was reworded with romantic sentiment closer to traditional and spiritual Chinese lyrics, thus avoiding literary censorship for any sexual associations. The imperative phrase of ardent sexual desire “Gimme!” is transcribed as a euphemism and personification of autumn wind 風兒, which is asked for an explanation of why it takes the beloved girl away. The symbol of the autumn wind is often seen in classical Chinese poetry, thus it is one of the strategies used in the process of translation and adaptation to satisfy the legerdemain bureaucrats of literary and media censorship. Paradoxically, when ABBA’s original disco hit was performed on a TV show in 1981, while the melody and tempo remained intact, the Chinese subtitles presented a lyrical and poetic translation. Meanwhile, Frankie Kao was dressed like Elvis Presley to sing and swing on the screen, but most discos in Taiwan remained illegal and underground. It is interesting that the peculiar combination of European disco, American rock and roll, and Chinese lyrics mirrored compromises and contradictions between transcultural practices in entertainment and the social transformation from the centralization of state power to the liberalization of individualism at the beginning of the 1980s. However, the success of shaping Frankie Kao as more or less like a Western pop star represented the powerful impact of Western popular culture in the “Soviet” system operating in Taiwan in the 1970s and 1980s. Although dancing in public was banned and secret police officers might keep an eye on every possible assembly, several occasions or places relating to American or international relationships were privileged to be granted licenses for discos, entertainment, and dancing clubs; examples are the American Military Club and the Grand Hotel in Taipei. It is not a surprise that before the end of martial law in the 1980s Western rock and pop music were usually performed in illegal and underground clubs, discos, cafés, and westernized restaurants. Similar situations—the more things are banned, the more attention people pay—occurred in both the late Soviet Union and China. As we have stated, the target audiences of Western rock music in Taiwan were mainly bilingual intellectuals on university campuses, and these were usually occidentalists and imitators of the American folk music revival. Bob Dylan and Joan Baez were the most influential American folk singers at Taiwanese universities, and they triggered the prevailing campus folk 校園民歌 movement in the 1970s and 1980s. Taking two of the most emblematic figures within this movement as examples, Luo Dayou 羅大佑 (1954–) and Qi Yu 齊豫 (1957–), respectively, represent the male and female singers of Taiwanese campus folk, which usually either presents a lyrical and poetic spirituality, or narrates a story of nostalgia, pure love in childhood, the freedom of the hobo, and so on. These folk songs are performed over acoustic guitars, a harmonica, and occasionally whistling, and they are the archetype of early Taiwanese rock poetry. It was also very common for Taiwanese campus folk or pop musicians at that time to directly use traditional or contemporary poems of Platonic love to create a lyrical tone and sentimental mood or to embody a romantic imagination. The pioneer of Taiwanese rock, Xue Yue 薛岳 (1954–1990), debuted after the campus folk movement but before the end of the period of martial law. As a part-time drummer at the American Military Club and a worker in the team of Frankie Kao, Xue Yue sensed that the lack of localized

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rock in Mandarin-speaking markets (including Chinese communities in North America, Hong Kong, and Southeast Asia) in the first half of the 1980s was a good opportunity for him to contrast his rocker style to the superstars of folk and pop. In Xue’s first album《搖滾舞台》(The Stage of Rock and Roll; 1984), released in 1984, the first and second songs encourage people to dance and swing as much as they can and enjoy rock and roll itself; in《超級巨星》(Superstar) he sings and yells that “we don’t need a superstar.” That means, we need rock and roll to “chase our aspiration” and use the imagination the music brings to us to “be far away from the world [authoritarianism under Chiang’s regime],” so “no one can stop me [i.e., the individual]/no one can restrain me/no one can abandon me/no one can change rock and roll.” It is also very clear that the type of music, rock and roll, was portrayed as the embodiment of the individual in the face of social and political transition in Taiwan in the 1980s. It is also clear that rock and roll, as a type of music, was portrayed as the embodiment of the individual in the face of social and political transition in Taiwan in the 1980s. The reason why the protagonist cannot be far away from the world and the place he or she owns is because of the limitations placed on freedom of movement under martial law. Xue Yue’s suggestion of enjoying the pure enchantment of rock and roll rather than chasing a rock and roll star under Chiang’s regime is extraordinary because that would be sinuously associated with the needlessness of both the strong leadership of Chiang’s regime and the superpowers during the Cold War. In the song《搖滾舞台》, Xue also summons his fans to construct a stage of rock and roll analogous to life together with him. Although the stage is dark and full of failures, rockers (you and me) have no right to escape from their life, whether they like or dislike it. All the rockers expect is to hear a crowd’s cheering spreading along with the rhythm of rock and roll when the long curtain, implying the Iron Curtain, of the life stage under martial law is revealed. Apparently, Xue’s self-professed existence as a rocker who is in it for neither “the money” nor “the show” is entirely different from that of most of his Anglo-American and Russian counterparts who profess, for example, “So you want to be a Rock’n’Roll Star” as American rock band the Byrds do in 1967, or resemble “Звезда рок-н-ролла” (Rock and Roll Star),2 a 1978 song by the Soviet group Zoopark, which presents the identification of being a star and a life of stardom. In contrast, Xue’s “The Stage of Rock and Roll” and “Superstar” underscore the pleasure of listening to rock and roll. Interestingly, to mingle poetry and rock music and create a completely new style, for his third album《不要在街上吻我》(Don’t Kiss Me in the Street) and the fourth《情不自禁》(Can’t Help Myself) Xue invited the famous contemporary poets Chen Ke-hua 陳克華 (1961–) and Hsia Yu 夏 宇 (1956–) to compose poems for him. These texts depict all kinds of troubles in daily life, such as the pressure of entrance exams, failures in love, and the confusion of youth. These albums open out a storytelling mode and lyrics of Mandarin rock poetry. Unfortunately, Xue did not develop this style further and deeper due to his physical condition. He died soon after the release of his fifth album《生老病死》(Birth, Aging, Illness, and Death), also well known as《如果還有明天》 (If There’s Still a Tomorrow) in 1990. It is notable that the system for the organization of concerts, gigs, and recordings in Taiwan during the period of martial law was not as problematic as that in the Soviet Union during the

2

For an English translation of this song, please refer to McMichael (2005, 668).

A SONG NOT FOR DANCING 45

1970s and 1980s. The scale of marketization and commercialization of record labels in Taiwan in the 1970s and 1980s was much bigger and more organized than that in either Russia or China, so there were several good-looking and westernized pop superstars in the entertainment industries of the Chinese-speaking commonwealth. The debut of Xue Yue is undoubtedly a milestone in the localization of Taiwanese and Chinese rock and roll. Despite this, the more interference musicians face from the domination of the industry, the less authentic they can be. From this point of view, I would suggest that early Russian and Chinese rock music showed more authenticity than their Taiwanese counterparts did in the 1980s.

LET’S ROCK, PROLETARIANS OF THE WORLD! IDEOLOGICAL SIMILARITIES BETWEEN STALINISM AND MAOISM IN MAINLAND CHINA Unlike Taiwanese rock and pop, which is lyrical, poetic, and sentimental because it frequently absorbs the traditional roots of Chinese culture, Chinese folk songs and the early rock poetry are both full of revolutionary machismo. For instance, while euphemisms of sweet and sour emotions or the Dionysian happiness of seizing the moment are lyrical and poetic means often employed in the rock and roll of Taiwan, the use of language in the Chinese counterpart is vulgar, straightforward, and imperative with an inclination toward potential violence. The first mainland Chinese rock and roll album officially released was Cui Jian’s 1989《新長征路上的搖滾》(Rock and Roll on the New Long March), which utilizes a style of Chinese revolutionary rhetoric that contrasts with the poetic one found in Taiwanese rock lyrics of the era. This album is also an excellent comparable example to show how Cui Jian integrates Western rock and roll with northern Chinese西北風 and Russian folk music to represent the inner conflict and complexity of communist ideology in the face of rising capitalism after the Chinese Cultural Revolution. Like Viktor Tsoi in the Soviet Union, Cui Jian is an ethnic-Korean rock singer.3 It is interesting that the first albums of Tsoi and Cui coincidentally share the characteristic of mocking their own social status as proletarians, and their consciousness of homelessness and poverty especially seem, untimely, politically incorrect and satiric in the contexts of on the one hand the social transition that took place after perestroika in the Soviet Union and on the other the open policy in China. Tsoi’s “Have Time, but no Money” (Время есть, а денег нет) on his first album 45 recorded in 1982 depicts the spiritual vacuum the young male protagonist perceives when he has nothing and nowhere to go, and all he does have is plenty of time. When the darkness (no lighter, no cigarettes, and no light), hopelessness (no one to treat him), and emptiness (everybody has gone somewhere and he is mired in a wrong circle somehow) all surround him, the young male protagonist, who is also the first-person narrator in this song, shouts to the world: “I want to drink, I want to eat/All I want is to take a seat./I’ve got time, but no money,/And there’s no one to treat me.” Tsoi’s song reveals general social problems that Soviet young people encountered during perestroika: they had no work, lost their sense of belonging, and lacked financial and material support for basic physical needs. Like Viktor Tsoi, they were usually labeled as social parasites

3

Tsoi in Russian and Cui in Chinese are in fact the same surname in Korean.

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idling away their time; they lived aimlessly without hope, so they felt that their surroundings were so dark that every minute was like a century. This song also suggests the psychological condition of emptiness spreading among the Soviet young generation and creates a boundless space in which there is nothing at all but plenty of time; thus it mirrors the reality of the unlimited spiritual emptiness and dissatisfaction of young people in the Soviet Union in the early 1980s. Similar to Viktor Tsoi, Cui Jian chose the proletarian as the protagonist in his songs on his first album. The famous song《一無所有》(Own Nothing at all in the World) on Rock and Roll on the New Long March uses repeated daily conversations between young male and female protagonists to accentuate a possible failure of love: a poor male protagonist owning nothing at all in the world is not qualified to love. All he can do is to keep asking whether the female protagonist would go (elope?) with him. It is intriguing that all the first-person narrator has is his aspiration and freedom, but that means nothing to the female protagonist. Although both the use of language and its message in this rock song seem very straightforward and transparent, the song touches off all kinds of interpretations and finally creates a series of complicated and imaginative symbols. The main reason for this may be imputed to the opaque political situations and severe literary censorship in China. This famous song thus results in an interesting phenomenon: a text with plentiful interpretations by different audiences from different countries or cultures.4 Some critics suggest that the metaphor of the female protagonist in this song signifies the motherland China, particularly after Cui sang this song in the 1989 Tiananmen Square protests (for example, Blum and Jensen 2002, 301; Wasserstrom and Perry 1992, 94). The boy owing nothing at all in the world loves the country unconditionally, and he gives his everything—pursuit and freedom—to her, but the country, namely, the CCP, on the contrary, laughs at him for having nothing. Several scholars, however, argue that the situation between the boy and the girl is analogous to China and the West, which respectively represent the endless dialectics between communism and capitalism, or collectivism and individualism (for example, Brace and Friedlander 1992, 115–28; Sun 2012, 82–143). Nevertheless, Taiwanese audiences would associate such endless requests and repeated demands of the male protagonist with the political propaganda of China, because the PRC always wants Taiwan to “go with them.” Meanwhile, Chinese audiences generally identify with the nothingness, rootlessness, and powerlessness of proletarian consciousness in the era of open policy; this is especially true for the generation who grew up under the red flag and passed through the Cultural Revolution. I would suggest that the text of “Own Nothing at All in the World” is tightly bound to the title of this album, Rock and Roll on the New Long March, and that the notion of nothing to own or to lose is the fountain of the power of Cui Jian’s rock and roll. Furthermore, this song embodies a revolutionary motif that links it with Mao’s Long March from 1934 to 1936, because during that period the CCP had lost almost everything, such as financial and military support from the Soviet Union, and the Kuomintang had defeated the Communists in battles and destroyed most resources the CCP had held. It is definitely an irony that the CCP promised the people would have everything after the establishment of the PRC, but after the mass mobilization of the Cultural Revolution, they still owned nothing. This album and this song jab the lie and the fairy tale of the CCP and the PRC, creating another myth of Chinese Rock and Roll in the new revolutionary dream.

4

A translation of this song by Cui Jian can be found in Tim Brace and Paul Friedlander (1992, 120–21).

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Based on the nothingness and emptiness of the lives of proletarians in the face of rising capitalism and commercialism in the Soviet Union and China, the rock songs of both Viktor Tsoi and Cui Jian represent the young generation of the 1980s and sing out their strong emotions, including desperation, aspiration, and dissatisfaction. The use of language in their songs is straightforward and the information is laconic, conveying the strong authenticity of selfexpression. Despite this, the inner power of such a style and the authenticity Tsoi and Cui share has been continuously reinforced by different interpretations, associations, and imaginations. Indeed, the large number of external restrictions on composing rock songs under communism create a straightforward language style. However, that is exactly the reason why the more authentic and transparent the message is that Tsoi and Cui communicate with their audiences, the more ironic, emotional, and poetic the space of imagination singers and audiences can create and share with one another. Just as songs in the Soviet Union and in Chiang’s Taiwan were not for dancing, so the Chinese and Russian audiences of Cui Jian and Viktor Tsoi would sit and listen to their songs quietly despite their heated melody, tempo, and beats.

CONCLUSION: PROBLEMATIC TRANSLATION, ADAPTATION, AND POETICS The term “rock poetry” originated in Russian artistic and literary circles, and aims to contrast the notions and characteristics of Russian rock to those of their Anglo-American counterparts. It emphasizes the significance of cultural and ideological differences in the processes of translation, adaptation, and composition. However, it cannot be denied that the import of Western conceptions of rock as a democratically minded counterculture has influenced and even shaken the socialist and Stalinist-like system in Taiwan, and the communist proletarian consciousness in the Soviet Union and mainland China. It is true that defining rock as poetry and defending it as a part of Russian literary “high culture” was the first priority of Russian rockers, audiences, and critics in the 1980s, but one of the motivations for this is that what the mass of Soviet society had regarded as “marginalized minorities” had longed for governmental acknowledgment. The authority and authenticity of poetry happened to fit in with the notions and characteristics of rock and its subsisting conditions in the Soviet Union, Taiwan, and China in the 1980s. Nonetheless, now that the socialist or communist countries, such Taiwan and Russia, have been reformed or transformed into more democratic, capitalist, and commercial systems in the twentyfirst century, the existence and conceptions of the term “rock poetry” become more problematic. It is interesting to see that nowadays a few Chinese rock and pop stars, such as Na Ying 那英 (1967–), Wang Feng 汪峰 (1971–), and Han Hong 韓紅 (1971–), frequently sing the Taiwanese translations or adaptations of Western rock and pop produced during the period of martial law on TV shows or other media in mainland China; in spite of this, still very few Taiwanese musicians would like to follow their example. The problems of translation, adaptation, and poetics are still present in the development of contemporary Chinese rock music as it faces the new era of communist capitalism and commercialism, but in Taiwan they seem more like an untimely product of the centralization of state power. This also explains why in Russia since 1995 “rock poetry” has been marginalized by the commercial pop-rock mainstream.

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REFERENCES Beumers, Birgit. 2005. Pop Culture Russia!: Media, Arts and Lifestyle. Santa Barbara, CA: ABC-CLIO. Blum, Susan, and Lionel Jensen, eds. 2002. China Off Center: Mapping the Margins of the Middle Kingdom. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. Brace, Tim, and Paul Friedlander. 1992. “Rock and Roll on the New Long March: Popular Music, Cultural Identity, and Political Opposition in the People’s Republic of China.” Rockin’ the Boat: Mass Music and Mass Movements, edited by Reebee Garofalo, 115–28. Boston: South End Press. Domanskii, Yurii, ed. 2001. Владимир Высоцкий и русский рок [Vladimir Vysotsky and Russian Rock]. Tver: Tver State University. Kalgin, Vitalii. 2019. Виктор Цой: Поем вместе с тобой [Viktor Tsoi: We Sing Together with You]. Moscow: StorySide AB. Kalgin, Vitalii. 2021. Цой: Последний герой совремменного мифа [Tsoi: The Last Hero of Contemporary Myth]. Moscow: ACT. McMichael, Polly. 2005. “‘After All, You’re a Rock and Roll Star (At Least, That’s What They Say)’: Roksi and the Creation of the Soviet Rock Musician.” Slavonic and East European Review 83 (4): 664–84. Steinholt, Yngvar. 2003. “You Can’t Rid a Song of Its Words: Notes on the Hegemony of Lyrics in Russian Rock Songs.” Popular Music 22 (1): 80–108. Sun Yi 孫伊. 2012.《搖滾中國》[Rock China]. Taipei: Xiuwei. Wasserstrom, Jeffrey, and Elizabeth Perry, eds. 1992. Popular Protest and Political Culture in Modern China. London: Routledge. Woodhead, Leslie. 2013. How the Beatles Rocked the Kremlin: The Untold Story of a Noisy Revolution. London: Bloomsbury Publishing. Zhitinskii, Aleksandr. 1990. Путешествие рок-дилетанта [Journey of Rock Dilettante]. Saint Petersburg: Lenizdat.

DISCOGRAPHY Byrds. 1967. “So You Want to Be a Rock’n’Roll Star.” Younger Than Yesterday. Hollywood: Columbia Studios. Cui, Jian 崔健. 1989.《新長征路上的搖滾》[Rock and Roll on the New Long March]. Beijing: Zhongguo luyou shengxian. Kao, Frankie (Ling-Feng) 高凌風. 1981.《惱人的秋風》[Annoying Wind in the Autumn].《不一樣》[Being Different]. Taipei: Tianwang. Kino (Tsoi, Viktor). 1982. “Время есть, а денег нет.” «45». Leningrad: AnTrop. Xue Yue 薛岳. 1984.《搖滾舞台》[The Stage of Rock and Roll]. Taipei: Paipu. Xue Yue 薛岳. 1986.《不要在街上吻我》[Don’t Kiss Me in the Street]. Taipei: Paipu. Xue Yue 薛岳. 1987.《情不自禁》[Can’t Help Myself]. Taipei: Kedeng. Xue Yue 薛岳. 1990.《生老病死》[Birth, Aging, Illness, and Death]. Taipei: Xindi. Zoopark (Naumenko, Maik). 1978. “Звезда рок-н-ролла.” «Все братья - сёстры» [All Are Brothers-Sisters]. Leningrad: Samizdat.

CHAPTER FOUR

Translation and Avant-garde Fiction in 1980s China PAOLA IOVENE

BORN TRANSLATED Avant-garde fiction in 1980s China was “born translated” in more than one way.1 The basics are well known: first, Chinese writers found inspiration in twentieth-century international modernism; second, literary critics and scholars read their texts through structuralist and poststructuralist theories of language; and third, their status as the Chinese avant-garde was further validated by their translation in French, English, and Japanese, and through comparisons to their alleged foreign counterparts.2 Nonetheless, as so many theorists of translation remind us, translation does not need to refer exclusively to the interlingual transfer of texts. Various notions of “cultural translation” have been employed to examine interpretive processes occurring within what is conventionally understood to be the same language (van Crevel 2017–2018; Klein 2019). A broad notion of cultural translation encompassing the interpreting that occur both within and across languages might shed new light on the complexities of avant-garde fiction as a cultural formation that entails more than the literary provocations that shook the Chinese literary sphere in the late 1980s. Translation broadly conceived, I would suggest, allows us to complicate the directionality of the sequence sketched above and to tease out how, after literature was decoupled from the task of representing the masses, avant-garde fiction in China came to stand as the culmination of a decade of aesthetic experimentation that reassessed the transformative potential of literature through the foregrounding of form. The plural dimensions of avant-garde fiction compel us to work with more than one concept of translation. Emerging in the context of rapid urbanization, social stratification, and intense re-examination of the cultural and political underpinnings of Chinese society that culminated in the Tiananmen Square protests of 1989, China’s avant-garde fiction was neither the expression of a cohesive poetics nor was it accompanied by a manifesto, even as it occurred in parallel with experimental trends in poetry, literary criticism, theatre, and the visual arts. A critical construct that took shape retrospectively, it encompasses the experimental stories by authors such as Ma Yuan

I adapt “Born translated” from Walkowitz (2015) and will elaborate on it below. Ge Fei was often compared to Jorge Luis Borges, and Yu Hua to Franz Kafka and Alain Robbe-Grillet. One of the earliest introductions of structuralism in China is an article in the periodical for internal distribution Dongtai edited by the Philosophy and Social Sciences Department of the Chinese Academy of Science released in 1975.

1 2

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马原 (1953–), Can Xue 残雪 (1953–), Hong Feng 洪峰 (1959–), Yu Hua 余华 (1960–), Ge Fei 格非 (1964–), Su Tong 苏童 (1963–), and Sun Ganlu 孙甘露 (1959–), who published in state-supported literary magazines even as they rebelled against established conventions of characterization and plot. Hence the institutionally ambivalent position of China’s avant-garde fiction, which flourished within a porous and heterogeneous literary system that was being transformed by the onset of the market economy and new forms of popular and mass culture.3 Its dates of beginning and end are contested. Most critics situate it between 1986 and 1992, although some emphasize that 1985 was the real turning point (Li Tuo 1994; Li Jiefei 1996), and by 1989 it was already declared in crisis (more on this below). Yu Hua recalls how at a time in which literary journals tried to boost subscription rates for the following year,《收获》(Harvest) turned to barely known young authors like himself. It was in the autumn of 1987 that he received his copy of issue 5, where his story《四月三日事件》(The April 3rd Incident) appeared alongside a novel by Ma Yuan and stories by Su Tong, Hong Feng, and Sun Ganlu. The issue was then considered the first of four avant-garde issues published by Harvest over the next year. Several years later, recalling how some critics lamented that avant-garde fiction did not even deserve to be called literature, Yu Hua mused: After all, what is literature? We felt narrative structure should be open, indeterminate, and never fixed. Our reading habits helped inform our understanding of what literature was. After enduring the Cultural Revolution, when there were virtually no books, we suddenly found ourselves surrounded by veritable swarms of literary works, including both classical and modern Chinese works … we read works by Lev Tolstoy, Franz Kafka, and many others. We read with little regard for literary history, and had no interest in understanding the era and background of the works’ authors. Instead, we just read works for their own sake, and in this way we were exposed to all sorts of different narrative forms. When we ourselves started to write, accordingly, we knew that it was possible to write using virtually any narrative structure. The literary establishment, however, found it difficult to accept our modernist tendencies. They felt that the critical realism found in the works of nineteenth-century authors such as Tolstoy and Honoré de Balzac was part of its own literary tradition, while Kafka, Marcel Proust, James Joyce, William Faulkner, and Gabriel Garcia Marquez, together with symbolism, expressionism, and absurdism, were all regarded as foreign. We found this attitude to be rather odd, since were not Tolstoy and Balzac themselves also foreigners? (2017, 790–91) “We just read works for their own sake.” These words remind us that the rise of avant-garde fiction reflected a revolution in habits of reading, the desire for fictional worlds unconstrained by conventional logic, morality, and notions of utility, and for a broader literary universe.4 Yu Hua

Ma Yuan, Can Xue, and Hong Feng are generally considered precursors of the avant-garde. In the 1980s, Mo Yan was also often mentioned as a precursor, and some English studies of the avant-garde include his work (Yang 2002). Writers such as Sun Ganlu, Bei Cun, Chen Cun, and Ye Zhaoyan who were included in early Chinese-language surveys have been marginalized in recent accounts. 4 On the circulation of modernist literature in Chinese translation during the 1960s and 1970s, see Bei Dao (1993); van Crevel (1996a; 1996b); and Iovene (2014, 72–6). 3

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and his peers were contesting the very notion of “borrowing,” reclaiming the right to “inherit” a legacy available to whoever took the responsibility to carry it on (He Guimei 2005, 13). Nonetheless, anxieties of influence ran high, and declaring one’s familiarity with foreign authors attracted charges of imitation or of not being sufficiently “Chinese” (on the ubiquity of these charges, see Klein in this volume). Ge Fei recalls how in 1986, Ma Yuan gave a talk at East China Normal University where Ge Fei himself was teaching. Ma Yuan, who had just returned from Tibet, was already a celebrity in literary circles. During the presentation, a student asked Ma Yuan to elaborate on Jorge Luis Borges’s influence on his work, but Ma Yuan said he had never even heard the name. Later he admitted to having lied! Ge Fei comments: In 1986 very few people saw the connection between Borges and Ma Yuan, so he [Ma Yuan] might have been taken aback. But on the other hand, it seems he was extremely wary of the profound immaturity of Chinese criticism at the time: as soon as you openly acknowledged the influence of any writer (although this is completely normal), critics would obsessively draw comparisons between your work and theirs, which could put you even more under pressure and thus impair your creativity. Therefore I completely understand why, when confronted with this sort of questions, Ma Yuan would come up with names that totally confused people, such as Selma Lagerlöf, Sven Heding, Mao Zedong, and Agatha Christie. (2001, 65) Ma Yuan’s playful response, a playfulness that is reflected in his fictional works, ought to be read as a challenge to critics who struggled to come to terms with the question of reading, and living, in translation. In her discussion of the contemporary anglophone novel, Rebecca Walkowitz designates “born translated”—an expression she models on “born digital”—those works originating in several languages. “Many books do not appear at first only in a single language,” she writes. “Instead, they appear simultaneously or nearly simultaneously in multiple languages. They start as world literature” (Walkowitz 2015, 1–2). Literary works traveled in translation long before the twentyfirst century, she concedes, but what sets the contemporary era apart is the speed with which this happens, a speed that intensified from the 1960s on. Some of Walkowitz’s examples—Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, which appeared in fifteen languages in the second half of 2005, or J. M. Coetzee’s Childhood of Jesus, published in Dutch translation before it appeared in English— could not be more remote from the Chinese avant-garde fiction I discuss in these pages. Nonetheless, “born translated” captures something essential about avant-garde fiction in China: [B]orn-translated literature approaches translation as medium and origin rather than as afterthought. Translation is not secondary or incidental to these works. It is a condition of their production … In born-translated novels, translation functions as a thematic, structural, conceptual, and sometimes even as typographical device. Pointing backward as well as forward, they present translation as a spur to literary innovation, including their own. (Walkowitz 2015, 3–4) Born-translated works show that “translation is the engine rather than the caboose of literary history” (5). Building on the metaphor of the engine, I would submit that Chinese avant-garde

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fiction depended on a complex “translating machine” operating both within Chinese and across languages. I use the term “machine” to emphasize its being multilocal and dispersed, irreducible to a circumscribed group of agents and to operations of interlingual transfer, and to call attention to its reliance on vast media and institutional networks, including academic institutions, periodicals, and publishers. Each operation of the translating machine—each act of translation—conjures up an ideal of literary cosmopolitanism based on relations of debt. Chinese avant-garde fiction was indebted to translation and built this indebtedness into its form. This condition of debt, which Chinese avant-garde writers flaunted through citation and allusion, turned out to be both an asset and a liability. An asset insofar as it bespoke novelty and provoked disorientation. And a liability because it attracted countless charges of gimmick and imitation. Hence the paradox of Chinese avant-garde fiction, deemed by some critics as derivative, and by others as the peak of a century of literary experimentation, as the moment when modern Chinese fiction finally came into its own. Even to this day, scholarly responses are divided. Not many other moments in the history of modern Chinese literature have been so widely acclaimed and so easily dismissed. To tackle this paradox, this chapter will proceed in three steps, each centered on a type of translation. Through a reading of Ge Fei’s short story《青黄》(Green Yellow; 1988), I will discuss how avant-garde fiction employs forms of intralingual translation involving transcription and incorporation to thematize the alterity of a language that is supposed to be one’s own. Secondly, I will examine how the issue of adopting foreign forms was debated in relation to the problem of Chinese modernism, in what could be described as a form of intralingual cultural translation. Finally, I will discuss the writings of the scholar and translator Henry Y. H. Zhao 赵毅衡 (1945–), which I take to be an exemplary case of interlingual cultural translation.5 While the aim of the first two sections is to engage translation as a poetics and as an aspect of the critical discourse surrounding the avant-garde, the goal of the last section is to show how its transnational canonization was partly due to the work of bilingual critics, such as Zhao writing in Chinese and English, adapting their writings to the linguistic context of reception. In all the cases I examine, translation is obviously something other than establishing equivalences between languages.

INTRALINGUAL TRANSCRIPTION: THE ART OF INCORPORATION Words, not people, and the shameful secrets these words conceal are at the center of Ge Fei’s “Green Yellow.” The story opens with the narrator reading about “floating whorehouses” in a local gazetteer and in a history book. The prostitutes and their families living on the boats moved ashore in the 1940s and seem to have left no trace. Intrigued by the term qinghuang 青黄, “greenyellow,” which he encounters in these sources, the narrator visits Mai Village several times to find out what it means. The narrator’s trips seem to take place between the late 1960s and the late 1970s, but with no reference to the historical context, the encounters he describes could happen

I draw on Roman Jakobson’s three kinds of translation: intralingual translation or rewording, interlingual translation or translation proper, and intersemiotic translation or transmutation. My discussion, however, will be limited to the first two (Jakobson 1959).

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at any time or place. His investigations deliver fragmentary tales of displacement, violence, and death, but nothing about the term: each revelation, the narrator muses, covers up something else. By dwelling on a myriad of ordinary details—the deep lines on a man’s face, a strong smell of sheep, the suffocating dust in a room, and the endless, pouring rain—the story conjures up intimate scenes of rural life, some placid, some violent, some ghostly. “Green Yellow” depicts the banality of forgetting, the discarding of the past that makes it possible for communal and individual lives to go on, and ponders on the difficulty of interpreting fragments that survive out of context. Words denoting color, in particular, become meaningless if their referent is unknown. The story stages the feeling of not being at home in one’s language, questioning that there is any language that one can call one’s own. It thematizes the need for intralingual interpretation, showing that interpretation is fragile and amendable to revisions. In Translation as Citation, Haun Saussy discusses forms of “language hybridity” that elude conventional understandings of translation—techniques such as transcriptions and loan words that are found when looking “askance of translation.” For Saussy, “loan words are an opposite to translation in the following sense: with translation, interpretation always precedes the restatement; but with loan words, incorporation occurs without interpretation” (2017, loc 544). “Language B,” he goes on to explain, borrows from “language A” when no adequate term for it exists in “language B.” Such acts of borrowing call attention to the ways languages expand through processes other than translation. Thus, “the fact that incorporation can be separated from interpretation installs a strangeness in language, a zone … where the native speaker and native competency are no longer in command” (loc 545). Similarly, Ge Fei’s “Green Yellow” works by incorporating without interpreting. Detached from the contexts that would help making sense of them, common terms appear as foreign, hybridizing the language. While in the case of interlingual incorporation, foreignness results from contact with a language from another place, in “Green Yellow” strangeness results from the contact with texts from another time. Yet with a loan word we tend to know what the term refers to, whereas in the case of qinghuang, its referent is unclear. This suspension of interpretation, in turn, generates a plurality of meanings, as the text proposes more than one way to understand qinghuang. It is significant that the term serves as the title of the story, which conventionally should indicate its theme. What is supposedly the main theme of the narrative turns out to be a pretext to piece together the ordinary fragments of forgotten lives. By the end of the story, even the narrator stops caring about its meaning, and the reader is confused about whether his effort should be taken seriously or should rather be read as a parody of ethnolinguistic research. No wonder so many critics have commented that the central concern of avant-garde fiction is the craft, the process of storytelling itself—a reflection on how storytelling works and what it does both for the narrating subjects and for the reader. Ge Fei’s fiction from the late 1980s to the early 1990s features individuals who misread the situations they are in and fail to predict the consequences of what they do. Often presented as appendixes filling the gaps of historical records, his stories depict a raw desire driving individuals to action and eventually to their death (see, for instance,《迷舟》[The Lost Boat; 1987]). The focus on memory, desire, and death may be specific to Ge Fei, but the act of incorporating words and narrative fragments without providing interpretation constitutes a quasi-translational strategy adopted by other avant-garde writers, as well. In one of his essays, Yu Hua states that what he wants to reach is an authentic 真实 core that is obstructed by conventional storytelling (Yu Hua 1989).

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Some of the means he employs to do so are the crude depiction of violence, and a language emptied of emotion and moral reflection that insistently focuses on surface detail (Wedell-Wedellsborg 1996). Sun Ganlu instead resorted to dreamlike scenarios filled with incongruous images. Avantgarde writers presented their efforts as a rebellion against conventional realism 现实主义 and at the same time as a search for authenticity. Perhaps no other binary than that between realism and modernism/experimentalism was more instrumental to the formation of the avant-garde, not only in the writers’ own theoretical elaborations but also in those of the critics, as we shall see below.

STILLBORN IN TRANSLATION? LITERARY MODERNISM IN 1980S CRITICAL DISCOURSE Reconsidering the problem of the avant-garde through the lens of translation entails revisiting the problem of Chinese literary modernism, any formulation of which is itself a translational operation that draws a new line between native and foreign, and which risks reproducing a narrative of EuroAmerican origin, even when it aims to contest it (Hayot 2012). Debates on how to relate to foreign techniques were first spurred by the publication of Gao Xingjian’s 高行健 (1940–)《现代小说技巧 初探》(Preliminary Exploration into the Techniques of Modern Fiction; 1981) and by the rise of Obscure or Misty Poetry 朦胧诗 around the same time, which then became targets of the Campaign Against Spiritual Pollution in 1983. Discussions revolved around whether a Chinese modernism was possible and desirable, now that China had embarked on the path of the Four Modernizations, and what characteristics it should have to be truly Chinese. By 1984, the official line was that it was necessary to “scientifically study” Western modernism to criticize its ideological contents and borrow the techniques that may “boost the flourishing and development of a socialist literature and arts with Chinese characteristics” (He Wangxian 1984, 2). Nonetheless, the issue at stake was not simply how to harmonize foreign forms with local experience (however defined) or merely catching up—though there was all of that, as well (Wang Jing 1996). These debates in fact entailed crucial questions that re-emerge whenever a previously hegemonic utilitarian theory of literature is called into doubt: how to reassess the transformative potential of literature after it is decoupled from the prospects of a socialist revolution, how to theorize its relationship to reality once deterministic notions of class and historical materialism are called into question, and how to redefine the social functions of form. These issues are still as relevant today as they were in 1980s China. Back then, these issues were discussed through various competing terms, all of which were seen as the nemesis of a stifling notion of realism finally about to be overcome. From 1985 on, phrases such as exploratory fiction 探索小说, new wave fiction 新潮小说, and experimental fiction 实验 小说 began to emerge. Shidai Wenyi Publishing House 时代文艺出版社 released an eight-volume series titled《新时期流派小说精选丛书》(Fiction Trends in the New Era—Selected books), which included anthologies titled Structuralist Fiction 结构主义小说, Magic Realist Fiction 魔幻现实主义 小说, and Symbolist Fiction 象征主义小说, co-edited by the Shanghai-based critic Wu Liang 吴亮 and collecting the works of young authors, some of whom were then considered precursors of the avant-garde.6 The phrase “Avant-garde literature” 先锋派文学 began to be used in late 1988, 6

On literary anthologies in the 1980s, see Xu Yong (2017).

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particularly to refer to younger authors based in Shanghai and other cities in the Jiangnan region, thus conveying associations with urban modernity (Cheng 2009). From 1989 on, Chen Xiaoming 陈 晓明 (1959–) penned several articles analyzing the narrative strategies of the avant-garde, using the term interchangeably with “post-new wave” 后新潮 (Chen 1989, 1990). While eluding systematic mapping, this proliferation of terms provides a powerful illustration of translation “as a continuous process of re-articulation and re-contextualisation, without any notion of a primary origin” (Hall and Chen 1996, 393, quoted in Bachmann-Medick 2009, 13). This process contributed to the making of Chinese avant-garde fiction as a distinctive movement within a wider range of modernist trends, as a rupture, and as a point of arrival, highlighting distinctions between generations of writers just a few years apart and claiming the most radical innovation for the avant-garde itself.7 Schematically put, the critical debate on avant-garde fiction in the late 1980s unfolded in the space between two contrasting poles, one largely dismissive and the other largely supportive of modernist experimentation, with younger critics gravitating toward the latter. Even so, critics on both sides initially articulated a sense of inadequacy and crisis. At the very moment when avantgarde fiction was emerging in 1986, a debate on “pseudomodernism” broke out, which questioned the authenticity of Chinese modernism on multiple fronts (Wang Jing 1996, 163–77). In “On the difficulties of exploratory, experimental fiction” (1987), Li Jiefei 李洁非 (1961–) and Zhang Ling 张陵 (1957–) deplored the excessive enthusiasm with which experimental works (探索 or 实验性小 说) ranging from Zong Pu’s 宗璞 (1928–)《我是谁?》(Who Am I?; 1979) to Ma Yuan’s《冈底斯 的诱惑》(Temptations of Gangdisi; 1985) had been received, arguing that they failed to convey a “modern consciousness” characterized by relativism and doubt. The main problem of these works, in the critics’ view, was that they illustrated ready-made concepts (such as, for instance, alienation or the unconscious) rather than conveying them through their linguistic form (Li and Zhang 1987, 36, 39). In the works of Ma Yuan, in particular, Li and Zhang detected “a gap between the author’s theoretical awareness of structure and his actual ability to construct it in language” (41). These stories did not transcend the confines of “nineteenth-century anthropocentric realism” and did not match the modern concept of “text” 文本, which Li and Zhang drew from Roland Barthes’s notion of the writerly and upheld as a model for Chinese writers to pursue. Much of Li and Zhang’s article resonates with the critique made by Liu Xiaobo 刘晓波 (1955– 2017) of Chinese modernism’s residual attachment to humanistic values (Wang Jing 1996, 167). Drawing on structuralist approaches partly mediated by the work of Terence Hawkes, whose Structuralism and Semiotics was published in Chinese translation in early 1987, and on the volume《新小说派研究》(Studies on the Nouveau Roman; 1986) edited by the translator and scholar of French literature Liu Mingjiu 柳鸣九 (1934–2022), they identified “real” modernism with antihumanism and called for an aesthetic revolution that would give free rein to irrational impulses. Taking a certain vision of Western modernism as the standard against which to judge Chinese aesthetic experimentation, their rhetoric bespeaks the asymmetry that Eric Hayot detects in the “‘two worlds’ model of East/West interaction,” one in which Western references to the East can be interpreted as fantastic projections, whereas “Chinese figurations of the West end up looking

This process is comparable to the “machinery of selective tradition” that Raymond Williams sees at work in the “late-born ideology of modernism,” which does not concede any innovative role to realist writers such as Gogol, Flaubert, or Dickens (Williams 1989, 49).

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like failures of imitation or failures of understanding – like, that is, intellectual and circumstantial failures rather than ontological ones” (Hayot 2011, 102). And yet, Li and Zhang’s adoption of such a standard could also be seen as a strategic form of occidentalism (Chen 1995) aimed at reaffirming the guiding role of literary criticism and at promoting their own vision of literary modernity. Their embrace of Barthes’s writerly text as the standard for literary modernity constituted a response to the accusations of unintelligibility, escapism, and empty formalism addressed against Obscure poets in the debates on modernism that took place in 1980 to 1983. What Li and Zhang were resisting was precisely the dichotomy of realism and modernism that had characterized the early 1980s debates, and that continued in the assumed binary of referentiality and word play in the late 1980s reception of the avant-garde. While the modern (a term they used interchangeably with modernist) text did not provide an “exact counterpart” to reality, Li and Zhang emphasized that “actually, the modern text seeks to more authentically express the constitution of reality, by structuring a synchronic pattern of reality and history in the manifold intertwining of time and space” 其实,现代小说的本意是企图更加真 实地表现现实的构成,在多种时空的交织中结构现实与历史的共时形态 (Li and Zhang 1987, 42). The modern text differed from traditional realism, in their view, not because it disengaged reality but because it invited readers to consider the structuring function of language and to participate in an equal exchange 交流 aimed at “changing readers’ habits, transforming passive reception into active reception, and creating an equal and free reading atmosphere” (42). Li and Zhang held writers responsible for creating such a space of exchange, but they concluded that whenever their efforts failed the fault lay not only with writers but also with the general social conditions in which their texts emerged. Their literary criticism, then, constituted its own form of cultural critique. Drawing on Jan Mukařovský’s Preface to Shklovsky’s Czech translation of the Theory of Prose (1934), which was published in Chinese translation in the seventh volume of《世界艺术与 美学》(World Art and Aesthetics) in March 1986, Li and Zhang rejected the binary of form and content underlying the early 1980s debates. They rejected the idea that formal experimentation constituted an escape from reality, rather, they insisted on its social function: [M]odern fiction and social reality have a closer, more organic relation with social reality than classical fiction … The creation of the modern fictional “text” needs to rely on the participation of the reader, and the degree of the reader’s participation depends on the whole thinking of society and on the cultural conditions. As a sign, the “text” implies its entire sociocultural background. (Li and Zhang 1987, 43) Li and Zhang’s effort to rethink the social function of form invites us to consider how unexplored convergences between French structuralism and the Prague Linguistic Circle shaped Chinese literary criticism in the 1980s, in that short window that opened before the field was taken over by the debates on postmodernism at the turn of the 1990s. Li and Zhang translated a literary concept (the writerly text) into a tool for cultural critique, to simultaneously reclaim the (potential) cultural and social functions of experimentalism and to declare the inefficacy of the way in which it was carried out. In their view, both the linguistic inadequacies of emerging writers and contemporary “cultural conditions” (what these were exactly they left it for the reader to guess) inhibited the formation of a modern, active readership. Hence the predicament

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in which Chinese modernism found itself in, in 1987—the stillborn child of a “theoretical awareness” unable to grow into aesthetic practice. Did the avant-garde fiction that appeared over the following two years overcome this predicament? By early 1989, literary critics were even more split. The critic Li Tuo 李陀 (1939–) credited avantgarde fiction with defamiliarizing the linguistic patterns and ideological preconceptions 先结构 that conditioned experience and knowledge, thus striking a deadly blow to the discursive system that he termed “Mao Style” 毛文体, which in his view had dominated Chinese society up to the mid-1980s (Li Tuo 1991, 1997; Tang 1993).8 The manipulation of language carried out by the avant-garde constituted a rebellious act that could bring about new ways of thinking and living, though what the latter entailed remained unclear (Li Tuo, Zhang Ling, and Wang Bin 1989, 79). Other supportive critics acclaimed the avant-garde for addressing “the common destiny that the whole of humanity has to face” rather than some specific Chinese experience, turning what some critics had previously framed as lack of historical authenticity into a claim to universality (76). Occupying the opposite pole of the discursive field were critics who dismissed avant-garde fiction as a passing fad that did nothing but alienate readers, stating that it was already over by late 1988. Dismissive critics tended to speak on behalf of actual readers put off by the difficulty of the texts, rather than speculating on the “new readers” that the new fiction might help create. The symposium 现实主义与先锋派文学 (Realism and Avant-Garde Literature) was symptomatic in this respect. Organized by《文学评论》(Literary Review) and《中山》(Zhongshan) and held on October 12–16, 1988, in a state-managed resort by Taihu Lake, the symposium was as much about drawing distinctions between old and new realisms as about making sense of the avant-garde, demonstrating how the latter was defined in contrast to the former even as critics recognized that the literary field was too diverse to be reduced to these two categories alone (Li Zhaozhong 1989; Cheng 2009). The critic Nan Fan 南帆 (1957–) reminded those in attendance that the Chinese term for “realism” did not refer to a fixed set of aesthetic principles, but rather to a certain conception of the function of the writer as a spokesperson for the people and as an intermediary between the citizens and the state. Within the constraints of (a thus defined) realism, Nan Fan lamented, literature could hardly gain its autonomy. Echoing his views, other attendees complained that Chinese realism lacked the critical spirit that ought to characterize it. Nonetheless, some argued that after the limits of “realism” had been exposed first by modernism and then by the avantgarde, now finally a “neorealism” 新写实主义 (so named to stress the difference from official realism) was emerging that was closer to readers’ everyday concerns, as exemplified by the works of Liu Heng 刘恒 (1954–) and Liu Zhenyun 刘震云 (1958–). In other words, avant-garde fiction’s temporary rebellion was already superseded by the neorealist turn. Several critics harped on the imitative character of the Chinese avant-garde, some going so far as to compare them to inert “wax sculptures.” Shanghai-based critic and editor Wu Liang was the only one to express support, claiming that he did not read literature “to find reflections of real life, but in hopes to find things that could not be experienced [in the real world], the same way one would find them in painting or music” (Li Zhaozhong 1989, 28). Li Tuo (1991) defines 毛文体 as “hegemonic discourse” 占据霸权地位的话语 and includes the word “discourse” in parenthesis to translate 话语. However, Li emphasizes that Mao wenti is different from Foucault’s notion of discourse, in that the latter is not concerned with concrete aspects of language such as the use of specific adverbs or sentence structures (pers. comm. with Li Tuo, February 2021).

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In reaction to the Taihu meeting, the symposium 保卫先锋文学 (Protect the Avant-garde), organized by the cultural critic Zhu Dake 朱大可 (1957–) on March 30, 1989, in the Shanghai branch of the China Writers’ Association, was designed as a response to those who wanted to “send avant-garde literature to an early grave” (Zhu et al. 1989, 76). The concept of avant-garde emerging from the Shanghai gathering again emphasized rebellion and experimentalism. Stressing its radical autonomy both from commercial mass culture and from the imperative to “serve the people,” it resonated with the concept of “pure literature” that would be more widely discussed in the early 2000s. For the writer Sun Ganlu, “the courage to soliloquise sometimes is the courage to flee. Run away from the crowd. The most basic theme of my works is escape” (Zhu et al. 1989, 79). The critics that gathered in Shanghai, though motivated by the wish to “protect” the avantgarde, also seemed to consider it beyond salvation. Zhu Dake pointed out that, in contrast to poets, avant-garde fiction writers had failed to launch their own journals; establish their own groupings; and coin their own slogans, theories, and manifestoes. He urged writers to “protect themselves” by sharpening their counter-critical tools and respond to the attacks that “mediocre and foolish” critics waged against them, but also suggested that they had already missed the opportunity to do so (Zhu et al. 1989, 80). Literary scholar Shao Yanjun 邵燕君 (1968–) has proposed that avant-garde fiction was a short-lived, elite phenomenon that could only emerge thanks to the support of state institutions. When journals and publishers were weaned off state support, they found themselves in trouble and started to “incline” toward market-driven literature and socially engaged realist fiction (Shao 2003; Hockx 2012). Meanwhile, it is undeniable that avant-garde fiction has come to be considered as a turning point in contemporary Chinese literary history. A full validation of avant-garde fiction only took place from 1989 on, mostly thanks to emerging critics such as Chen Xiaoming 陈晓明, who enthusiastically read it through the lens of postmodernism. Many other factors contributed to its canonization, including the trauma of 1989 and the ensuing assumption that these authors represented the last pinnacle of individual creativity squeezed between the state and the market; the expansion of academic literary criticism in China; the publication of the anthology《中国先锋小说》(China’s Avant-Garde Fiction), edited by the influential critic Zhu Wei 朱伟 in 1990, as well as several avant-garde series (e.g., the Avant-garde Novel Series by Huacheng Publishing House, 先锋长篇小说丛书); the translation into foreign languages; the prolific output of some of its representative authors (especially Yu Hua and Su Tong) and their film adaptations; and last but not least, the work of critics who wrote both in Chinese and English and edited collections of translated works. It is to one of the critics, Zhao Yiheng/Henry Zhao, that I now turn.

SELF-TRANSLATING MEDIATORS The literary scholar Henry Zhao played an important role in the transnational canonization of China’s avant-garde fiction in the early 1990s by curating anthologies and writing critical essays. Zhao earned his master’s degree from the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences, where he studied English literature with the poet Bian Zhilin 卞之琳 (1910–2000). He went on to obtain his doctoral degree at the University of California, Berkeley and was hired at SOAS University of London in

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1988. Zhao curated the collection The Lost Boat: Avant-garde Fiction from China (1993), followed by two more volumes co-edited with John Cayley in 1994 and 1996.9 In three essays published in the early 1990s (Zhao 1990, 1992, 1993), Zhao emphasized the originality of China’s avant-garde fiction. In the first essay, published in《今天》(Today) in 1990 and translated into English in 1992, Zhao claims that what sets China’s avant-garde fiction apart are its “strong metafictional tendencies” (Zhao 1992, 91). Borrowing the term metafiction from Robert Scholes’s Fabulation and Metafiction (1979), Zhao explains that metafictional features, which he defines as “fiction about fiction,” are always present in any work of fiction, but “what contemporary metafiction does is to de-naturalise and re-semanticise the conventional metafictional features, thus foregrounding them so that they can no longer be ignored by critics” (Zhao 1992, 91–2). The article examines various metafictional elements in the works by Ma Yuan, Yu Hua, and Ge Fei, with the aim of demonstrating their originality. Zhao notes that an “influence trap” is at work in the study of China’s avant-garde, which “has been repeatedly attacked as being an imitation, or even plagiarism, of Western avant-garde literature” (95). However, he continues, none of the “recognised masters of metafiction,” except perhaps for Jorge Luis Borges, had been translated into Chinese. The work of the bilingual critic in this essay, then, is to identify elements in Chinese avant-garde fiction that cannot possibly be the effect of translation: “The meta-sensibility in recent Mainland China fiction seems to be something of which even the Chinese metafictional writers themselves are not aware. For this simple reason it can be concluded that metafiction in China cannot be a ‘bogus metafiction’ or an imported fashion. The emergence of meta-sensibility has been brought about by the development of Chinese culture itself” (95). After tracing a “meta-sensibility” back to Chinese tradition, especially to Daoism and Buddhism, Zhao emphasizes that in contemporary times, the metasensibility emerged from the “methodology fever” of the early 1980s and of the “deep distrust of the existing interpretive systems [that] already led to a crisis of codes” (96). Given this crisis of codes, what the metafictional works express is “a fundamental doubt about the possibility of creating a fictional world to ‘reflect’ the real world” (97). Zhao concluded his article by noting how in 1989, the publication of avant-garde fiction was tacitly discouraged, and expressing hope that “Avant-Garde fiction as a movement will survive” (99). In contemporary anglophone literary criticism, metafictional devices are associated with postmodernism (Waugh 1984; Hutcheon 1988). “Postmodernism” does not appear at all in Zhao’s 1990/1992 article, but it is brought up and explicitly rejected in his “The necessity of the avant-garde in China,” published in Chinese in 1993. The article, which can be read as a rebuttal to Zhang Yiwu 张颐武 and Chen Xiaoming’s proposition that avant-garde fiction constituted one of the manifestations of China’s turn to postmodernity, strategically drops the term “metafiction” and insists on the “necessity” of the concept of “avant-garde” itself. According to Zhao, Chinese avant-garde fiction featured both modernist and postmodernist characteristics. Modernism in China had not yet been institutionalized, and therefore Chinese postmodernism was not so much a rebellion against modernism but rather its continuation. Most crucially, the term avant-garde was “necessary” because it did not take the West as a model and did not presuppose a specific stage of economic and cultural development in the way postmodernism did (Zhao 1993, 201).

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A complete list of English-language anthologies is available in Liu (2021).

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The term avant-garde was no less comparative, but its characteristics could, in his view, be assessed through the textual analysis of formal qualities in relation to earlier moments in Chinese literary history. Zhao saw in the avant-garde a form of high literature resistant to both ideological and market co-optation. Drawing on Bernard Rosenberg’s Mass Culture: The Popular Arts in America (1957), he argued that the pressure of commercialization had brought about a polarization between avantgarde and mass culture. The avant-garde thus testified to a return of the “stratification of genres” that had been erased during the socialist period, when cultural egalitarianism had prevailed: Avant-garde literature restored Chinese culture’s intrinsic structure of genre stratification: this culture has always needed a formally complex collection of texts that only a minority of people can read; its aim is to preserve the vitality of the language, preserve cultural values, and make sure that they are not submerged by the success of popular literature. (Zhao 1993, 203) Zhao’s “cultural translation” mobilized Western literary criticism to stress Chinese avant-garde fiction’s local roots. This was a hybrid local, harmonizing aspects of the Chinese tradition with the critical spirit of the May Fourth Movement and the relentless pursuit of formal innovation—a sinified version of high modernism holding the promise of aesthetic autonomy and resistance to the market at the very moment when the latter led to its demise. Chinese avant-garde fiction—a heterogeneous phenomenon the theorization of which “remains unfinished” (He Guimei 2005), often read as a “social allegory” (Zhang 1997, 19) and as the ironic displacement of generational trauma in postmodern key (Yang 2002)—rejected the sociopolitical mission in which Chinese literature was invested since the beginning of the century, replacing it with subversive commentaries on the nature of fiction itself (Jones 2003, 555). As Wang Jing put it in her introduction to the collection China’s Avant-Garde Fiction, “the avant-gardists demonstrate eloquently that writers in China could afford to turn an impervious back to sociopolitical consciousness. What is collected in this anthology is, in a nutshell, a dramatic manifesto of the aggressive making of a postrevolutionary literary sensibility obsessed with form and the pleasure of storytelling” (1998, 14). What exactly was at stake in these writers’ “obsession with form and pleasure of storytelling”? In Ge Fei’s own recollections (themselves a form of self-translation), When I started to write in 1986, two things deeply attracted me, and at the same time gave me doubt and pain. One was the freedom of writing. The freedom I aspired to had nothing to do with the empty slogans of fighting for certain rights in a sociological sense, but with the possibility to do whatever I wanted in the process of writing itself, without being restrained by stereotypes and clichés. (2001, 66–7) While multiple forms of translation—encompassing, as we have seen, both interlingual and intralingual processes of interpretation—fed the aspiration to find freedom in writing, an important aspect of the poetics of the avant-garde was its bringing into visibility the difficulty of interpreting, the recursive disclosure of the narrator’s failed attempts to adequately translate. The foregrounding

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of the difficulties of interpreting might well be one of the enduring legacies of China’s avant-garde fiction, after most of its practitioners turned away from their youthful experimental phase to reach a broader number of readers.

REFERENCES Bachmann-Medick, Doris. 2009. “Introduction: The Translational Turn.” Translation Studies 2 (1): 2–16. Bei Dao. 1993. “Translation Style: A Quiet Revolution,” translated by Wei Deng. In Inside Out: Modernism and Postmodernism in Chinese Literary Culture, edited by Wendy Larson and Anne Wedell-Wedellsborg, 60–4. Aarhus: Aarhus University Press. Chen Xiaomei. 1995. Occidentalism: A Theory of Counter-discourse in Post-Mao China. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Chen Xiaoming 陈晓明. 1989.《后新潮小说的叙事变奏》[Narrative Variations in Post-New Wave Fiction]. 《上海文学》[Shanghai Literature] 7: 66–73. Chen Xiaoming 陈晓明. 1990.《冒险的迁徙:后新潮小说的叙事转换》[Adventurous Moves: Narrative Transformations in Post-New Wave Fiction].《艺术广角》[Art Panorama] 3: 4–12. Cheng Guangwei 程光炜. 2009.《如何理解先锋小说》[How to Understand “Avant-Garde Fiction”].《当代 文学评论》[Contemporary Literary Criticism] 2: 4–19. Dongtai. 1975.《近年来欧洲解构主义思潮》[Recent European Structuralist Trends].《动态.国外哲学社会 科学》[Trends. Foreign Philosophy and Social Sciences] 4: 1–10. Gao Xingjian 高行健. 1981.《现代小说技巧初探》[Preliminary Exploration into the Techniques of Modern Fiction]. Guangzhou: Huacheng chubanshe. Ge Fei 格非. 1988.《青黄》[Green Yellow].《收获》[Harvest] 6: 18–27. Translated as “Green Yellow” by Eva Shan Chou. In China’s Avant-Garde Fiction: An Anthology, edited by Wang Jing, 23–42. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Ge Fei 格非. 2001.《十年一日》[Ten Years in One Day]. In《塞壬的歌声》[Syren’s Songs], 63–78. Shanghai: Shanghai wenyi chubanshe. Hayot, Eric. 2011. “Vanishing Horizons: Problems in the Comparison of China and the West.” In A Companion to Comparative Literature, edited by Ali Behdad and Dominic Thomas, 88–107. Hoboken, NJ: Wiley-Blackwell. Hayot, Eric. 2012. “Chinese Modernism, Mimetic Desire, and European Time.” In The Oxford Handbook of Global Modernisms, edited by Mark Wollaeger and Matt Eatough, 149–70. Oxford: Oxford University Press. He Guimei 贺桂梅. 2005.《先锋小说的知识谱系与意识形态》[The Intellectual Genealogy and Ideology of Avant-Garde Fiction].《文艺研究》[Literature and Art Studies] 10: 11–18. Translated as “Genealogy and Ideology of the Avant-Garde Fiction” by Zhou Chenshu. In Debating the Socialist Legacy and Capitalist Globalization in China, edited by Xueping Zhong and Ban Wang, 123–36. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014. Hall, Stuart, and Kuan-Hsing Chen. 1996. “Cultural Studies and the Politics of Internationalization: An Interview with Stuart Hall by Kuan-Hsing Chen.” In Stuart Hall, Critical Dialogues in Cultural Studies, edited by David Morley and Kuan-Hsing Chen, 392–408. London: Routledge. He Wangxian 何望贤, ed. 1984.《西方现代派文学问题论争集》[Collected Debates on the Problem of Western Modernism]. Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe (neibu faxing). Hockx, Michel. 2012. “The Literary Field and the Field of Power: The Case of Modern China.” Paragraph 35 (1): 49–65. Hutcheon, Linda. 1988. A Poetics of Postmodernism: History, Theory, Fiction. London: Routledge. Iovene, Paola. 2014. Tales of Futures Past: Anticipation and the Ends of Literature in Contemporary China. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Jakobson, Roman. 1959. “On Linguistic Aspects of Translation.” In On Translation, edited by Reuben A. Brower, 232–39. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

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Jones, Andrew F. 2003. “Avant-Garde Fiction in China.” In Columbia Companion to Modern East Asian Literatures, edited by Joshua Mostow, with Kirk A. Denton, Bruce Fulton, and Sharalyn Orbaugh, 554–60. New York: Columbia University Press. Klein, Lucas. 2019. “Mediation Is Our Authenticity: Dagong Poetry and the Shijing in Translation.” In Chinese Poetry and Translation: Rights and Wrongs, edited by Maghiel van Crevel and Lucas Klein, 201–22. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Li Jiefei 李洁非. 1996.《实验和先锋小说, 1985–1988》[Experimental and Avant-Garde Literature, 1985–1988].《当代作家评论》[Contemporary Writers Review] 5: 108–23. Li Jiefei 李洁非, and Zhang Ling 张陵. 1987.《探索、试验性小说困难论》[On the Predicament of Exploratory, Experimental Fiction].《当代文艺思潮》[Currents of Contemporary Literature and Art] 5. Reprinted in《中国现代当代文学研究》[Research on Modern and Contemporary Chinese Literature] 1: 35–44. Li Tuo 李陀. 1991.《现代汉语与当代文学》[Modern Chinese and Contemporary Literature]. Xindi wenxue 新地文学 [New Land Literature] 1 (6): 30–43. Li Tuo 李陀. 1994. “1985,” translated by Anne Wedell-Wedellsborg. In Under-Sky Underground, edited by Henry Y. H. Zhao and John Cayley, 115–30. London: Wellsweep Press. Li Tuo 李陀. 1997.《汪曾祺与现代汉语写作——兼谈毛文体》[Wang Zengqi and Modern Chinese Writing—and on Mao style].《今天》[Today] 4: 1–37. Li Tuo 李陀, Zhang Ling 张陵, and Wang Bin 王斌. 1989.《语言的反叛》[The Rebellion of Language]. 《文艺研究》[Literature and Art Studies] 2: 75–80. Li Zhaozhong 李兆忠. 1989.《旋转的文坛—— “现实主义与先锋派文学” 研讨会纪要》[A Rotating Literary Scene—Minutes from the Symposium “Realism and Avant-Garde Literature”]. 《文学评论》[Literary Review] 1: 23–30. Liu, Changjing. 2021. “Chinese Avant-Garde Fiction in English Translation: Contexts, Paratexts and Texts.” PhD diss., Bangor University. Saussy, Haun. 2017. Translation as Citation: Zhuangzi Inside Out. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kindle. Shao Yanjun 邵燕君. 2003.《倾斜的文学场:当代文学生产机制的市场化转型》[The Inclined Literary Field: The Commercial Transformation of Contemporary Literary Production Mechanisms]. Nanjing: Jiangsu renmin chubanshe. Tang, Xiaobing. 1993. “Residual Modernism: Narratives of the Self in Contemporary Chinese Fiction.” Modern Chinese Literature 7 (1): 7–31. van Crevel, Maghiel. 1996a. Language Shattered: Contemporary Chinese Poetry and Duoduo. Leiden: CNWS. van Crevel, Maghiel. 1996b. “Underground Poetry in Beijing in the 1960s and 1970s.” Modern Chinese Literature and Culture 9 (2): 169–219. van Crevel, Maghiel. 2017–2018. “The Cultural Translation of Battlers Poetry (Dagong shige).” Journal of Modern Literature in Chinese 14 (2)–15 (1): 245–86. Walkowitz, Rebecca L. 2015. Born Translated: The Contemporary Novel in an Age of World Literature. New York: Columbia University Press. Wang, Jing. 1996. High Culture Fever: Politics, Aesthetics, and Ideology in Deng’s China. Berkeley: University of California Press. Wang, Jing, ed. 1998. China’s Avant-Garde Fiction. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Waugh, Patricia. 1984. Metafiction: The Theory and Practice of Self-Conscious Fiction. New York: Routledge. Wedell-Wedellsborg, Anne. 1996. “One Kind of Chinese Reality: Reading Yu Hua.” Chinese Literature: Essays, Articles, Reviews (CLEAR) 18: 129–43. Williams, Raymond. 1989. Politics of Modernism: Against the New Conformists. London: Verso Books. Xu Yong 徐勇. 2017.《选本编纂与八十年代文学生产》[Anthology Compilation and Literary Production in the 1980s]. Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe. Yang, Xiaobin. 2002. The Chinese Postmodern: Trauma and Irony in Chinese Avant-Garde Fiction. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press.

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Yu Hua 余华. 1989.《虚伪的作品》[Hypocritical Work].《上海文论》[Shanghai Literary Theory] 5. Reprinted in《中国当代作家面面观》[Perspectives on Contemporary Chinese Writers], edited by Lin Jianfa 林建法and Wang Jingtao王景涛, 205–17. Changchun: Shidai wenyi chubanshe, 2006. Yu Hua 余华. 2017. “1987, September: The Birth of China’s Literary Avant-Garde,” translated by Carlos Rojas. In A New Literary History of Modern China, edited by David Der-wei Wang, 787–91. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Zhang, Xudong. 1997. Chinese Modernism in the Era of Reforms: Cultural Fever, Avant-Garde Fiction, and the New Chinese Cinema. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Zhao, Henry Y. H. 1992. “The Rise of Metafiction in China.” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 55, Part 1: 90–9. Zhao, Henry Y. H. 1993. The Lost Boat: Avant-Garde Fiction from China. London: Wellsweep. Zhao Yiheng 赵毅衡. 1990.《元意识和当代中国先锋小说》[Meta Consciousness and Contemporary Chinese Avant-Garde Fiction].《今天》[Today] 1: 79–88, 78. Zhao Yiheng 赵毅衡. 1993.《先锋派在中国的必要性》[The Necessity of “Avant-Garde” in China]. 《花城》[Flower City] 5: 200–208. Zhao, Henry, and John Cayley. 1994. Under-sky Underground. London: Wellsweep. Zhao, Henry, and John Cayley. 1996. Abandoned Wine. London: Wellsweep. Zhu Dake 朱大可et al. 1989.《保卫先锋文学》[Protect Avant-Garde Literature].《上海文学》[Shanghai Literature] 5: 76–80. Zhu Wei 朱伟, ed. 1990.《中国先锋小说》[China’s Avant-Garde Fiction]. Guangzhou: Huacheng chubanshe.

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CHAPTER FIVE

Negotiations Between the Queer and the Literary: Translations of Chinese-Language Queer Literature TA-WEI CHI

QUEER LITERATURE AS AN OXYMORON This chapter contends that the translations of queer literature in modern Chinese, or the Chineselanguage literary texts which envision LGBT (lesbian, gay, bisexual, and trans) lives, result from the negotiations between the queer and the literary or between the tendency to escape from the nation and the other tendency to cooperate with the nation. In this chapter, these original texts hail from writers of various origins, including Taiwan, Hong Kong, Singapore, Malaysia, and China, all of which accept or reject queer literature differently. Although I adopt “Sinophone” and “Sinosphere” throughout this chapter, these terms are never meant to suggest homogeneity among the highly heterogeneous societies that use Chinese languages to varying degrees. The translators under discussion—scattered in and beyond the Sinosphere—have numerous nationalities and ethnicities. I understand “queer literature” is an oxymoron to the modern nation-states. On the one hand, the acts, identities, and imaginations of sexual minorities have been often seen as threats to various regimes, which presume every citizen should be heterosexual and reproductive. Nonheteronormative people have been stigmatized, persecuted, and even murdered en masse by modern state apparatuses. Understandably, queer texts betray a tendency to escape government power. On the other hand, however, literature has often been linked to or even co-opted by establishments. Before the prospect of online publications, writers who wished to publish their works had to rely on newspapers, journals, and publishing houses, which are often closely affiliated with or even owned by states. New writers are eager to win recognition from literary prizes whose judges, generally editors and academics, are associated to some extent with people in power. These judges are among the contributors to textbooks teaching literature, or “national literature,” to students at different stages. Moreover, many writers in Sinophone societies are members of official or semiofficial writers’ associations led by nation-states or ruling parties. In his opus on nationalism, Imagined Communities (1991), Benedict Anderson notes that he has to examine Southeast Asian literature in their original languages, as well as in translation, as alternatives to actual field research in the countries that he is not allowed to revisit. There is a

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similar Sinophone scenario. During the Cold War, many scholars had to rely on Pai Hsien-yung’s 白先勇《孽子》(Crystal Boys), a pioneering 1983 novel depicting Taipei’s gay underground, as an alternative to in-person interviews with homosexual men, who were once too discreet and thus difficult to locate. Even now, reading translations of queer literature as convenient ethnographies of non-heteronormative lives remains tempting. However, these translations never offer comprehensive pictures of queer lives, not only because much Chinese-language queer literature is not translated but also because not all Sinophone artists interested in queer content prefer literature—an art form habitually allied with nation-states—over other forms of expression that regimes have not yet fully co-opted. Other more transient art forms seem less risky options than the more enduring literature, whose publication can serve as convenient evidence for future persecution. Therefore, understandably, many Sinophone societies present queer cultural representations outside of literature in their own creative ways; Hong Kong was famous for its queer cinema and queer film festivals before the 1997 handover, while Singapore is renowned for its Pink Dot events, and China is famed for its non-heteronormative spectacles on the internet, first shown in online literature and later displayed on the globally phenomenal TikTok, Blued, and other social media platforms.

OUTSIDE CHINA PROPER With China’s rise as a superpower, translations of modern Chinese-language literature from China become more available. Nonetheless, this rapid increase in availability dramatically contrasts with translations of queer literature from China remaining disproportionately few. This contrast reflects the relative disadvantage for writers publishing queer literature in contemporary China. For readers interested in Chinese-language queer literature, solely focusing on China is not tenable because representative literary works and their translations often do not originate from inside China. One illustrative example is the novel《霸王别姬》(Farewell My Concubine), which was adapted into a popular 1993 film of the same title that features the charismatic star Leslie Cheung 張國榮 as a homosexual, transgender Chinese opera star who survives the political upheavals of modern China. Notably, the original novel—published in 1985 prior to Hong Kong’s 1997 handover to China—was written by Lillian Lee 李碧華, a best-selling writer not from China but from Hong Kong, known for her sharp criticism of the Beijing administration. Available in French, English, Portuguese, Spanish, Italian, Greek, and Dutch translations, Lee’s novel testifies to the significance of critical storytelling about China outside China itself. The readers looking for queer literary texts in Chinese might more readily find queer texts not from China but from other societies such as Hong Kong and Taiwan. With a long and uninterrupted history of local queer literature, Taiwan did not prevent its writers from writing queer literature even before the country’s democratization in the 1980s, and has even encouraged its writers to produce more queer literature as well as other queer art forms since the 1990s. Meanwhile, readers’ celebrating Taiwan in insolation, as if the rise and translation of queer Taiwanese literature in Taiwan did not benefit from the translators and editors who are not necessarily Taiwanese, is also an ahistorical and decontextualized fallacy. In fact, global circulations of Taiwanese queer literature depend on contributions from translators and editors inside and beyond the Sinosphere, including those from China.

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The legacy of queer literature in Taiwan is indebted to Sinophone societies outside of Taiwan. “Queer literature” is often rendered as tongzhi wenxue 同志文學 in the Sinosphere, since tongzhi 同志, literally “comrade” in Chinese, was appropriated from the lexicon of the Nationalist Party in Taiwan as well the Communist Party in China to mean “homosexual” or “queer” by such writers as Mai Ke 邁克 (a.k.a. Michael Lam) and Edward Lam 林奕華, who were active in Hong Kong. The playful reinterpretation of tongzhi as “queer” was first popularized in Hong Kong and later introduced to Taiwan and then circulated in China. While tongzhi and “queer” have become almost interchangeable in Chinese vernacular during the new millennium, the current chapter alternates between “queer” and tongzhi to show the two expressions’ coexistence and imbrication. A pioneering queer writer originally from Singapore, Mai Ke, known for prolific publications of campy essays, published gay-themed stories as early as in the 1970s, including the 1978 story《黯然記》(A Tinge of Sadness), which portrays a friendship between a straight woman and her only confidant, a globe-trotting gay man. Both characters stay in the West, rather than the sexually repressive Singapore. Both Mai Ke’s “A Tinge of Sadness” and Gabriel Wu’s 吳耀宗《人間秀氣》(A World So Exquisite) are translated by Tan Dan Feng 陳丹楓 and collected in《備忘錄:新加坡華文小說讀本》(Memorandum: A Sinophone Singaporean Short Story Reader), edited by Quah Sy Ren 柯思仁 and Hee Wai Siam 許維賢 and published by Ethos in 2020. “A World So Exquisite” is a 1990 story on a rivalry among gay male characters, one of whom moonlights as a sex worker. These two works’ inclusion in Memorandum demonstrates the Singaporean contributions to translations of Chinese-language queer literature. As the Chinese-language writers from Malaysia are obviously much more than those from Singapore, it is a cheerful fact that Malaysia presents more plentiful tongzhi literature written in Chinese than Singapore does. However, since little Chinese-language literature from Malaysia gets translated, the tongzhi literature from Malaysia is seldom available in a language other than Chinese. While it is worthwhile from now on to try to translate the already available tongzhi literature from Malaysia into other languages, it is useful for the time being for the interested readers to locate queer fragments among the already available translations of the works by Chinese Malaysian writers. I find two examples in Howard Goldblatt and Sylvia Li-chun Lin’s 林麗君 2003 translation of Li Yung-p’ing’s 李永平 1986 story collection, 《吉陵春秋》(Retribution: The Jiling Chronicles), and Valerie Jaffee’s 2007 translation of Zhang Guixing’s 張貴興 2001 novel,《我思念的長眠中的南國公主》(My South Seas Sleeping Beauty: A Tale of Memory and Longing). Like several examples mentioned in the chapter, the two translations are also published by Columbia University in a series of modern literature from Taiwan. It is understandable why this Columbia University series on Taiwan happens to have presented many translations of queer literature, for Taiwan has been a more encouraging environment for queer literature than other Sinophone contexts. There are two clarifications to make, however. First, Li and Zhang are highly acclaimed writers based in Taiwan, but they are originally from Malaysia and their works are known for depictions of Malaysians of Chinese descent. Second, Li and Zhang are seldom associated with discussions of tongzhi literature, but their works known for exposures of variegated sexualities at times involve homoeroticism. In Retribution, the male characters at large are aroused by the female sex workers, but they are also attracted to the male performers in traditional opera troupes. In My South Seas, a Malaysian student who goes to college in Taipei happens to find that he is dating a Taiwanese girl who is surrounded by her possessive lesbian friends.

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PAI AND QIU AS NATIONAL TREASURES OF TAIWAN I suggest that Pai Hsien-yung, the author of《台北人》(Taipei People; 1971) and Crystal Boys (1983), and Qiu Miaojin 邱妙津, the author of《蒙馬特的遺書》(Last Words from Montmartre; 2014) and《鱷魚手記》(Notes of a Crocodile; 2017), are among the national treasures of Taiwan, for they are among the most internationally known writers not only in Taiwanese tongzhi literature but also in Taiwanese literature at large. When Pai or Qiu is mentioned by those in Taiwan, there is often some national pride in the air. Writers of queer literature in a Sinophone society other than the relatively more queer-friendly Taiwan might not be showered with any national pride in a similar way. The first available translations of modern Chinese-language tongzhi literature were the story collection Taipei People and the novel Crystal Boys. Many researchers assume that the lifting of Taiwanese martial law in 1987, which signaled Taiwan’s democratization, enabled local queer literature to materialize. However, this simplistic assumption is challenged by the fact that many texts of queer literature, such as Pai’s works, were published long before 1987. As a student in 1960s Taipei, Pai had already impressed literary circles with his Taipei People stories, some of which feature explicit male and female homoeroticism. As a college teacher in the United States, Pai started to publish parts of the once sensational Crystal Boys in the late 1970s. The novel ambitiously depicts an underground community of gay men networking and even peddling sex in Taipei New Park, which renders this park the most famous cruising spot for gay men across the Sinosphere. Published in an authoritarian period that was far from accepting homosexuality, Pai’s visibly sexualized fiction was criticized by some reviewers but never banned by the Taipei administration. Instead, by the end of the twentieth century, he was widely lauded as the most acclaimed and influential writer on homosexuality in Chinese across the Sinosphere. In 1982, Indiana University Press published an English translation of Taipei People, titled《遊園驚夢》 (Wandering in the Garden, Waking from a Dream: Tales of Taipei Characters) by Pai and Patricia Yasin. In 2000, the collection was republished and retitled Taipei People by Chinese University Press in Hong Kong. This collection is also available in Japanese, French, and Czech. Notably, Books from Taiwan (https://booksfromtaiwan.tw/), a website promoting Taiwanese literature internationally, shows that a Russian translation of the collection won a grant from Taiwan in 2020. The English translation of Crystal Boys in 1990 curiously appears to combine two totally different contexts: its translator, Howard Goldblatt, is a particularly prestigious translator of Chinese texts in US academia, whereas the book’s publisher is not an academic press but, rather, Gay Sunshine Press, an independent press of books for gay men. Gay Sunshine graces the covers of the two editions of Goldblatt’s translation with soft-porn images of Asian boys. By contrast, the Japanese, French, Italian, German, and Vietnamese translations adopt abstract, rather than sexually suggestive, cover images. The opposition between China and the United States during the Cold War explains to an extent why English translations of Pai’s works became available before English translations of not only Chinese-language queer literature but also modern Chinese literature in general. At the height of the Cold War, writers in China and their works were insulated from the West, whereas writers in Taiwan—once protected by the US military from China’s potential invasions—were subject to American influences. C. T. Hsia 夏志清, a Columbia University professor known for his anti-communist stance, defended Pai’s provocative homoerotic stories from Taiwan’s

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homophobic society at the time, noting Pai’s affinity for Western literary canons. Hsia’s widely taught A History of Modern Chinese Fiction, which tends to dismiss writers under the Beijing administration, singles out and lauds the works of Pai and a few other Taiwanese writers. Pai’s American connections, which were not affordable to writers in China of Pai’s generation, enabled Pai’s co-translation of Taipei People stories with Yasin as early as 1976, when writers in China were barred from literary careers during the Cultural Revolution. Taipei People became available first in English in 1982, prior to most translated works from China, which did not appear until the mid-1980s. By the 2010s, the translations of two novels by Qiu Miaojin might have attracted wider international scholarly attention than Pai’s fiction. Ari Heinrich’s translation of Last Words from Montmartre and Bonnie Huie’s 許博理 translation of Notes of a Crocodile are both published by the New York Review of Books (NYRB), a press more attractive to literature lovers than a gay indie press or university press. Alongside NYRB’s appeal, the popularity of Qiu’s translations also contributed to the rapid development of internet culture. Such online literature and translation magazines as Words Without Borders (https://wordswithoutborders.org/) did not fully develop until the 2010s, coinciding with the publications of translations of Qiu’s works. Along with bibliophile influencers on social media, these online magazines—many of which happily promote such underrepresented writers as LGBT authors and women in translation through hashtags—have diligently reviewed, praised, and thus virally popularized translations of Qiu’s works. Those of Pai’s did not achieve the same stellar status. Pai’s works were published long before the relatively recent confirmed dominance of social media and online magazines. While translations of Pai’s works are seldom, if ever, discussed by people who are unfamiliar with Sinophone societies, those of Qiu’s have extensively reached writers and readers with few connections to the Chinese-speaking world. Tellingly, Ocean Vuong’s 2019 international hit, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous (2019), begins with an epigraph from Ari Heinrich’s translation of Last Words from Montmartre. Similarly, Carolina De Robertis’s 2019 bestseller, Cantoras—a saga about Uruguayan lesbians—starts with an epigraph from Bonnie Huie’s translation of Notes of a Crocodile. Notes of a Crocodile is also available in Japanese, Korean, French, German, and Spanish translations, whereas Last Words from Montmartre is available in French, Turkish, Italian, Spanish, and Slovene.

THE HARVEST FROM THE 1990S Taiwan in the 1990s was characterized by several award-winning tongzhi literary works. Although some judges of these awards were not pleased with supposedly sudden trends for tongzhi representation in Taiwanese literature, these award-winning works—whose challenges to heteronormativity were considered signs of a democratized society—were celebrated more than rejected by local literary critics, as well as general readers. In other words, while 1990s Taiwan was not yet friendly to local queer people, its civil society generously accepted queer literature and other art forms. According to the informative databank the House of Translations 外譯坊, translations of such high-profile works include Tsao Li-chuan’s 曹麗娟 1991 short story with cult status among lesbian readers,《童女之舞》(Dance of a Maiden), which portrays a married woman’s long-term infatuation with an androgynous woman since high school. They also include

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Chu Tienwen’s 朱天文 1994 novel《荒人手記》(Notes of a Desolate Man), which depicts a middleaged gay man’s alienation from mainstream society, and Su Wei-chen’s 蘇偉貞 1994 novel《沉 默之島》(Island of Silence), which intertwines two globe-trotting women’s transnational affairs with both straight and gay men across the Sinosphere. Chi Ta-wei’s 紀大偉 1995 science fiction novel《膜》(The Membranes) recounts a trans woman’s reconciliation with her lesbian mother. Meanwhile, Qiu Miaojin’s 1996 novel, Last Words from Montmartre, depicts the confession of a Taiwanese lesbian graduate student in Paris, who is tormented by her rabbit’s death, her lover’s departure, and the world’s hypocrisy. Last Words from Montmartre was published and awarded a major prize after Qiu’s suicide in Paris at the age of twenty-six. These award-winning works became consecutively available in English translation. “Dance of a Maiden” was translated by Shou-fang Hu-Moore 胡守芳 and published in The Chinese Pen: Contemporary Chinese Literature from Taiwan in 2002. Notably, Chinese Pen is a journal based in Taiwan, rather than China. Notes of a Desolate Man—translated by Howard Goldblatt, who translated Crystal Boys, and Sylvia Li-chun Lin—was published by Columbia University Press in 1994. Meanwhile, Island of Silence was translated by Jeremy Tiang, himself an accomplished novelist from Singapore, and published by the Singaporean independent press Ethos in 2003. Ari Heinrich’s translations of Last Words from Montmartre and The Membranes were published by NYRB in 2014 and Columbia University Press in 2021, respectively. The anthology, Angelwings: Contemporary Queer Fiction from Taiwan, edited by Fran Martin and published by University of Hawai’i Press in 2003, is especially helpful to those who are interested in the 1990s tongzhi literature in Taiwan. Every story in this collection was translated by Martin after Martin’s meticulous introduction. This collection includes such stories as Chu Tienwen’s 1989 “Bodhisattva Incarnate,” in which gay men jokingly compare themselves to bodhisattvas, who give away their bodies to satisfy strangers, Qiu Miaojin’s 1990《柏拉圖之髮》 (Platonic Hair), in which a transgender man comes out after living as a straight woman in love with a woman, Chi Ta-wei’s 1995《一個陌生人的身分證明》(A Stranger’s ID), in which a lower-class gay boy is mistaken for an undocumented immigrant worker and therefore bullied by police at a checkpoint, and Chen Xue’s 陳雪 1995《尋找天使遺失的翅膀》(Searching for the Lost Wings of the Angel), in which a woman falls in love with the apparition of her mother, who had been a sex worker. Chen Xue’s story was so impressive to 1990s queer readers that it was selected by both Martin and Patricia Sieber, the editor of another anthology I will introduce later, contributing its central image to the title of Martin’s anthology. Martin’s translated collection is a companion to her 2003 monograph, Situating Sexualities: Queer Representation in Taiwanese Fiction, Film and Public Culture, which remains an instructive English-language study of various key texts of queer 1990s literature. Importantly, the target language of translated Chinese-language queer literature is not necessarily English. France, for instance, often pays attention to modern literature in Chinese more readily than other European countries. The press Flammarion published Geneviève Imbot-Bichet’s translation of Farewell My Concubine in 1993 and André Lévy’s translations of Crystal Boys in 1995 and Taipei People in 1997. L’Asiathèque published The Membranes translated by Gwennaël Gaffric, the French translator of Liu Cixin’s 刘慈欣 science fiction novels, in 2015, and Chi Ta-wei’s collection of queer science fiction stories,《珍珠》(Pearls), translated by Gaffric, Olivier Bialais, Pierrick Rivet, and Coraline Jortay. Additionally, Emmanuelle Péchenart’s translation of Last Words from

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Montmartre was published in 2018, with a preface from the world-famous feminist scholar Hélène Cixous, Qiu’s academic adviser in Paris. Moreover, thanks to the historic ties between Japan and Taiwan, many translations of Taiwanese literature appeared in Japanese before other languages or are only available in Japanese. The treasure of translations in Japanese is often ignored by the readers who are attentive only to the translations in European languages. “Dance of a Maiden” was translated into Japanese by Akamatsu Miwako and gathered into a collection of short stories in the series “Taiwan’s Sexual Minority Literature,” published in Tokyo in 2009. Published in the same series in the same year were Shirouzu Noriko’s translation of The Membranes and Tarumi Chie’s translation of Qiu Miaojin’s Notes of a Crocodile, a bildungsroman that juxtaposes a matter-offact narrative about a lesbian student in Taipei with a fantastical narrative about a cartoonist crocodile, an avatar of a closeted homosexual besieged by voyeuristic media curiosity about social misfits. Both novels were first available in Japanese before European languages. Shirouzu’s translation of Chen Xue’s 2004 autographical novel,《橋上的孩子》(The Child on the Bridge), in which the protagonist from a humble background seeks redemption in writing fiction about lesbian and bisexual women, appeared in 2011. Among Chen’s numerous ambitious novels about female sexualities, only The Child on the Bridge is available in translation, and only in Japanese. Nishimura Masao’s translation of Kuo Chiang-sheng’s 郭強生 2012 novel,《惑鄉之人》(Men Ambivalent with Their Homelands)—which revisits the past of interracial homoeroticism in Taiwan under Japanese colonial rule—appeared in 2018. Misu Yusuke’s translation of Hsu Chia-tse’s 徐嘉澤 2012 novel, 《下一個天亮》(Looking Forwards to the Next Daybreak), examines Taiwan’s traumatic history with gay, male characters as insiders, rather than outsiders, of Taiwanese society.

FROM WITHIN CHINA By the end of the twentieth century, many writers and academics within and beyond the Sinosphere, like their activist counterparts, attempted to create international solidarity between feminist or queer writers across the Sinosphere through endeavors such as showcasing anthologies of feminist or queer works from various Sinophone backgrounds. Such endeavors aimed to empower writers in China, who had been underrepresented in the twentieth century. Like several counterparts published in Chinese, Red Is Not the Only Color: Contemporary Chinese Fiction on Love and Sex between Women, is one example of such anthologies. Edited by Patricia Sieber and published by Rowman & Littlefield in 2001, this feminist-cum-queer collection includes such stories as Ding Naifei’s 丁乃非translation of Wong Bik-wan’s 黃碧雲 1994《她是女子,我也是女子》(She’s a Young Woman and So Am I), which examines intimacy among school girls, Zhang Jingyuan’s 張京媛 translation of Wang Anyi’s 王安忆 1989《弟兄們》(Brothers)—in which female friends form a brotherhood, rather than a sisterhood—and Sieber’s translation of Chen Xue’s 1995 “In Search of the Lost Wings of Angels,” which is an alternative to Martin’s translation of the same story. Wong, Wang, and Chen—from Hong Kong, China, and Taiwan, respectively—are all highly celebrated writers known for their prolific literature about women. One of the most prolific and most often-awarded novelists in China, Yan Geling 严歌苓, published the novella《白蛇》(White Snake) in 1999 in her collection White Snake and Other

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Stories. The collection was translated by Lawrence A. Walker and published by Aunt Lute Books in 1999. In “White Snake,” the distinctive social order created by the Cultural Revolution enabled a woman to cross-dress like a man and seduce a leading female dancer internationally known for her snake dance. A representative feminist writer in the 1990s, Chen Ran 陳染 published her novel 《私人生活》(A Private Life) in 2001. It was translated by John Howard-Gibbon and published by Columbia University Press in 1996. The novel is known for its intimacy between women against the tumultuous background of the June Fourth Massacre in 1989. Posthumously a cult figure known for his portrayals of nonconformists in postsocialist China, Wang Xiaobo 王小波 published his novella《東宮西宮》(East Palace, West Palace) in 1996. It was translated in Wang in Love and Bondage: Three Novellas by Wang Xiaobo by Zhang Hongling 張洪凌 and Jason Sommer, and published by State University of New York Press in 2017. In the novella, a sadistic male police officer catches and interrogates a masochist gay man cruising in “East Palace” and “West Palace,” nicknames for the toilets by Tiananmen Square in downtown Beijing. The officer finds himself aroused during the interrogation. However, although Yan, Chen, and Wang are all renowned writers in China, these translations met with limited enthusiasm. Among the translations of queer literature from China, only the translations of the novel《北 京故事》(Beijing Comrades) enjoy international recognition similar to works from Taiwan. The novel was first serialized online in 1998 and later published offline in Taipei in 2002. It depicts a relationship between a male college student in Beijing, who had earned his living as a sex worker for men, and a bisexual businessman, formerly a patron of the student. The partners in this gay relationship are traumatized by the June Fourth Massacre during the Tiananmen Square protests in Beijing in 1989. Despite its popularity among online readers, the narrative is, thus, particularly sensitive to the Beijing administration. After all, a narrative about gay men is not readily acceptable to Beijing, let alone a novel about a gay couple whose younger partner is involved in commercial sex while the elder partner is charged with corruption. Additionally, the June Fourth Massacre is simply an unmentionable taboo in China. The narrative was probably permitted to audaciously portray taboos because of two factors: first, its author is anonymous; and second, in China, the novel was circulated online, rather than in print. While as all of the aforementioned translations were based on works by famous authors who are recognized widely in their home countries or beyond, Beijing Comrades is based on a work by an author who is not identifiable and out of reach. The author is known as Beijing Tongzhi 北京同志 (a pseudonym meaning Beijing Comrades in Chinese), also known as Bei Tong 北同 (shortened from Beijing Tongzhi). Thus, their name reveals no more information than the novel’s title. In China, as well as many other countries, all printed materials—such as books, magazines, and newspapers—have been subjected to skillful state surveillance for decades. However, it is possible for those who write online in China to publish works on their own with little or no dependence on editors and publishers, who are involved with state apparatuses. Therefore, the online publications were once relatively free from state scrutiny in the 1990s before the censors learned to control the internet effectively. Beijing Comrades was published offline in books in Taiwan and China in 2002, and a Japanese translation appeared in 2003. In addition to the 2016 English translation by Scott E. Myers published by Feminist Press, the novel is also available in Spanish, Vietnamese, and Italian. The translations of Beijing Comrades faced more difficulty in attracting international attention than the translations of Pai’s and Qiu’s fiction. At least three factors are worth considering in

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this regard. First, the translations of Beijing Comrades received no endorsement from the Beijing administration. Since Beijing Comrades is offensive to the Beijing administration, the translations of the book are virtually unable to receive moral or financial support from China, in the same way the translations of Pai’s and Qiu’s books are encouraged in Taiwan. Myers states that his translation was made possible by funding from the New York State government, rather than China (2016, copyright page). While Taiwan has not always been able to effectively facilitate international circulations of its queer literature, it at least has never prohibited such circulations. Although Ari Heinrich’s translation remains unfunded and Bonnie Huie’s is funded by a Pen/Heim fellowship, rather than a grant from Taiwan, many later translations of queer texts by Qiu and emerging younger writers are sponsored by the Taipei administration. Second, China’s public sphere can hardly dissuade the Beijing administration from prohibiting queer literature. Theoretically, the public sphere oscillates between an affinity with and independence from its corresponding government. With participants in cultural and academic circles, the public sphere is supposed to guide translators to potential texts worth translating and evaluate translators’ textual productions. In China, this public sphere of literature has been reluctant to comment on Beijing Comrades, however—just as it has ignored virtually all other texts of queer literature in modern China. Without moral support from the semi-official public sphere, interested translators can only turn to the alternative public sphere on the internet, where anonymous users celebrate Beijing Comrades and other queer texts with a fervor not easily found offline. By contrast, in Taiwan, the public sphere of literary and academic establishments has keenly promoted queer literature, including Pai’s and Qiu’s books, to a general readership and extensively written about queer literature in general. With their local contacts in literary or academic establishments in Taiwan, potential translators are empowered by the Taiwanese public sphere to identify texts to translate and consult with local professionals on queer literature—either in person or through the book reviews and journal articles they write. In addition to the semi-official public sphere, the alternative online public sphere—where many Taiwanese users are keen connoisseurs of various forms of queer arts—also keeps translators abundantly informed. Notably, despite the difficulties of circulating queer literature from China, Myers managed to publish his translation of Mu Cao’s 墓草 novel《弃儿》(In the Face of Death We Are Equal), published by Seagull in 2020. Without professional training and membership in a writers’ association in China, Mu Cao is an avant-garde, lower-class writer. Originally titled Outcast, In the Face of Death We Are Equal, this novel depicts underrepresented working-class gay men. Though written in 2003, it was not published in Chinese until 2011. Third, selling the work of an anonymous author is difficult. By the 2010s, both online and print media across countries often tended to promote new books with author interviews alongside or instead of reviews. These interviews usually focus on authors so much that they virtually promote authors themselves, rather than their books. This trend in book-related media is disadvantageous to the translations of Beijing Comrades, whose anonymous author is not available for interviews. Meanwhile, this trend partially explains why the translations of Pai’s and Qiu’s books sell relatively well. Partly because of his personal charisma, Pai was already among the most often-interviewed Chinese-language writers before the internet’s rise. With the internet’s dominance, Pai remains a popular interviewee. Made famous only posthumously, Qiu was virtually never officially interviewed. Yet the deceased Qiu is identifiable, rather than elusive, having left detailed diaries and low-profile friends who are available for interviews.

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MULTIPLYING THE QUEER, DIVERSIFYING THE LITERARY Attention to transgender lives is more pronounced in the new millennium than it was previously. A transgender studies scholar, Ari Heinrich chose to translate Last Words from Montmartre and—later—The Membranes. He identified potential scope for discussions of transgender issues in both novels. Another transgender studies scholar, Howard Chiang, edited Queer Taiwanese Literature: A Reader by Cambria in 2021. The book presents readers with themes that had been less represented, including pregnancies among married lesbians (Wen-chi Li 利文 祺 and Colin Bramwell’s translation of Chen Xue’s 2015《無有之物》[A Nonexistent Thing]); transgender and transvestite experiences among men (Shengchi Hsu’s translation of Lin Yuhsuan’s 林佑軒 2010《女兒命》[Destined for a Daughter]); same-sex desire among Indigenous, non-Chinese Paiwan women (Kyle Shernuk’s translation of Dadelavan Ibau’s 達德拉凡.伊 苞 2000 story《慕娃凱》[Muakai]); gay men’s response to AIDS sufferers (Yahia Ma’s 馬正 堂 translation of Chi Ta-wei’s 1996《嚎叫》[Howl]); aging and asexual lesbians in an ageist subculture (Jamie Tse’s translation of Tsao Li-chuan’s 1996《關於她的白髮及其他》[On Her Gray Hair Etcetera]); gay chemsex parties (Howard Chiang and Shengchi Hsu’s translation of Hsu Yu-chen’s 徐譽誠 2008 “Violet”); and bisexual women before Taiwan’s democratization (Liu Yichun’s translation of Li Ang’s 李昂 1977 《晚春》 [Late Spring]). Chiang’s edited reader appears to be modeled after Martin’s Angelwings. But it differs remarkably from Martin’s project in having been commissioned by the Taiwan government. Martin’s project was not supported by any funding from Taiwan. In other words, the Taipei administration has learned to take the initiative to promote Taiwanese queer literature globally in a way it had not. Such investments in sponsoring transnational transmissions of local queer literature do not seem to have materialized in Sinophone societies other than contemporary Taiwan. The year 2021 also witnessed the special issue of Queer Time: Tongzhi Literature from Taiwan. It was co-edited by Ariel Chu 朱詠 慈, an emerging Taiwanese American writer, and Chi Ta-wei for the online magazine of the Asian American Writers’ Workshop or AAWW (https://aaww.org/). While Chiang’s edited collection presents both more established writers—whose works have been available in translation—and newer voices, including two younger gay men and a Paiwan woman, the AAWW special issue aimed to promote emerging writers whose works had virtually not been translated previously. The featured translations, whose works’ original publication years range from 2010 to 2020, include Kittie Yang’s translation of Hikaru Lee’s 李屏瑤《百年百合》(Centennial Harmony, Centennial Lilies), in which a dating app matches a lonesome lesbian and an even lonelier female ghost. The collection also includes the translation by Jenna Tang (a.k.a. Chieh-lan Tang) of Leah Yang’s 楊隸亞《大雄的身體》(Nobi Nobita’s Body), a story about a nonbinary woman whose masculine nickname comes from Doraemon; Kevin Wang’s translation of Chen Bo-ching’s 陳栢青《男神》(Boy god), a story about gay men’s ambivalence to the allure of a drug deal; Ling King’s translation of Yang Shuang-zi’s 楊双子《花開時節》(Seasons of Bloom), which dramatizes a woman-loving girl’s time travel back to pre-Second World War Taiwan under the Japanese Empire; Siyü Chen’s translation of Ma Yi-Hang’s 馬翊航 essays about an effeminate man’s exploration of his queer identity and the legacy of the Pinuyuma Indigenous people; Ye Odelia Lu’s translation of Lin Hsin-Hui’s 林新惠《剝落》(Peeling Off), a fantasy depicting the spectacular erosion of a person’s body and gender due to neoliberalist capitalism; and Yahia Ma’s translation of Petit’s 夏慕聰《軍犬》(Military Dog), one of the most widely circulated BDSM

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(bondage, discipline [or domination], sadism [or submission], masochism) cult texts in Chinese, which depicts a master’s transforming a man into his canine slave. Also, Louie Zhang, Riley Tsang’s, and Sean Y. Li’s translations of three poems by Jade Huang 黃岡 enabled the AAWW special issue to remind readers that Taiwanese poets contribute to queer literature as significantly as their fiction-writing counterparts. These poems reflect on queer desire permeating women’s body-building and girl students’ marching bands. These translations continue the legacy of such translated queer poems from Taiwan as Simon Patton’s translation of Chen Ke-hua’s 陳克華 1995《肛交之必要》(Sodomy’s Necessity), anthologized in Frontier Taiwan: An Anthology of Modern Chinese Poetry, edited by Michelle Yeh and N. G. D. Malmqvist, and published by Columbia University Press in 2001, and Lee Yew Leong’s translation of Jing Xianghai’s 鯨向海《很C而且沒禮貌》1 (Very Cheesy and Also Rather Blah) in Words Without Borders (Jing 2013). A poet out of the closet, Chen has been known for his fascination with shock value as shown in his often-provocative poems and controversial essays on multiple dimensions of gay and other sexualities. “Sodomy’s Necessity,” eulogizing the literal acts of anal sex, has been especially widely discussed. Jing is known for his more subtle playfulness than Chen as shown in “Very Cheesy,” which captures male homoeroticism and flirtations between men. Translation in an online magazine suited Jing perfectly as a best-selling Taiwanese gay poet pioneering web users’ attraction to queer poems, as well as polished online poetry reviews. Whereas Chen and Jing are male writers mostly engaged with male sexualities, Huang’s poems complicate the aforesaid legacy of queer poems with her emphasis on female and lesbian perspectives. The AAWW special issue also presents an example of emerging queer oral histories from Taiwan. Jeremy Tiang’s translated life story of a handsome, dignified butch who was active in the 1960s as a pop singer, as well as a seducer of various women, comes from the award-winning collection of senior lesbians’ oral histories,《阿媽的女朋友》(Grandma’s Girlfriends), conducted by the Taiwan Tongzhi Hotline Association. A prolific translator of works across the Sinosphere, Tiang also volunteered to publish a translation of a lesbian grandmother’s memoirs from the same collection on Words Without Borders (2021). Although this chapter has focused on translations of queer literature originally written in Chinese, several remarkable exceptions are worth attention. Some prestigious award-winning writers—such as Ha Jin 哈金, Nicholas Yu-bon Wong黃裕邦, and Li Kotomi 李琴峰 (a.k.a. Li Qinfeng)—were educated in Chinese but choose to write professionally in their adopted national languages: English and Japanese. Known for his reclaimed Waiting, Ha Jin—a novelist from China—published the 2000 story《新郎》(The Bride Groom), in which a model husband is found to be involved in a scandal with homosexuals. Nicholas Wong Yu-bon, a poet in Hong Kong, won the 28th Lambda Literary Awards (the Lammys) in the “Gay Poetry” category with his 2015 English-language poetry collection, Crevasse. Known for her depiction of Taiwan’s vibrant queer culture and her allusion to the legacy of Qiu Miaojin, the Taiwanese writer Li Kotomi won the 165th Akutagawa Prize with her 2021 novel in Japanese, 《彼岸花盛開之島》(An Island Where Red Spider Lilies Bloom). These three writers’ works were later made available in Chinese translation. Committed to empowering the Chinese-language community of tongzhi literature, Wong and Li also translate other writers’ queer texts, originally written in Chinese, into their respective adopted languages of English and Japanese.

1

“C” in this context is a local rendition of “sissy” among gay men in Taiwan.

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REFERENCES Anderson, Benedict. 1991. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. London: Verso. Asian American Writers’ Workshop (AAWW) n.d. Available online: https://AAWW.org (accessed April 30, 2023). Books from Taiwan. 2015–2023. “Grant: List of Recipients.” Available online: https://booksfromtaiwan.tw/ grant_list.php (accessed May 10, 2023). Chen, Wanning. 2021. “Yun-Fan: Singing the Variety of Queer Life.” Words Without Borders, June 8. Available online: https://wordswithoutborders.org/read/article/2021-06/june-2021-queer-yun-fan-singingthe-variety-of-queer-life-wanning-chen/ (accessed May 10, 2023). Jing Xianghai. 2013. “Very Cheesy and Also Rather Blah,” translated by Lee Yew Leong. Words Without Borders, June. Available online: https://wordswithoutborders.org/read/article/2013-06/very-cheesy-andalso-rather-blah/ (accessed April 30, 2023). Myers, Scott E., trans. 2016. Beijing Comrades, by Bei Tong. New York: First Feminist Press. Words Without Borders. Available online: https://wordswithoutborders.org (accessed April 30, 2023).

CHAPTER SIX

Voices from the In-Between: Chinese Internet Avant-garde Classicist Poetry at the Crossroad ZHIYI YANG

To “Tall Hairdo with Black Silk Ribbons”: -Na-Tion-Al-E1 皂罗特髻•纳雄耐尔 纳雄耐尔 -Na-Tion-Al-E 这动地酣歌 What intoxicated chords that shake the earth! 泼天豪气 What heroic spirit that rocks the heaven! 纳雄耐尔 -Na-Tion-Al-E 这血般潮水 What a flood of blood! 齐声唱 Let us sing in chorus 纳雄耐尔 -Na-Tion-Al-E; 把红旗 And plant red flags 插遍全人类 Around the world of mankind! 纳雄耐尔 -Na-Tion-Al-E 换崭新天地 To create new heavens and earth. 英特纳雄耐尔 In-Ter-Na-Tion-Al-E 这神奇游戏 What a magic game! 听无尽 Listening to, endless times 纳雄耐尔 -Na-Tion-Al-E; 看无尽 And seeing, endless times

All contemporary internet classicist poems cited in this article have been first published online, in forums or blogs, which may or may not have survived to date. I therefore use the version that the poets have proofread and sent to me for the purpose of translation and academic research. When transliterating Chinese words, I add modern Mandarin intonations only when the prosody matters for the discussion.

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滚滚头颅坠 Severed heads roll. 纳雄耐尔 -Na-Tion-Al-E 这一场生意 What a business game! To educated students of classical Chinese poetry, this song simultaneously shocks, scandalizes, and fascinates. This lyric song (ci 词) was written in 2018 by the contemporary poet Lĭzilìzilízi 李子栗 子梨子 (“Plum Chestnut Pear”; hereafter Lizi; real name Zeng Shaoli 曾少立, 1964–), who found his fame by publishing on internet sites and forums such as Rongshuxia 榕树下 (“Under the Banyan Tree”), Tianya 天涯, and now WeChat, where he curates the “Shici guoxue” 诗词国学 public account 公众号. In transliteration his sobriquet is an unpronounceable tongue-twister. As Xiaofei Tian, who first introduced him to English academia, notes, Lizi’s poetry is often ironic, charged with tension created by the negotiation between the old poetic form and the modern vocabulary (Tian 2009, 33). The classical Chinese poetic genre “lyric song” began as music poetry first popularized in the mid-Tang dynasty (eighth to ninth century). Texts adhere prosodically to established tune patterns, which were formally codified only in the Qing dynasty but were based on paradigmatic works primarily from the Song dynasty. The first known example of the tune pattern “Tall Hairdo with Black Silk Ribbons” is from the Song poet Su Shi 蘇軾 (1037–1101), in which the phrase cailing shicui 采菱拾翠 (“Picking water chestnuts, collecting kingfisher feathers”) appears seven times (Su 2002, 496–99). Written during Su Shi’s exile in Huangzhou, the song is playful and colloquial. As the tune pattern has appeared in no other Northern Song collections, it is possible that Su Shi created it in honor of his concubines, Cailing and Shicui, who had departed for the capital, leaving the poet longing for their shiny hair and soft skin. The last rhyme of Su Shi’s poem, however, is on an entering tone (入聲, ending in a -p, -t, or -k). Its harsh sound suggests a whiff of resentment that the aging, banished, and abandoned poet might have harbored. The playful triviality of the thematic matter associated with the tune pattern is exploited by Lizi to satirize the grand narrative of the salvation of mankind through communist revolutions, an aspiration articulated by the socialist anthem “The Internationale.” As the poet recalls, the poem was written after he was hired to teach a Chinese culture class to private business owners at the Central Institute of Socialism, an ideological training program.2 It gave him an intimate glimpse into the party-industry complex. In the first stanza, the two syllables “in-ter” are dropped from the repeated incantations. While this abbreviation is demanded by the prosody, it is also alienating, creating an unfamiliar foreign word. The reader’s confusion turns to delight when the full word is revealed at the beginning of the second stanza. This revelation is more than alphabetic. The theatre of heroism is now discovered to be but another business of getting rich fast. The violent redistribution of wealth in the Maoist era fuels a grand game of “Red Capitalism” in China today: while the proletariats remain poor and provide cheap labor for economic growth, the upper echelon of the party builds alliances with private and foreign capital. Just like Su Shi’s jovial song that simultaneously buries and reveals his bitterness, Lizi, scraping a living on the margins of the booming Chinese cultural industry, sings a satirical hymn as an observer of the gilded age.

Source: WeChat interview with Lizi on November 11, 2021. All information about the poet in this article comes from our interviews, in person or online, over the years.

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I propose to call such poetry strictly classical in prosody while unapologetically contemporary in language, style, and sensibilities, “avant-garde classicist poetry.” Its Chinese equivalence is xianfeng shici 先锋诗词, a term already in currency among some scholars and authors. The magazine《诗潮》(Poetic Waves), for instance, dedicated two issues in 2016 to “twenty-firstcentury xianfeng shici.” This term is a deliberate evocation of “avant-garde poetry” 先锋诗歌 used to describe the postrevolutionary modernist poetry movement starting in the late 1970s (Mo 2016). Indeed, Lizi and his fellow internet avant-garde classicists are as much indebted to paradigmatic ancient Chinese poets as to their elder (and internationally recognized and celebrated) contemporaries such as Haizi 海子 (1964–1989), Gu Cheng 顾城 (1956–1993), Bei Dao 北岛 (1949–), and Yang Lian 杨炼 (1955–), as well as to translated Western poetry. In a certain sense, avant-garde classicist poetry is the bastard child of canonicity (Chinese classical poetic traditions) and revolution (starting with the 1917 Literary Revolution). As a well-known fact, in January 1917, Hu Shi 胡適 (1891–1962) pronounced Chinese classical literature dead and proposed instead to write belletristic literature in the modern vernacular without esoteric allusions, parallelism, worn clichés, or emulating the ancients (Hu 1917). The dismissal of poetry continuing the classical traditions has achieved two effects: first, though such poetry continues to be written, it is marginalized by literary institutions as anachronistic and bound for oblivion (with the notable exception of Mao Zedong’s poetry); and second, most practitioners of such poetry harbor no literary aspirations for originality, but perceive their writing as a cultured practice, if not mere pastime. As Stephen Owen notes in an article published in 2003, even though Chinese classical poetry was “continuing and even resurgent,” such poetry is mostly written by “elderly gentlemen practising a craft that will soon expire,” carrying the “unmistakable whiff of poetry one wrote on one’s vacation” (2003, 545). This poem by Lizi, however, shows the possibility of reconciling clashing values, namely, it is entirely possible to abide by Hu Shi’s exhortation without abandoning the classical prosodic form. In effect, written a century after Hu Shi’s opinion became the victorious orthodox that would fundamentally shape and define modern Chinese literature, poetry by Lizi and his fellow internet avant-garde classicists may be better characterized as a contemporary variety of what Milan Kundera calls “antimodern modernism” (2007, 56). Notably, the rise of this poetry was intimately related to the burgeoning, decentralized, and somewhat anarchic internet literary scene in late 1990s China. Recent shifts in Chinese cyberspace, however, have created novel dynamisms in the production and dissemination of poetry, leading to some new trends that need to be observed and followed closely. This poem stands, therefore, at a crossroads not only of languages and literatures but also of a profound transformation in the media and cultural market.

POETICS OF THE IN-BETWEEN Translators of poetry often speak of re-creation through the target language, a constant process of negotiations and compromises among forms, languages, and images (see, e.g., Jones 2011, 172–74). Translating avant-garde classicist poetry faces not only the routine challenges of translating Chinese poetry in general and classical poetry in particular, but something more: the Herculean task of speaking the words of in-between. To a large extent, the in-betweenness of such poems survives in other languages only through copious footnotes and commentary. In this section, I will explore

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the poetics of the in-between that such poetry embodies, primarily in terms of language, style, inspiration, and philosophy. An inevitable loss in translation is the musicality of the original poem, though this is offset by new acoustic possibilities in translation. In classical Chinese poetry, the interplay of level 平聲 and oblique tones 仄聲 often results in an intricate chiasmus, a unique feature based on the tonal characteristics of the Chinese language. This feature, however, has mostly disappeared in modern Chinese free verse (usually recited in standard Mandarin). Discussions among poets and theorists on whether it is necessary or possible to reconstruct a new type of musicality for the free verse are primarily focused on rhyme and rhythm (see, e.g., Cheng 2016). The architectural principle of tonal chiasmus is gone for good in considerations of vernacular Chinese poetry. In contrast, though most avant-garde classicists embrace a modern vernacular vocabulary, they commonly follow the metrical and prosodic prescriptions of classical poetic genres—often meticulously. The poem by Lizi translated above goes even one step further by featuring the Chinese transliteration of a word from a European language. As a genius touch, the Chinese transliteration of Internationale, or yīng tè nà xióng nài ěr 英特纳雄耐尔 and its variant nà xióng nài ěr 纳雄耐 尔, conforms precisely to the prescribed prosodic inflection of the corresponding lines. It thereby calls attention to the harmonious tonal play when pronounced in Chinese, embedded in this acoustically foreign word: yīng tè nà xióng nài ěr, as level oblique | oblique level | oblique oblique, a pattern based on disyllabic word units instantly recognizable to students of classical Chinese poetry. In effect, if one listens to the refrain of the anthem closely, one may realize that the Chinese transliteration brings out the innate inflection in the musical score of “In-Ter-Na-Tion-Al-E.” The fall in pitch from -Ter to -Na, from -Na to -Tion and again from -Al to –E, for instance, is perfectly represented by the fourth tone of the Chinese words (tè, nà, and nài).3 Matching intonation to music is a common practice in traditional Chinese lyric poetry and opera. The singing tonality,

FIGURE 6.1  “The Internationale” music score. Source: https://www.marxists.org.

The decision to transliterate and not translate this refrain was first made by Qu Qiubai 瞿秋白 (1899–1935) when he translated the song from French in 1923. His transliteration, however, is yīng dé nà xióng nà ěr 英德纳雄纳尔. Our current transliteration was made by the poet Xiao San 萧三 (1896–1983) in 1923, when he translated the lyrics from Russian (Li Y. 2007, 3–4). It is possible that Xiao San changed dé 德 to tè 特 exactly because the latter’s Mandarin intonation better reflects the music. 3

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however, again evaporates when the word is translated back to English. Stripped bare of music, the translated poem is left with tiring reiterations of broken English. The repetitive incantation of a transliterated foreign word befits the poem’s radical colloquialism, a feature stressed by the readaptation of revolutionary slogans (created ironically under another classicist poet, Mao Zedong) and by the repetition of words such as “this” 这 (translated here as an interjection “what”), “endless” 无尽, and the reduplicative “roll and roll” 滚滚. In terms of prosody, however, it strictly conforms to the metrical prescription of this tune pattern, with the kind of fastidiousness that may strike some as archaism. The end rhymes, for instance, do not rhyme perfectly in Mandarin (e.g., shuĭ 水, lèi 类, and dì 地) but follow established ci rhyme categories (all belong to the zhĭ 纸 category in Cilin zhengyun 词林正韵). The word “to rock” 泼 (as in “to rock heaven” 泼天), which is pronounced pō (level tone) in modern standard Mandarin, is used here at a position prescribed to be in the oblique tone. This is because in Middle Chinese the word is pronounced phat, with an entering tone -t ending, an intonation that has disappeared in modern standard Mandarin. Indeed, ever since the Republican era, many have tried to make the case for reforming the Middle Chinese rhyme systems for shi and ci poetry under the assumption that such rhymes no longer reflect vernacular speech and are thus anachronistic (Han 2018). But the accusation of anachronism bespeaks the hegemony of modern standard Mandarin, an official language that has achieved the putative status of a lingua franca across Sinophone areas slowly throughout the twentieth century. In actual fact, the entering tone is preserved in many Sinitic languages (or “topolects,” see Mair 1991), including some Mandarin dialects (such as that of Sichuan and of Nanjing). As a native speaker of Hakka, Lizi admits that it feels natural for him to follow traditional rhyme categories.4 The apparent prosodic anachronism, therefore, is revealed to be another kind of colloquialism, if our understanding of modern Chinese literature goes beyond the hegemony of modern standard Mandarin. Transliterated foreign terms, modern Chinese ideological speech, classical Chinese, and vernacular topolects clash in this poem—a work of linguistic irony writ large. The homeliness in linguistic and stylistic hybridity is well manifested in the poetry of Dugu Shiroushou 独孤食肉兽 (“The Lone Carnivore”; hereafter Dugu), sobriquet of the Wuhan poet Zeng Zheng 曾峥 (1970–). His pictorial surrealism derives as much from European modernism as from the fantastical imagination of ancient Chinese writers from Zhuangzi to Li Shangyin 李商隱 (813–c. 858). The following lyric song titled 《死海:永恒的记忆》(The Dead Sea: Eternal Memories) is written to the tune “Washing Creek Sands” 浣溪沙 and is inspired by Salvador Dalí’s paintings on exhibition in Wuhan in 2003: 羸马驮钟叩冷关 夜垂蓝靥蚀星瘢 遗灯默待古航船

A clock on back, a skinny horse knocks at a frosty fortress gate; The night sky lowers its blue cheeks, pockmarked by stars; And a forgotten lamp silently waits for an ancient boat.

死海味知鱼泪苦 珍珠光鉴蚌心寒 恒沙无际月如磐

From the taste of the Dead Sea I know that fish tears are bitter; The shimmering pearls reflect the coldness in a clam’s heart; Upon the boundless and timeless sands, a rock-like moon.

His father moved from Hunan to southern Jiangxi as a tungsten mine engineer. Lizi thus grew up with two native topolects: Hunanese and Hakka.

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This is an ekphrastic poem. The reader recognizes many typical Dalí elements, such as Don Quixote’s skinny horse, a melting clock, lamp, sand, and so forth. But the poet does not limit himself to mere re-creation of a Spanish painting in classical Chinese. The “bitter” taste of the fish’s tears and the “cold” heart of the clam are synesthetic associations inspired by the images of the Dead Sea and the shiny pearls. It may remind the reader of a famous couplet by the Tang poet Li Shangyin (Li S. 2004, 1579): 滄海月明珠有泪 蓝田日暖玉生煙

Upon a vast ocean shines a bright moon—pearls have tears; On the Blue Field hangs the warm sun—jade breathes mist.5

In Dugu’s poem, Li Shangyin’s “oceans” and “pearls” are reintegrated into their native contexts. Now the generic “oceans” become the specific (and foreign) “Dead Sea” and are again associated with fish tears, salted by the sterile brine. The “pearls” under the moon are restored into a clam, and their cold shimmer is attributed to the coldness of the latter’s heart. Li Shangyin’s strange couplet becomes stranger, heightened in intensity and by synesthesia. What Dugu recreates, however, is not just a Tang poet’s imaginary landscape, but a pictorial space in an urban gallery conjured up by the art of a Spanish painter. As it happens, Li Shangyin is also a favorite poet for contemporary Chinese poets and novelists (Iovene 2007). Dugu’s evocation of Li Shangyin, however, is all the more subtle for involving no explicit name-dropping; instead, the reference is established organically through imagistic appropriation, syntactical symmetry, and aesthetic kinship. In this way, global artistic modernism is brought into a surprising dialogue with Chinese lyric traditions, expanding at the same time the latter’s exegetical horizon. The surrealist exegetical dimension that always underlies Li Shangyin’s lines is hereby actualized. This creates a unique paradox for translators: when classicist poets go avant-garde, they tend to reject worn-out clichés, stereotypes, or allusions too familiar to students of classical Chinese literature. Instead, they are keen to foreground their foreign influences. Dugu, for instance, frequently refers to the Swedish poet Tomas Tranströmer, often by adding footnotes to explain which line or image from the latter’s poetry (in Chinese translation) has offered him the source of inspiration. But he never acknowledges indebtedness to ancient Chinese poets, even though one of his early sobriquets is 摩登白石 (Modern White Stone), after Song poet Jiang Kui 姜夔 (1155–1209) whose style name 號 was “White Stone.” In contrast, free-verse poets do not shy away from evoking the names of Chinese ancients, almost ritualistically. Yang Lian, for instance, has written more than a dozen “Elegies, after Li Shangyin” in his Narrative Poem 《敘事诗》 bilingual collection (Yang L. 2017, 187–203), in which every poem begins with a quotation from Li’s poetry. If an anglophone reader is unfamiliar with the “default operational system” in which the poem is written but gains cues of its literary influence only from explicit references, they risk profound misrecognition—for instance, by concluding that Yang Lian’s poems owe more to Li Shangyin than do Dugu’s.

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The Blue Field, or Lantian, is a county in Shaanxi famous for its jade production.

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The clash of the modern vernacular and classical forms leads to another kind of productive hybridity, namely, that of philosophy. Take, for instance, the following poem titled 《两场雪·偈》 (Two Snows: A Gāthā) written by the poet Xutang 嘘堂 (Hall of Vital Breath, real name Duan Xiaosong 段小松6) in 2017: 如披七叶斗笠 甑中烹一米粒 种种存于世间 告以此味苦涩 秋花灿黄逼人 藤上白露来集 何者大于死亡 静观雪片奔袭

Like wearing a hat woven of seven-leaves, And cooking in a pot one single grain of rice. Every existence within this world, Declares that the taste is bitter. Autumn flowers exhibit a fiercely bright yellow, On their vines white cold dews come to pool. What thing is greater than death? In silence I watch snowflakes gallop and attack.

This short poem embodies a peculiar worldview that I would like to call “when existentialism meets Chan 禅.” Gāthā is a type of short Buddhist poetry typically written by a Chan (Zen) master at the moment of enlightenment. In the first couplet Xutang assumes the guise of an ascetic monk, wearing a hat woven by the seven-fingered leaves from the “seven-leaved tree” 七叶树 (Himalayan horse-chestnut). This tree served as the canopy for Shakyamuni Buddha’s preaching and was planted in front of the Saptparni Cave (literally “Seven-Leaves Cave”) where the first Buddhist council was held. But the monastic disguise is not just a poetic pretense: Xutang had indeed been a tonsured monk. As a leader of the 1989 student protest in Hefei, he served a three-month prison term and was released only thanks to his family connections. He then parted ways with the secular life and lived as the monk Hongmin 弘悯 (Broad Compassion) for a decade, before deciding that ascetic precepts no longer represented the true spirit of Buddhism to him. He has since worked first as an editor and then in the advertisement industry, has married and divorced twice, and now lives as an internet bootlegger peddling his own homebrew liquor, named “Breaking the Void” 破空. (I had the chance to drink it when we met in Nanjing; it was good.) Just as existentialism represented a rebellion against metaphysics in the Platonic tradition, Chan Buddhism began in sixth-century China as a rebellion against the reified scholastic Buddhism. It argues that, to achieve Enlightenment (nirvāna, namely awakening or liberation from the painful cycles of rebirth), the practitioner must abandon language to strive for the ultimate wordless truth. Given the limited cognitive capacity of the practitioner, however, one must rely upon upāya, namely, “expedience” or “skillful means.” In Mahāyāna Buddhism, various forms of Buddhist teaching and practice are all declared to be provisional means, skillfully set up by the Buddha to teach the unenlightened (Pye 1978, 1). It includes not only concrete images or methods but also such a central teaching as that of nirvana itself (36). This led to a “this-worldly turn” in Chan Buddhism. Instead of staring into the Emptiness and obsessed by one’s pursuit of Enlightenment, the practitioner is encouraged to understand the Buddhist truth (法; Skt. dharma) through its concrete manifestations in thisworldly phenomena (色; Skt. rūpa). Xutang’s path embodies this iconoclastic Buddhist path.

6

This is his legal name. He prefers to give his name as Duan Xiaosong 段晓松, using a homophone for xiao.

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Since any positive definition of the Buddhist Truth will be self-nullifying, it cannot be expressed by conventional language. Poetry, therefore, has been employed as a “skillful means” by Chan monks since the medieval period to word the wordless. In this poem, Xutang turns into an ascetic monk, meditating over the cooking of a single grain of rice. In Buddhist literature (just like in Zhuangzian Daoism), size is relative. The whole ocean is “just like” a speck of dust; the world is “just like” a grain of rice; and vice versa. Such radical statements of relativism are meant to help the practitioner discard conventional wisdom and perceive the material world through a transcendental eye. Cooking a grain of rice is certainly not preparation for a meal, but a pretense to meditate and observe the infinite transformation of the fire. The bitterness of the world’s taste and the beauty of its natural forms are opposing forces, alternatively making one despair or holding one in awe. In the end, the poet asks a question about the ultimate value of life, which may transcend death, only to fall into silence, watching snowflakes fly. In this poem, nature is not nurturing. The color of the flower is “fierce” 逼人 (literally “forcing upon people”), while the snowflakes “gallop and attack” 奔袭 a docile earth. Nature guarantees, conditions, and remains hostile to the existence of man. The poet, at heart a restless rebel, has reconciled himself with the violence of existence. This poem is obscure and yet deeply affective. It achieves a particular aesthetics of solemnity and sublimity by adopting the unusual six-character line and an austere language stripped bare of ornamentations. Despite its title, it is not a gāthā in the traditional sense of the genre. The author does not negate or affirm worldly existence, nor does he overcome the fear of death. Instead, he confronts these questions but seeks no answer, an observer of the cosmic winter in cold clarity. This gesture appears to embody an existentialist pursuit for authenticity. From Dostoevsky to Camus, modern existentialist heroes are heroes of authenticity. They hope to “shatter our dogmatic beliefs and lure us into giving up blindly accepted ethical norms and ideologies” (Golomb 2012, 7). Only then, by transcending the prevailing ethos, namely our social and ethical predicaments, can we find the root of our being and ultimately attain authenticity. Some scholars argue that Sartre’s existentialist nihilism owes a largely unacknowledged debt to the nineteenthcentury “discovery” of Buddhism in Europe (Franklin 2012). Modern East Asian Buddhists have similarly borrowed existentialist philosophy to give Buddhist doctrines new interpretations (see, e.g., Kasulis 1984). Xutang professed to have broadly perused modern existentialist literature. The philosophy embodied in this gāthā appears to be equally Chan Buddhist and existentialist, which the poet has organically synthesized together. By deploying a fragmented language of obscurity, the poem becomes what Adorno calls the text of “parataxis,” where “the relationship of syntax and material dissolves and the material affirms its superiority by belying the syntactic form that attempts to encompass it” (Adorno 1992, 27). Through paratactic writing, the language is liberated from its prison—the prison of prosaic meaning. The translation, therefore, must strive to preserve the parataxis by rejecting the kind of syntactical relations that lead to facile interpretation. But how far should a translator go in torturing English grammar? Isn’t every participle and pronoun in the translation an act of betrayal?

THE CHALLENGE OF THE FORM All these features of in-betweenness characterized above pose particular challenges to translators of this poetry. Some are correlated with one fundamental question in poetry translation: how to reconstruct the meaning conveyed by the form? Again, though translation between two languages

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is frequently challenged to recreate formal characteristics, this question is particularly pertinent when we discuss the translation of avant-garde classicist Chinese poetry. One reason is the strong correlation between the reader’s experience of aesthetic pleasure and formal characteristics such as musicality and parallelism, as shown by the poems cited above. Another is the element of pleasant surprise when the reader’s reading expectation, cultivated by thousands of classical poems, is challenged and overturned by a hybrid and modern language. The third, as I will explain further below, results from the poet’s conscious formal choice bearing a message, which becomes essential to the understanding of the poem. To write a classicist Chinese poem, one must first decide whether it should be a shi 诗, a ci, a fu 赋 (“rhymeprose”), or something else. If a ci, which tune pattern? If a shi, how many syllables per line? The latter is not an idle question. Though premodern poets faced the same choices, their options were often conditioned by social conventions. For instance, the predominant majority of late Imperial and Republican-era social poetry was the heptasyllabic regulated verse 七律. Poems on portraits were normally heptasyllabic quatrains 七絕. Poetry on the pleasure of retreat from public life, pentasyllabic archaic verse 五古. Contemporary classicists have much greater freedom to choose the verse form that serves their purpose without being restricted by social conventions. Take, for instance, the following poem by the Cantonese poet Tianxuezhai 添雪斋 (“Studio of More Snow”; hereafter Tianxue), real name Li Yingqing 李影青 (c. 1975–). Titled《雏鸟》(Baby Bird; 2003), it was written in response to the news that Li Siyi 李思怡, a three-year-old child, was locked alone at home when her mother was taken into police custody for drug use. Despite the mother repeatedly telling the police about her sick daughter, no one checked upon Siyi for seventeen days, when the neighbors called to report on the unbearable odor of putrefaction from the apartment. Macabre details were reported once the door was opened (see Xunxin Chat Music 2021). The first of the three stanzas reads: 雏鸟小小 待哺待怜 瞻望其母 七日涟涟 曷馀我去 哓哓问天 昊天赫赫 不暇释诠

A tiny, tiny baby bird Awaiting food, awaiting pity. Her head lifted, she searched for her mother. For seven days. Oh tears, oh tears! Why: mother has left me, she is gone? Cheep, cheep! She asks Heaven. Grand and glorious is the august Heaven! Thou hast no spare time for explanations.

The moving power of the poem derives from its tetrasyllabic form, which prosodically and stylistically hark back to《詩經》(Book of Odes), a foundational canon for Chinese literary and cultural traditions. Repetition, symbolic or allegorical use of animals, and shifting narrative perspectives are characteristics of the ancient odes. While the language of the stanza is generally transparent, the line “Grand and glorious is the august Heaven” 昊天赫赫 is the most archaic. The “august Heaven,” as it happens, has appeared in a dozen odes and is frequently associated with disaster and chaos. The poets’ plea thus resembles a curse. For instance: “Vast and wide is the august Heaven,/Thy kindness does not last./Sending down a deadly famine,/That destroys throughout the kingdoms!” 浩浩昊天/不駿其德/降丧飢饉/斬伐四國 (“Untimely Rain” 《雨無正》, in “Minor Odes” 小雅). Tianxue’s evocation of “august Heaven” thus subtly compares the Chinese state to the ancient non-anthropomorphic god indifferent to human suffering. As the tetrasyllabic

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line is frequently used in ritual poetry, the prosodic form adds solemnity to her indignity, making the poem an indictment against the abuse of power. Avant-garde classicists toy with readers’ expectations about what counts as “classical-style,” but what distinguishes them from contemporary mainstream Chinese free verse is more than wordplay. They pay meticulous attention to their craft, including prosody, parallelism, and allusion, among other rhetorical devices. On internet forums where such poems are published, it is quite common to find a vivid discussion on the merit of the poems and suggestions to improve them, resulting often in repeated revisions by the poets.7 Notably, a forum such as Tianya opens the poem for public discussion. Today, as most poets post their works first in WeChat Moments 微信朋友圈, visible only to their contacts, such discussions take place only within a limited circle of friends, but it remains a vibrant process. In Xiaofei Tian’s words, “the Chinese Web has re-created the traditional poetry community in which authors, readers, and critics are often one and the same” (Tian 2009, 29). The technicality and musicality of their poetry, deeply appreciated by insiders of the tradition for their innovativeness, are, however, inevitably lost in translation. A translator may strive to preserve certain unique formal and linguistic features in such poetry. Here, for instance, I have re-created the repetitions and the archaisms of “august Heaven.” Nevertheless, only a long commentary can explain its formal connection to the Book of Odes, a connection that is central to the meaning creation of this poem and instinctively grasped by educated Sinophone readers. The aesthetic pleasure that Sinophone readers of classicist poetry intuit from the poetic form is essential to its appeal. As a result, avant-garde classicist poetry does not travel equally well in Western languages. In translations, it appears neither avant-garde nor classicist. What can be gained from translations, though, is precisely exegesis, which demands patience from the translator and the reader alike. After all, Western students are willing to read Li Bai 李白 (701–762) and Du Fu 杜甫 (712–770) as canonical poets (and not just “Chinese poets”), with the help of copious footnotes and despite the untranslatability of their formal accomplishments. The lack of Western academic attention for the contemporary heirs of China’s classical lyric traditions arguably results not from their literary poverty but from mechanisms of canonicity established after the 1917 Literary Revolution.

ON THE MARGIN OF THE “FIELD” Avant-garde classicism has so far received scant attention from Western scholars. Xiaofei Tian and I have previously translated some such poems in published articles (Tian 2009; Yang Z. and Ma 2018). Lizi, featured in Tian’s article, has so far received the broadest international interest. A German-language monographic manuscript has been published about him (Kraushaar 2022), and an English-language doctoral dissertation includes him in discussion (by Haizhi Luo, University of New South Wales). But no major translations have been published so far. Above all, their marginalization in China and beyond reflects the imbalanced power structure within the field of modern Chinese literature, as it continues to be dominated by the conventional narrative of literary modernity as a linear evolution from the written classical language 文言 to a

A case in point is Lizi’s repeated revision of his lyric song to “Wind Entering the Pine” 風入松, first published online in 2005 (see Lizi 2005).

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“liberated” modern vernacular 白话. Poetry written in classical genres is thus often called “Old Poetry” 旧诗, in contrast to “New Poetry” 新诗. Given that since the early twentieth century the “new” has been tacitly understood not only as “modern” but subsequently as “good” in a teleological narrative of literary evolution, the term “Old Poetry” itself implies that this type of literature is anachronistic and doomed to fade from history. This prophecy, however, has turned out not to be true. Poetry in classical prosody and vocabulary continues to be written and read in huge quantity today (Owen 2003, 545). The institutional marginalization of classicist genres, including poetry, prose, and fiction, is, however, manifested by their near thorough exclusion from histories and anthologies of modern Chinese literature, by the lack of academic professorship or research funding devoted to its compilation, editing, and research, and by the exclusion of their authors from the consideration of major literary prizes (with the rare exception of the 2014 Lu Xun Prize in poetry; on that curious case, see Yang Z. and Ma 2018, 530–31). To argue that such poetry is part and parcel of modern Chinese literature, I have therefore proposed to call it “classicist poetry” (Yang Z. 2015, 2016, 2018). Classicism in this case is not the opposite of modernism, nor is it intrinsically conservative. In fact, many paradigmatic modernists, such as Stravinsky and Pablo Picasso, were classicists at the same time as they were avant-gardists. Others have developed their avant-gardism by seeking inspiration from other classical traditions, such as Ezra Pound in his emulation of medieval Chinese poetry. If we abandon Eurocentric bias and acknowledge that other highly elaborate ancient traditions should be considered as “classical” as the Greco-Roman tradition, we may also be able to expand the use of the term “classicism” to refer to the reverent evocation of any classical tradition for the purpose of gaining cultural or social distinction. The connotation of what is considered to be articulations of “classicism” today, therefore, also differs in cultural contexts. Ultimately, just as modernist studies are undergoing a paradigm shift toward the transnational and transcultural model of global—or even planetary—modernisms (see e.g., Wollaeger 2012; Friedman 2015), we need to construct a discourse on “global classicisms.” As Maghiel van Crevel argues, the poetics of the postrevolutionary avant-gardism, especially in its early years, “was negatively defined, by dissociation from and exclusion of the thematics, imagery, poetic form and linguistic register that appear in the products of orthodoxy” (2008, 9). The avantgarde, however, tends to become the mainstream. As the “avant-garde” has outshone orthodoxy in the eyes of audiences in China and elsewhere since the 1980s, “one might contemplate a negative definition of orthodox poetry instead, as unreceptive to the individual, original and idiosyncratic language usage, imagery, and worldviews that have been associated with literary modernity” (10). The “avant-gardism” of contemporary classicist poets, at least for now, remains outside of the mainstream. It results from an act of conscious alienation on three fronts: from classical Chinese poetry, from modern free verse (written in or translated into Chinese), and from the current establishment of classicist poetry in China that rewards ideologically conformist and aesthetically conservative writing. These poets examined in this chapter are marginal intellectuals deprived of recognition or sponsorship from either official cultural institutions or the literary market. No one writes poetry to be rich and famous, but the kind of domestic and international prestige accorded senior 1980s avant-garde poets such as Bei Dao, Yang Lian, and Duo Duo 多多, or the kind of viral renown that elevated an unlikely poet like Yu Xiuhua 余秀华 to national and international recognition overnight, has so far evaded the classicists.

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When classicist poetry makes headlines, it is often for morbid reasons, such as when the 2014 Lu Xun Prize laureate Zhou Xiaotian 周啸天 praised the atomic bomb, or when the Shandong writer Wang Zhaoshan 王兆山fantasized setting up television screens in front of the graves of the child victims of the Wenchuan Earthquake, so that they too could cheer for the Beijing Olympics (Yang Z. and Ma 2018). Their kind of ideology-infused classicist poetry is the direct descendant of Maoist classicism, manifested, in court, by Mao Zedong and his literary lieutenant Guo Moruo’s 郭 沫若 exchange in classical meters (Yang H. 2016, 147–82), and in “New Folk Songs,” which are no more than propagandist doggerel (Chen 1960). Since contemporary offsprings of Maoist classicism continue to reflect the literary taste of established interests in a hierarchical political order, this style is commonly known in China as “Old Cadre Style” 老干体. This term, however, perhaps better describes a certain ideological and aesthetic orientation than the writers’ identity, since many such poems are written by people who are not themselves retired communist cadres. I would therefore call this ideologically conservative and aesthetically impoverished style “poetry of the establishment.” In contrast, avant-garde classicists often betray a liberal political orientation. Though we should never confuse political dissension and artistic value, as it happens, Lizi, Dugu, Xutang, and Tianxue all assume a critical stance toward the regime. Due to the highly allusive nature of classical poetry, they may speak words of bold criticism without being caught by artificial intelligence (AI) censorship. Every year at the anniversary of the Tiananmen Square massacre, for instance, many classicist poets continue to write and publish their commemorative works. Translating their post critical poems into English, however, may help censors with the hermeneutic weapon that they do not yet master. This ethical dilemma, too, represents a special challenge to translators.

IN LIEU OF CONCLUSION In-betweenness, in the parlance of anthropology, is the state of liminality, a period between stages during which one has left one’s former status, state, or identity behind but has not yet entered the next (van Gennep 1960). In its ambiguity, it is dangerous, uncertain, and powerful. Successful passage leads to a new identity; unsuccessful attempts may result in death. Poetics of the in-between is thus destined either to succeed—by becoming the mainstream—or else fade away. It is not yet clear whither Chinese avant-garde classicist poetry will go. Dugu, who has been living in Melissia, Greece, since 2016, is making active attempts to capture the foreign experience in familiar prosody. Female poets, such as Tianxuezhai, Meng Yiyi 孟依依, Hu Buxiong 胡不熊 (also known as Fachufumei 发初覆眉), and Xia Wanmo 夏婉墨, whose poetry confronts traditional gendered voices in their own ways, deserve more extended investigations than this survey chapter can summarize. With the engagement of researchers in China and beyond, Lizi’s generation is finding admirers among younger poets in their twenties too. Currently, no less than three MA theses in China have been written about Lizi’s poetry, and scholars such as Ma Dayong 马大勇 (Jilin University) have become their avid advocates, pushing their poetry increasingly into mainstream academic discussion. Arguably, with the Chinese cyberspace shifting into the social media era and with increasingly stringent censorship powered by AI, this poetry’s most vibrant and dynamic stage of bold experimentation might have passed.8 The rising trend of cultural nationalism in mainland China I plan to explore the relation between the aesthetics of this poetry and digital mediality in a separate article (Yang Z. 2023).

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has fostered aesthetic conservatism, which goes hand in hand with consumerist capitalism in merchandising highly a esthete consumer products, a market that some entrepreneurial classicists are eager to tap into. Nevertheless, the WeChat era opens new possibilities. As a messaging con social media super-app, WeChat provides means of instant communication as well as a new way to read poems posted by “friends” (people in your contact list) as part of the information flow. As a result, poetry writing becomes another way of exercising free speech in response to social and political events. Many classicists have written extraordinary works since the Covid-19 pandemic began in early 2020. The ongoing Russian invasion of Ukraine has led to a spate of new poems being posted in Moments among friends, though because of the censorship few have been collected or published via public accounts, which would allow them to be circulated among the broader public. All these speak of the amazing dynamism of this living literary phenomenon, which continues to transform in its relations to digital technology, political power, cultural market, and the reading public.

REFERENCES Adorno, Theodor W. 1992. Notes to Literature, translated by Shierry Nicholsen. New York: Columbia University Press. Chen, S. H. 1960. “Multiplicity in Uniformity: Poetry and the Great Leap Forward.” China Quarterly 3: 1–15. Cheng, Yu-yu. 2016. “The ‘Natural Rhythm’ of Chinese Poetry: Physical and Linguistic Perspectives since 1919,” translated by Ming-Tak Ted Hui and Chien-hsin Tsai. Journal of Chinese Literature and Culture 3 (2): 215–32. Franklin, Jeffre. 2012. “Buddhism and Modern Existentialist Nihilism: Jean-Paul Sartre Meets Nagajurna.” Religion and Literature 44 (1): 73–96. Friedman, Susan Stanford. 2015. Planetary Modernisms: Provocations on Modernity across Time. New York: Columbia University Press. Golomb, Jacob. 2012. In Search of Authenticity: Existentialism from Kierkegaard to Camus. London: Routledge. Han Sheng 韩胜. 2018.《论民国时期旧体诗词变体与创体的创作实践》[On the Writing Practice of Variant or Creative Styles in Old-Style Poetry in the Republican Period].《文艺评论》[Literature and Art Reviews] (1): 69–74. Hu Shi 胡適. 1917.《文學改良芻議》[A Preliminary Proposal on the Reform of Literature].《新青年》 [New Youth] 2 (5): 1–11. Iovene, Paola. 2007. “Why Is There a Poem in This Story? Li Shangyin’s Poetry, Contemporary Chinese Literature, and the Futures of the Past.” Modern Chinese Literature and Culture 19 (2): 71–116. Jones, Francis R. 2011. “The Translation of Poetry.” In The Oxford Handbook of Translation Studies, edited by Kirsten Malmkjær and Kevin Windle, 169–82. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kasulis, Thomas. 1984. “Buddhist Existentialism (Review Article).” Eastern Buddhist, n.s. 17 (2): 134–41. Kraushaar, Frank. 2022. Fern von Geschichte Und Verheißungsvollen Tagen. Neoklassizistische Cyberlyrik Im ChinaNetz Und Die Schreibweise Des Lizilizilizi (2000–2020). Bochum: Projektverlag. Kundera, Milan. 2007. The Curtain: An Essay in Seven Parts, translated by Linda Asher. New York: HarperCollins. Li Shangyin 李商隱. 2004.《李商隱詩歌集解》[Compiled Commentaries on the Poetry of Li Shangyin], edited by Liu Xuekai 刘学锴 and Yu Shucheng 余恕诚. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju. Li Youtang 李友唐. 2007.《《国际歌》中文译词的演变》[Transformations in the Chinese Translation of the Lyrics of “The Internationale”].《党史博采》[Extensive Collection of the Party History] 5: 3–4. Lizi. 2005. “Wind Entering the Pine.” Available online: https://drive.google.com/open?id=1wMksElGfGvryUQ NrPdNvF7NPRX6QCCmW&authuser=zy.yang.s%40gmail.com&usp=drive_fs (accessed May 10, 2023).

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Mair, Victor H. 1991. “What Is a Chinese ‘Dialect/Topolect’? Reflections on Some Key Sino-English Linguistic Terms.” Sino-Platonic Papers 29: 1–31. Mo Zhenbao 莫真宝. 2016.《先锋诗词:先锋诗歌的别动队》[Avant-Garde shici: A Special Detachment of the Avant-Garde Poetry].《诗潮》[Poetic Waves] 12: 106–08. Owen, Stephen. 2003. “Stepping Forward and Back: Issues and Possibilities for ‘World’ Poetry.” Modern Philology 100 (4): 532–48. Pye, Michael. 1978. Skilful Means: A Concept in Mahayana Buddhism. London: Duckworth. Su Shi 蘇軾. 2002.《蘇軾詞編年校註》[Su Shi’s Lyric Songs Arranged by Date of Composition, Collated and Annotated], edited by Zou Tongqing 邹同庆 and Wang Zongtang 王宗堂. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju. Tian, Xiaofei. 2009. “Muffled Dialect Spoken by Green Fruit: An Alternative History of Modern Chinese Poetry.” Modern Chinese Literature and Culture 21 (1): 1–45. van Crevel, Maghiel. 2008. Chinese Poetry in Times of Mind, Mayhem and Money. Leiden: Brill. van Gennep, Arnold. 1960. The Rites of Passage, translated by Monika Vizedom and Gabrielle L. Caffee. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Wollaeger, Mark A., ed. 2012. The Oxford Handbook of Global Modernisms. Oxford: Oxford: Oxford University Press. Xunxin Chat Music. 2021. “Major Case Documentary: The Whole Story of the Starvation Death of 3-year-old girl Li Siyi.” Netease, June 13. Available online: https://www.163.com/dy/article/ GCBV4LG80532QPBP.html (accessed March 4, 2022). Yang, Haosheng. 2016. A Modernity Set to a Pre-Modern Tune: Classical-Style Poetry of Modern Chinese Writers. Leiden: Brill. Yang Lian 杨炼. 2017. Narrative Poem, translated by Brian Holton. Hexham: Bloodaxe Books. Yang, Zhiyi. 2015. “Introduction to the Special Issue on Modern Chinese Lyric Classicism.” Frontiers of Literary Studies in China 9 (4): 510–14. Yang, Zhiyi. 2016. “The Tower of Going Astray: The Paradox of Liu Yazi’s (1887–1958) Lyric Classicism.” Modern Chinese Literature and Culture 28 (1): 174–221. Yang, Zhiyi. 2018. “The Making of a Master Narrative and How to Break It: Introduction to the Double Special Issue ‘Multivalent Lyric Classicism.’” Frontiers of Literary Studies in China 12 (2): 153–81. Yang, Zhiyi, and Dayong Ma. 2018. “Classicism 2.0: The Vitality of Classicist Poetry Online in Contemporary China.” Frontiers of Literary Studies in China 12 (3): 526–57. Yang, Zhiyi. 2023. “Writing in the Digital Sand: Technology and Classicist Poetry in the Chinese Cyberspace.” Prism: Theory and Modern Chinese Literature (20)2 (forthcoming).

CHAPTER SEVEN

Bovaristic Renderings: Zhou Shoujuan’s Pseudotranslation and the Creation of an Alternative Romantic Space JANE QIAN LIU

Pseudotranslation has always been an intriguing phenomenon in the history of translation. Works of pseudotranslation have been found in literary fields across the globe and throughout different time periods. The Chinese literary field of the early twentieth century is a particularly dynamic space that witnessed the most remarkable tide of translation of foreign literature in the history of Chinese literature. For writers and readers alike, translated literature represented Western cultures that were considered to be embodiments of “progress,” “enlightenment,” and “modernity.”1 Numerous renowned modern Chinese writers learned to write literary works by reading translated foreign literature, and many of them translated foreign works alongside creating their own works. Lin Shu 林紓 (1852–1924), Su Manshu 蘇曼殊 (1884–1918), Lu Xun 魯迅 (1881–1936), and Zhou Zuoren 周作人 (1885–1967) are all cases in point, as well as scores of their contemporaries. In this dual career of translating and writing, some then decided to blend the two activities, sometimes playfully, producing works that defy the boundary between translation and creation. As a matter of fact, in works translated by Bao Tianxiao 包天笑 (1876–1973), Lin Shu, and Zhou Shoujuan 周瘦 鵑 (1895–1068), one can easily see the translators’ creative rendering of the original, sometimes to such an extent that the translations depart from the source texts in significant ways (Liu, J. Q. 2017). The most radical form of such creative translation is pseudotranslation when writers ultimately rid themselves of the bounds of an “original” source text and allow their creativity to reign at even greater depths. In this chapter, I discuss several works of Zhou Shoujuan that fall into the category of pseudotranslation. Although these works create an appearance of translation, they are not built upon a single corresponding source text. Zhou’s works of pseudotranslation have gained increased attention over the past years (Pan 2011, 1–23; Hill 2011, 125–48; Qi and Li 2020,

For discussions on the influence of translated literature on modern Chinese literature, see L. H. Liu (1995), Chen (1988), and Yuan (2000, 206–33).

1

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141–47). As Pan Shaw-yu posits, Zhou’s pseudotranslations often reflect his understanding and, in particular, his imagination of the West. While this is certainly true, particularly in his earlier works of pseudotranslation, namely, before the year 1914, I argue that his works of pseudotranslation between 1914 and 1915 have taken on a significantly different function. Instead of patching up an assortment of features of contemporary translations of detective stories and Russian anarchist novels, and mixing together elements of assassination, camouflage, blood, beautiful girls, and tragic death, in works of pseudotranslation between 1914 and 1915, Zhou turned his gaze toward his romantic imagination, centering on his own tragic love story with Zhou Yinping 周吟萍, the love of his life, creating an alternative romantic world where he could revisit and rewrite their story again and again. This writing is Bovaristic in nature, as it ultimately builds on a blending of life and books, of reality and illusion, in the same way as Flaubert’s Emma Bovary is “hallucinated” by the “romantic” literature that she reads (Levin 1972, 229). The difference, of course, is that instead of Emma Bovary’s “Bovaristic reading,” Zhou’s was a kind of “Bovaristic writing,” which would enable us to see Bovarysm from a different angle. Moreover, reading Zhou’s pseudotranslations in this way allows us to probe further into the nature and features of pseudotranslation, particularly how it can be appropriated to open up new spaces for creating an alternative romantic space. In what follows, I first discuss the contested definitions of pseudotranslation and how scholars in translation studies have approached works that fall into this category before presenting Bovarysm as a new perspective which could help us interpret certain works of pseudotranslation. Next, I analyze some typical works of pseudotranslation written by Zhou Shoujuan to probe the way they were structured and presented. Then I focus on the discussion of two works that can arguably be considered works of pseudotranslation, namely,《心碎矣》(The Broken Heart; 1914) and《玫瑰有刺》(Roses Are Thorny; 1915). While these works retain some features of his earlier pseudotranslations, they are marked by an overwhelming obsession with rewriting and representing Zhou’s romantic encounters with Yinping, which arguably started in the year 1914. Such a way of structuring works of pseudotranslation can be perceived as a mode of writing characterized by Bovarysm, hence a kind of “Bovaristic writing.” The chapter ends with a reflection on how Zhou’s works shed new light on the nature and features of pseudotranslation.

CONTESTED DEFINITIONS OF PSEUDOTRANSLATION As a singular phenomenon, pseudotranslation has not always received its due attention in the field of translation studies, despite the fact that it has been mentioned and discussed by scholars such as Anton Popovič (1976, 225–35), Gideon Toury (2012, 40–1), Douglas Robinson (1998, 183–85), Susan Bassnett (1998, 32), and Emily Apter (2006). The last few years witnessed increased scholarly attention given to the topic, particularly in francophone academia (Jenn 2013; Rath 2014). There have also been a few scholars who scrutinized Chinese works of pseudotranslation, particularly those written by Zhou Zuoren and Zhou Shoujuan. When we start to read academic studies of pseudotranslation, however, we realize that the definitions in use are often contested. Perhaps Toury’s definition of pseudotranslation is the most well known and widely accepted. He defines pseudotranslation as “texts which have been presented as translations with no corresponding source texts in other languages ever having existed—hence no factual ‘transfer operations’ and translation relationships” (Toury 2012, 40). This definition corresponds with more conventional

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perceptions of pseudotranslation, or what Popovič refers to as “fictitious translation” (1976, 225–35). However, there are other definitions that are also widely used yet dramatically different. Douglas Robinson argues that “not only a text pretending, or purporting, or frequently taken to be a translation, but also … a translation that is frequently taken to be an original work” can be perceived as pseudotranslation (1998, 183). Obviously, this is a much broader definition that includes not only texts that “pretend” to be translations but also works that are “perceived” as translations, as well as translations taken to be “originals” (Liu, J. Q. 2018). Robinson’s definition hinges on poststructuralist conceptions of “translation” and “originality,” which is why the border between the two has been taken down. For the purpose of this chapter, I combine the definitions of Toury and Robinson and use pseudotranslation to include “original” creations that pretend to be translations and those that are perceived or presented as translations. I will not focus on translations taken to be original works as they are beyond the scope of this chapter.

APPROACHES TO THE STUDY OF PSEUDOTRANSLATION Different Approaches to the Study of Pseudotranslation One major reason why pseudotranslation as a phenomenon has not been extensively studied in the field of translation studies is that works of pseudotranslation are very difficult to identify. As Toury states, There may exist myriad pseudotranslations, with respect to which the mystification has not been dispelled and maybe never will be. These texts can only be tackled as translations whose sources are unknown, but then, so many authentic translations are in that same position, and there is no real way of distinguishing between the two groups. (2012, 40–1) It is easier to prove that something does exist than to prove that something does not. In light of this challenge, scholars have approached pseudotranslation from different perspectives. Hu Cui’e argues that because pseudotranslations were received by readers as authentic translations, they played the same role as the latter in the transformation and development of the target culture and literature, therefore they could be treated as the same textual products (Hu 2003, 69–85). While this is true to a certain extent, it cannot be overlooked that the production process of pseudotranslations and authentic translations can be dramatically different. Emily Apter (2006, 221) conceives of pseudotranslation as “textual cloning,” preferring the latter term because instead of focusing on “the exposure of fraudulent translations,” the term “textual cloning” allows us to see different problems and questions. She proposes that by seeing pseudotranslation as textual cloning, the textual production process can be understood as fabricating a text out of the codes, namely, the DNA, of certain conventions. Apter’s conception of pseudotranslation presents us with new insights into the ways in which such texts are fabricated. Another way of understanding the mechanism of pseudotranslation is through the perspective of intertextuality. Pseudotranslations are derivative texts, just as authentic translations are derivative. Both of them always intertextually refer to foreign cultures and inspirations from the domestic culture. “If the most obvious and important intertextual reference of authentic translation is on

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the textual level, that is, its textual reference to the source text, then pseudotranslation engages with authentic translations on the textual, generic, and discursive levels at the same time” (Liu, J. Q. 2018, 5). Among these three levels, the most important level for pseudotranslation is the generic one, with genre as a term that is conceived after Basil Hatim’s definition (1997, 35), referring to the “specific norms and stylistic characteristics of literary translation” in this context (Liu, J. Q. 2018, 5). Works of pseudotranslation often manage to put on the pretense of authentic translation by providing paratexts, such as the author name and original title of the “source text,” and by providing a “translator’s note” that explicitly claims this text to be a work of translation. Zhou Shoujuan’s pseudotranslations often display such salient features, as I will discuss later in this chapter. Approaching pseudotranslations in this way allows us to transcend the issue of evidencing an absent original text and to delve into other, more pressing and more interesting, problems inherited in the practice of pseudotranslation. Moreover, the metafictional nature of pseudotranslation has also received increased scholarly attention over the past years. Beatrijs Vanacker and Tom Toremans (2016, 32) argue that as simulacrum or imitation, pseudotranslations foreground the mechanism of literary translation, or even of literary practice in general, in a particular context. They point out that “pseudotranslations serve as a fictionalised commentary on the translational practice that simultaneously shapes the context of its reception and on the ways in which they force the reader to reflect on the prevailing practices of literary translation” (32). Dirk Delabastita also noted the issue of metafictionality in his article titled “Fictional Representations” (2009, 112). As this chapter demonstrates, the metafictional feature of pseudotranslation not only reveals how its author fathoms contemporary literary translations but also reflects the writer’s perception of the use of pseudotranslation per se. In what follows, I examine how Zhou Shoujuan constructs his pseudotranslations by intertextually engaging both with translated literature prevailing at the time and with indigenous literary conventions. His strategies and choices foreground his observation and mastery of prevailing practices in literary translations at the time. More importantly, I focus on two pseudotranslations that were created after his initial encounter with Zhou Yinping, a life-changing event for Zhou, which to a large extent shaped his writing, translation, and even his pseudotranslation afterwards, a well-established point in studies on Zhou Shoujuan. These two pseudotranslations diverged dramatically from his previous works in theme and style, mixing his own romantic experience with “cloned” features from authentic translations. To better understand these peculiar instances of pseudotranslation, I will first introduce the framework of Bovarysm as a new approach to the study of pseudotranslation. Bovarysm as an Approach to the Study of Pseudotranslation Bovarysm, a term that is closely linked to Gustave Flaubert’s famous heroine in Madame Bovary, was first coined by Gustave Merlet in 1860, before it was later elaborated by Barbey d’Aurévilly. Yet the most famous definition of Bovarysm is provided by Jules de Gaultier, who defines it as “the human ability to conceive of oneself as other than one is” (De Gaultier 1921, 13). When Emma Bovary reads Christian literature, such as The Genius of Christianity by Chateaubriand, as a young girl in a convent, she reads the works as romance, taking religious metaphors such as “fiancé,” “husband,” “heavenly lover,” and “eternal marriage” in a literal way. Such a “lure of literature” eventually leads her to harbor unrealistic expectations of romance and marriage, which diverge

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from her own social background and upbringing. Therefore, De Gaultier foregrounds the role of “illusion” in the eventual tragedy of Emma Bovary, pointing out that in Flaubert’s novel, there is une faculté essentielle of human beings: Cette faculté est le pouvoir départi à l’homme de se concevoir autre qu’il n’est. C’est elle que, du nom de l’une des principales héroïnes de Flaubert, on a nommée le Bovarysme (This capacity is the human ability to conceive of oneself as other than one is. This is, according to the name of one of the major heroines of Flaubert, what we have termed Bovarysm.) (De Gaultier 1921, 13) The American comparatist Harry Levin traces the origin of Emma Bovary’s romantic illusions to the literature that she reads excessively, diagnosing her symptoms as those of what Renan terms morbus litterarius, the malady of literature. As Levin convincingly argues, in a number of novels from Don Quixote to Madame Bovary, there is a hero or heroine who is “a single-minded reader for whom reading is believing, and whose consequent distortions of reality help to sharpen our apprehension of it” (Levin 1972, 229). For these “Quixotic protagonists,” an overreading, sometimes misreading, of an abundance of literature leads them into self-deception, which results in an inability to distinguish between life and books, between reality and illusion. In a way, novels such as Don Quixote and Madame Bovary can be perceived as both an exemplification and a critique of “the novelistic relationship,” one between the story and the reader (229). What Zhou Shoujuan does in his works of pseudotranslation, as I hope to demonstrate later in this chapter, resembles Emma Bovary’s way of reading, namely, a Bovaristic reading. The difference is that Zhou’s is a Bovaristic writing through which he purposely blends life with illusion. The particular genre of pseudotranslation provides Zhou with a creative space where he frequently juxtaposes characters with transliterated Western names, events that take place in Western settings, with detailed accounts of routines and experiences that are known to belong to his own, widely known and repeatedly narrated, love affair. Such juxtapositions raise doubts about the authenticity of these works as translations but are also telling illustrations of the way Zhou uses the rhetoric of pseudotranslation to create a hero not unlike himself living in a romantic, alternative world, hence his Bovaristic renderings. With these case studies, I argue that Zhou uses pseudotranslation to conceive his romantic experience with Zhou Yinping as other than it is, a kind of self-hallucination purposely created through the act of Bovaristic writing. Just like authentic translation, pseudotranslation benefits from a greater level of tolerance from its readers, a “willing suspension of disbelief,” and therefore endowing its author with a safe space to toy with his or her romantic illusions.

ZHOU SHOUJUAN’S PSEUDOTRANSLATION Zhou Shoujuan is known as a prolific writer and translator of melodramatic short stories.2 He translated a wide range of literary works from renowned writers, such as Robert Louis Stevenson (1850–1894), Alexandre Dumas père (1802–1870), Leo Tolstoy (1828–1910), Guy de Maupassant For a detailed introduction to the way in which Zhou Shoujuan rendered his translations even more melodramatic than the original works, see J. Q. Liu (2017, 78–117).

2

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(1850–1893), and Anton Chekhov (1860–1904), as well as writers who were less well known in English literary history but were nevertheless widely influential in China, such as Henry Rider Haggard (1856–1925). Zhou’s translations collected in《歐美名家短篇小說叢刻》(Anthology of Short Stories by European and American Masters; 1917) were highly commended by Lu Xun as “the highlight of recent translations” (quoted in Wang 1993, 310), and received a prize from the Ministry of Education. Among the numerous translations that Zhou published in popular journals, such as《禮拜六》(Saturday), some later turned out to be works of pseudotranslation. He made the following confession in 1914 about why and how he wrote pseudotranslations, When I wrote short stories, I was fond of fabrication. Over the past years, there were quite a few works that told tales about the West, but were not translated from Western languages. For instance there were 《鐵血女兒》(The Lion-Hearted Daughter), 《鴛鴦血》(Blood of Mandarin Ducks),《鐵窗雙鴛記》 (The Mandarin Ducks behind the Bar),《盲虛無黨員》 (The Blind Anarchist),《孝子碧血記》 (Blood of a Filial Son),《賣花女郎》(The Girl Who Sells Flowers), and the likes. This is mainly because when I translate, I feel constrained by the original text, and I suffer from a lack of freedom. But when I write I find tales about my own country are mostly boring. In particular, those works about romantic love all look the same. Therefore, I like to fabricate and write down whatever comes into my mind. I do find that interesting. (Zhou 1914b, 101)3 Here, Zhou listed six short stories that are works of pseudotranslation. In another article he added a seventh,《綠衣女》(The Girl in Green). These are in Table 7.1.4 From Zhou’s confession, we can see that creating pseudotranslations has been a pleasurable process for him, allowing him to break away from the bounds of the source texts, yet to appropriate the novelty associated with the exotic. The way Zhou creates his pseudotranslations clearly echoes what I discussed earlier about how authors use paratexts, such as “translator’s notes,” names of original writers, and so on, to form an appearance of translation. This can be demonstrated by the column of “nationality and name of the ‘original author’” in Table 7.1. Occasionally Zhou also provides the original title in English, such as in the case of “The Maid in Green Gown.” He even wrote an afterword for it, stating that, Recently I happened to obtain a small brochure from an obsolete stall, titled The Maid in Green Gown. Having read it quickly, I feel although the plot is not quite dramatic, it is a story about chivalry. Therefore I translated and condensed it within ten days. It is a shame that the translator does not have a pen that is vivid enough and translates it quite cursorily, divesting it of much vividness. I know my readers will laugh at it and think it is just nonsense. (Zhou 1913a, 89) Such paratexts, together with story settings such as “the city of Versailles,” “Paris,” “Moscow,” “Saint Petersburg”; characters’ Western names; and the frequent appearance of Western objects 3 4

Unless otherwise stated, all translations are mine. I referred to Pan Shaw-yu’s list when compiling this table (Pan 2011, 1–23).

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TABLE 7.1  Zhou Shoujuan’s Pseudotranslations Year of publication

Nationality and name of the “original author”

“Original title”

Chinese title

Translator

Journal title and issue number

1912a

義大利賴莽脫 (Laimangtuo from Italy)

Not provided

賣花女郎

Shoujuan

《婦女時報》 (Women’s Times), 6

1912b

英國達維遜 (Daweixun from the UK)5

Not provided

鴛鴦血

Shoujuan

《小說時報》 (Fiction Times), 14

1912c

俄文豪某 (A renowned Russian writer)

Not provided

孝子碧血記

Shoujuan

《小說時報》 (Fiction Times), 15

1913a

“The Maid in 英國亨梯爾 (Hengti’er from the Green Gown” UK)

綠衣女

Shoujuan

《婦女時報》 (Women’s Times), 9

1913b

英國拉惠克 (Lahuike from the UK)

Not provided

盲虛無黨員

Shoujuan

《小說時報》 (Fiction Times), 18

1913c

法國毛柏霜氏 (Maupassant from France)

Not provided

鐵窗雙鴛記

Shoujuan

《時報》(Eastern Times), 27 April–5 May

1913d

法國毛柏霜氏 (Maupassant from France)

Not provided

鐵血女兒

Shoujuan

《小說時報》 (Fiction Times), 18

such as champagne, Russian Rubles, X-ray, and so on, put on a pretense of authentic translation for these pseudotranslations. There are three salient features that these seven texts share. First, Zhou markedly appropriated elements from translated anarchist novels that were prevailing in China at the time, such as assassination, the guillotine, revenge, camouflage, and so on. For instance, the father of the protagonist in “Blood of a Filial Son” is accused of being an anarchist and as a result is executed on the guillotine. To avenge his father, the protagonist joins the anarchist movement and eventually assassinates the villain who wronged his father. In “Blood of Mandarin Ducks,” the protagonist kills his lover because she discloses the true identity of over thirty anarchists, leading to their execution. The horror and bloodshed of the French Revolution is another theme. In “The Lion-hearted Daughter,” the father of the heroine is sent to jail because he provides shelter for a countess. Having heard this, the heroine laments the cruelty and bloodthirstiness of the Jacobins. With no means to rescue her father, she crawls onto the guillotine just in time for her own head to be severed together with her father’s (Zhou 1913b). It seems that Zhou is fascinated by the scenario of severing the head of his beautiful female protagonists. In “The Girl Who Sells Flowers,” the

5

To avoid confusion, my translations are in brackets.

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heroine camouflages herself as her father and dies on the guillotine on his behalf (Zhou 1912a, 57–66). He thus writes, “In an instant, the ruthless axe hits her pink neck. Alas! Woe! Woe! Such blossoming beauty of Youqiya, such prime years that flow like water are cruelly destroyed” (65). Such plots and even such laments have seen repeated occurrence in Zhou’s pseudotranslations and translations. In his translation of Alexandre Dumas père’s short story “Solange,” Zhou adds profuse lamentations about the death of the female protagonist after she is executed as an aristocrat during the French Revolution. Zhou writes, “Such blossoming beauty, such prime years that flow like water are instantly destroyed by the guillotine” (2010, 31).6 As Zhou’s translation of “Solange” was published in 1915, three years later than “The Girl Who Sells Flowers,” it is unlikely that Zhou was inspired by Dumas père’s work when composing these pseudotranslations, given the speed with which he published his works. However, this example may well show us how works of pseudotranslation might inspire writers to creatively render their authentic translations, hence the flow of influence in the opposite direction. The second feature of Zhou’s pseudotranslations is the prominent place of filial piety, which is almost always the central conflict in the short stories, always subjugating romantic love and demanding filial sons and daughters to sacrifice their lives to demonstrate their love for their parents.7 The third feature is the lavish expressions of emotion found in Zhou’s pseudotranslations, which are keenly resemblant of Mandarin Ducks and Butterflies school writing. His heroes and heroines always weep profusely, and Zhou uses long paragraphs to describe their sorrows and tears. Both features are well-established features in the works of Mandarin Ducks and Butterflies writers of the 1910s and 1920s. It can be observed that in composing his works of pseudotranslation, Zhou juxtaposes elements commonly appearing in translated anarchist novels and detective stories with themes and expressive methods frequently found in local literary trends at the time.

THE CREATION OF AN ALTERNATIVE ROMANTIC SPACE: TWO CASES OF PSEUDOTRANSLATIONS BETWEEN 1914 AND 1915 Although the above seven short stories seem to be the only ones that Zhou explicitly admitted to be works of pseudotranslation, I argue that the following two short stories, published in 1914 and 1915, respectively, are highly likely to be pseudotranslations as well. Their details are shown in Table 7.2. TABLE 7.2  Possible Pseudotranslations by Zhou Shoujuan

6 7

Year of publication

Nationality and name of the “Original author”

1914 1915

Journal title and issue number

“Original title”

Chinese title

Translator

Anonymous

“The Broken Heart”

心碎矣

Shoujuan

《禮拜六》 [Saturday], 10

Not provided

Not provided

玫瑰有刺

Shoujuan

《禮拜六》 [Saturday], 41

For detailed discussions of Zhou’s creative translation of this short story, see J. Q. Liu (2017, 101, 115–16). For detailed discussions of the role of filial piety in Zhou’s translation and creative writings, see Pan (2011, 14–18).

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Just like Zhou’s “certified” pseudotranslations, these two texts are marked as “translated by Shoujuan.” An English title is provided for the first text, as well as the name, or the lack thereof, of the original author. The afterword of “The Broken Heart” reminds us immediately of that of “The Girl in Green,” stating that, I obtained this piece from a back issue of a British journal many years ago. The original name is “The Broken Heart.” The author did not put down his or her name, only leaving “Anonymous” at the end of the text. The brief introduction at the beginning states that this is a real story, except that Philip Ward was added into the story. I read this piece and knew it is the product of boredom and remorse. The plots are not dramatic, but the writing is exquisite. I translated it within two days. Occasionally there are words that are hard to understand, so I altered them. For instance, the descriptions of the beauty of the heroine are mine. The letter to Rose was translated word by word. I did not dare to reduce its authenticity. It is a shame that my writing is not eloquent enough to convey its subtlety. (Zhou 1914a, 42–3) While “The Broken Heart” uses the paratext of the “translator’s note” to present itself as a work of translation, “Roses Are Thorny” begins with two lines of a Shakespearean poem, which both showcases its “foreign origin” and betrays its identity as pseudotranslation. Like Zhou’s “certified pseudotranslations,” these two stories are about characters with Western names who live in foreign countries, conforming to Zhou’s own criteria of pseudotranslation, namely, “works that told tales about the West, but were not translated from Western languages” (Zhou 1914b, 87–101). For instance, the protagonist of “The Broken Heart” is a journalist of The Times newspaper who works in London, and the name of his lover is Lu Shi, a transliteration of Rose. Under the guise of Western names and identities, however, are routines and experiences that keenly resemble those of Zhou’s own. In “The Broken Heart,” the British journalist Xinhenkage 辛痕喀哥 laments his heartbreak profusely and is very tearful, when his friend Philip Ward 菲利 泊華德 consoles him by saying “you are young and famous. Everyone in the current literary field knows Xinhenkage. You are supposed to be pleased. What makes you so sad?” (Zhou 1914a, 35). Then Xinhenkage tells Philip about his regular encounters with Rose in the street, how they begin to write to each other, his jubilation when receiving her first letter and the subtle change in their attitude when bumping into each other in the street after having established correspondence. Then Rose sends him a letter to say they should not carry on writing to each other to avoid tarnishing his reputation, which is the cause of the heartbreak. Xinhenkage almost jumps into the River Thames to end his life, but thinking about his aged mother and of his own filial piety, he refrains from doing so. According to the many biographical records of Zhou Shoujuan, we know that he first saw Yinping when she performed in a play in her school. He fell in love with her at first sight. Afterwards, he purposely planned his way home from the middle school where he worked so that he could encounter her and catch her gaze (Zhou 1944). After a while they started to communicate with each other by letters. Previous records state that they started writing to each other from 1912, but Chen Jianhua’s latest research, based on Fan Boqun’s records, shows that they started to write to each other from the year 1914, which is the year this pseudotranslation was published (Chen 2014, 61). As Chen Jianhua points out, if we compare Zhou’s fictional writing with his real life, we can see

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how he writes about his ideal romance in his literary works (60). I do not intend to go into detail about how Zhou Yinping’s image is reincarnated again and again in Zhou’s literary creations, and how their tragic love story cast an indelible mark on Zhou’s literary career.8 What I want to point out is that the almost complete lack of plot development in “The Broken Heart” foregrounds its real identity as pseudotranslation, and that what Zhou writes in the “translator’s note” about the “authenticity” of the story is indeed true, if only with himself as the real author, rather than the anonymous “original author.” “Roses Are Thorny” is even more bold in the use of foreign elements to convey feelings and experiences that are Zhou’s own. The protagonist’s name is Boyafuluo 波亞茀洛, a transliteration of “poor fellow,” as Zhou explicitly states using English. His lover’s name is again Lu Shi (Rose), a significant coincidence and at the same time presumably a variation of Violet, Zhou Yinping’s English name. The story is again about how Poor Fellow falls in love with Rose who is eighteen years old, whose beauty is beyond depiction. He is about eighteen or nineteen, working as a schoolteacher. She is a student at a school near the one where he works. They always encounter each other in the street, and they exchange quiet gazes for half a year. Then they start to write to each other about scholarship and moral lessons. Then one day, their mutual friends Tom and Mabel arrange a theatre visit for them, and Poor Fellow ventures to speak to Rose in the theatre (note that they have not spoken before then), a behavior that is considered bold and unacceptable by Rose, who later denounces their friendship, causing Poor Fellow a lifetime of regret and sorrow. The dramatic turn of events here highlights the core tension of “Roses Are Thorny,” namely, very conservative moral codes prevailing in traditional Chinese society that form a sharp contrast to all the Western setting, letters written in French and English, and frequent allusions to renowned Western writers such as Byron, Hugo, and Shakespeare. At the end of the story, Poor Fellow sings a song in English, In my heart is one lonely spot, That memory revisit in tears,— Where wander, mute, yet never quite forgot, The loved of vanished years. (Zhou 1915, 15) Then he dies under a rose bush. Zhou then adds a passage of lamentation, telling Poor Fellow that Rose just does not love him, so everything he does is in vain. The story ends with the note “three days before end of the year of 1914, a stormy night, Shoujuan thus writes in the Room for Reminiscence of Violet, of the House Where the Red Cuckoo Weeps Himself Thin” (Zhou 1915, 16). The symbolic meaning of the final sentence is evident: Zhou Shoujuan is pining for Yinping. It is recorded that Yinping got married in 1915 to someone her family selected for her, who was richer and higher in social standing than Zhou Shoujuan, who often had economic difficulties in his early years. This was definitely a blow to Zhou. He may well have heard about the plan of marriage when he composed this pseudotranslation, and he vented his sorrow, longing, love, and

8

For a detailed analysis, see Chen (2014).

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even accusation of Yinping by creating a “poor fellow” who is not unlike himself, who loves his girl so dearly, yet who is abandoned by the latter for a most trivial matter. In composing both texts, Zhou narrates his own romantic experience with Zhou Yinping, focusing on their initial encounter on the way home from school and work, as well as their correspondences by letter. There are always elaborate depictions of the beauty of the two Roses, which reflect Zhou’s love for Yinping. In both stories, the prolonged pleasure of correspondence is suddenly destroyed by the heroine, causing the protagonist intense and lifelong agony. It is not difficult to see that all these details mirror Zhou’s understanding of his own romantic experience. In a way, he appropriated the form of pseudotranslation to reimagine and rewrite his experience so that he could find a way to come to terms with his own heartbreak. From these examples, we can see that pseudotranslations not only reflect how the author imitates authentic translations, hence his or her understanding of their features, but also provide the author with a creative space in which to explore an alternative romantic world.

REFERENCES Apter, Emily. 2006. The Translation Zone: A New Comparative Literature. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Bassnett, Susan. 1998. “When Is a Translation Not a Translation?” In Constructing Culture: Essays on Literary Translation, edited Susan Bassnett and and André Lefevere, 25–40. Clevedon: Multilingual Matters. Chen Jianhua 陈建华. 2014.《民国文人的爱情、文学与商品美学——以周瘦鹃与 “紫罗兰” 文本建构为 中心》[The Romance of Republican Literati, Literature and Commercial Aesthetics, Focusing on Zhou Shoujuan and the Textual Construction of “Violet”].《現代中文學刊》[Journal of Modern Chinese Literature] 2: 58–87. Chen Pingyuan 陈平原. 1988.《中国小说叙述模式的转变》[The Transformation of Narrative Modes in Chinese Fiction]. Shanghai: Shanghai renmin chubanshe. De Gaultier, Jules. 1921. Le Bovarysme. Paris: Mercure de France. Delabastita, Dirk. 2009. “Fictional Representations.” In Routledge Encyclopedia of Translation Studies, edited by Mona Baker and Gabriela Saldanha, 2nd edn., 109–11. London: Routledge. Hatim, Basil. 1997. “Intertextual Intrusion: Towards a Framework for Harnessing the Power of the Absent Text in Translation.” In Translating Sensitive Texts: Linguistic Aspects, edited by Karl Simms, 29–46. Amsterdam: Rodopi B. V. Hill, Michael Gibbs. 2011. “No True Men in the State: Pseudo/translation and ‘Feminine’ Voice in the Late Qing.” Journal of Modern Literature in Chinese 10 (2): 125–48. Hu Cui’e 胡翠娥. 2003.《不是边缘的边缘——论晚清小说和小说翻译中的伪译和伪著》[Periphery That Is Not Periphery: On Pseudotranslation and Pseudocreation in the Fiction Writing and Fiction Translation of the Late Qing]. 《中国比较文学》[Chinese Comparative Literature] 3: 69–85. Jenn, Ronald. 2013. La Pseudo-traduction de Cervantès à Mark Twain. Louvain: Peeters. Levin, Harry. 1972. “The Quixotic Principle: Cervantes and Other Novelists.” In Grounds for Comparison, 224–43. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Liu, Jane Qian. 2017. Transcultural Lyricism: Translation, Intertextuality, and the Rise of Emotion in Modern Chinese Love Fiction, 1899–1925. Leiden: Brill. Liu, Jane Qian. 2018. “Pseudotranslation, Intertextuality and Metafictionality: Three Case Studies of Pseudotranslation from Early Twentieth-Century China.” Perspectives: Studies in Translation Theory and Practice. 27 (3): 389–403. Liu, Lydia He. 1995. Translingual Practice: Literature, National Culture, and Translated Modernity—China, 1900–1937. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press.

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Pan Shaw-Yu 潘少瑜. 2011.《想像西方:論周瘦鵑的 “偽翻譯” 小說》 [Imagining the West: Zhou Shoujuan’s Pseudotranslations].《編譯論叢》[Compilation and Translation Review] 4 (2): 1–23. Popovič, Anton. 1976. “Aspects of Metatext.” Canadian Review of Comparative Literature 3 (3): 225–35. 《教育公报》[Public newspaper on education] 15 (1917). In Zhou Shoujuan yanjiu ziliao 周瘦鹃研究 资料 [Research Materials on Zhou Shoujuan] edited by Wang Zhiyi 王智毅. Tianjin: Tianjin renmin chubanshe, 1993. Qi Jinxin 齐金鑫, and Li Dechao 李德超. 2020. 《周瘦鹃伪翻译《鸳鸯血》语言特点管窥》 [A Study of Linguistic Features of Zhou Shoujuan’s Pseudotranslation “Blood of Mandarin Ducks”].《解放军外国语 学院学报》[Journal of PLA University of Foreign Languages] 6: 141–47. Rath, Brigitte. 2014. “Pseudotranslation.” In Ideas of the Decade. Report on the State of the Discipline of Comparative Literature. State of the Discipline Report, April 14. Available online: https:// stateofthediscipline.acla.org/entry/pseudotranslation (accessed July 14, 2021). Robinson, Douglas. 1998. “Pseudotranslation.” In Routledge Encyclopedia of Translation Studies, edited by Mona Baker, 183–85. London: Routledge. Toury, Gideon. 2012. Descriptive Translation Studies—and Beyond, rev. edn., 40–1. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Vanacker, Beatrijs, and Tom Toremans. 2016. “Pseudotranslation and Metfictionality.” Interférences littéraires/Literaire interferenties 19: 25–38. Yuan Jin 袁进. 2000.《试论近代翻译小说对言情小说的影响》[On the Influence of Early Modern Translated Fiction on Chinese Love Stories]. In 《翻译与创作:中国近代翻译小说论》 [Translation and Creation: On Early Modern Chinese Translation of Foreign Fiction], edited by Wang Hongzhi 王宏志, 206–33. Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe. Zhou Shoujuan周瘦鵑. 1912a.《賣花女郎》[The Girl Who Sells Flowers].《婦女時報》[Women’s times] 6: 57–66. Zhou Shoujuan周瘦鵑. 1912b.《鴛鴦血》[Blood of Mandarin Ducks].《小說時報》[Fiction Times] 14: 1–12. Zhou Shoujuan周瘦鵑. 1912c.《孝子碧血記》[Blood of a Filial Son].《小說時報》[Fiction Times] 15: 1–23. Zhou Shoujuan周瘦鵑. 1913a.《綠衣女》[The Girl in Green].《婦女時報》[Women’s Times] 9: 65–89. Zhou Shoujuan周瘦鵑. 1913b.《鐵血女兒》[The Lion-hearted Daughter].《小說時報》[Fiction Times] 18: 1–12. Zhou Shoujuan周瘦鵑. 1913c.《鐵窗雙鴛記》[The Mandarin Ducks behind the Bar].《時報》[Eastern Times], April 27–May 5. Zhou Shoujuan周瘦鵑. 1913d.《盲虛無黨員》[The Blind Anarchist].《小說時報》[Fiction Times] 18: 1–28. Zhou Shoujuan周瘦鵑. 1914a.《心碎矣》[The Broken Heart].《禮拜六》[Saturday] 10: 34–43. Zhou Shoujuan周瘦鵑. 1914b.《斷頭臺上》[On the Guillotine].《游戲雜誌》[The pastime] 5: 87–101. Zhou Shoujuan周瘦鵑. 1915.《玫瑰有刺》[Roses Are Thorny].《禮拜六》[Saturday] 41: 1–16. Zhou Shoujuan周瘦鵑. 1944.《愛的供狀》[Love’s Confession].《紫羅蘭》[Violet] 14: 3–6. Zhou Shoujuan周瘦鵑. 2010.《周瘦鹃文集》[An Anthology of Zhou Shoujuan’s Works], edited by Fan Boqun 范伯群, vol. 3. Shanghai: Wenhui chubanshe.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Success of Chinese Science Fiction CARA HEALEY

Interest in Chinese science fiction (sf) has exploded over the past decade, both within China and globally. The genre’s fame has been propelled by Liu Cixin’s 刘慈欣 2008 novel《三体》(The Three-Body Problem), the first in a trilogy spanning billions of years and multiple universes. The Three-Body Problem made history in 2015 when Ken Liu’s English translation won sf’s prestigious Hugo Award, a first for a Chinese author or a novel in translation. Liu’s trilogy has sold nearly 9 million copies worldwide, boasting fans from George R. R. Martin to Mark Zuckerberg to Barack Obama, who praised the novels as “wildly imaginative” (Kakutani 2017). The Three-Body Problem’s success has paved the way for scores of Chinese sf translations, representing dozens of authors. This recent crop is the culmination of sf’s sporadic development in China over the past century. Chinese sf emerged in the last decade of the Qing dynasty as a tool of science popularization and national salvation, but this initial outpouring was mostly replaced by critical realism following the May Fourth Movement (see Isaacson 2017). After a period of further demonization during the Cultural Revolution, sf resurfaced in the post-Mao thaw. This revitalization proved short-lived, as sf once again became a political target during the 1983 Campaign Against Spiritual Pollution (see Li 2021). The latest revival, what Mingwei Song refers to as “new wave” Chinese sf, is characterized as a “subversive, cutting-edge literary experiment” (Song 2015, 8). Exploring themes from development to environmentalism to inequality, contemporary Chinese sf is often seen in the West as a lens into twenty-first-century China, a premise whose possibilities and limitations can be revealed through a deeper look at issues of translation. In addition to these textual factors, Chinese sf’s seamless integration into existing networks of global sf production, distribution, and reception have driven the genre’s success in translation. My argument builds on John Rieder’s conception of sf as part of the “mass cultural genre system,” defined by association “with large-scale commercial production and distribution of narrative fiction in print, film, and broadcast media” (2017, 9). Like Andrew Milner (2012), Rieder considers genres as historical objects, “categories wielded by communities of practice” (2017, 21). He elaborates: Sf is not a set of texts, but rather a way of using texts and of drawing relationships among them. All those involved in the production, distribution, and consumption of sf—writers, editors, marketing specialists, casual readers, fans, scholars, students—construct the genre not only by acts of definition, categorisation, inclusion and exclusion (all of which are important), but also

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by their use of the protocols and rhetorical strategies that distinguish the genre from other forms of writing and reading. (17, italics in original) Writing from a primarily anglophone context, Rieder analyzes literary infrastructures that support the production and circulation of sf. This functional approach elides the many debates surrounding sf’s formal definition, bringing attention instead to processes of canon formation and the literary communities behind such processes. Building on Rieder’s approach invites consideration of not only what has been successful about Chinese sf’s global circulation, but also who has made such success possible and how. Understanding Chinese sf as a category wielded by communities of practice augments definitions based on stylistic or thematic similarities across a diverse body of texts. Cautioning against such definitions, translator Ken Liu challenges readers to consider texts individually rather than as “Chinese sf,” a label that, if uncritically applied, can result in “broad generalisations that are of little value, or stereotypes that reaffirm existing prejudices” (2016, 14). Yen Ooi highlights another limitation of thematic approaches, given that “China’s own publishing and entertainment industries have their own categories and genres, which do not directly map onto the Anglophone market” (2021). This inexact mapping means that some works considered Chinese sf by anglophone fans (due to recognizable themes such as futurity or technological innovation) are not read in China as sf. Thinking in terms of communities of practice brings attention to the individuals, institutions, and mechanisms behind such categorizations. To what extent do the “acts of definition, categorisation, inclusion and exclusion” that form sf in China align with those in the anglophone world? If genres are inherently historical objects, what does it mean to translate not merely between languages but also between literary infrastructures? I outline below how the communities of practice that make up Chinese sf—authors, translators, editors, publishing professionals, fans, scholars, critics, investors, startup employees, and officials—have developed a domestic sf infrastructure, including specialized publishers, fan and professional associations, literary prizes, conventions, and social media circles. I then show how this network has fostered extensive collaboration with international counterparts, allowing Chinese sf in translation to permeate and, increasingly, shape global sf communities of practice.

CHINESE SF: MAPPING THE DOMESTIC LITERARY INFRASTRUCTURE The development of a domestic genre-specific literary infrastructure has been key to the international success of Chinese sf in translation. This literary infrastructure forms part of what Regina Kanyu Wang (2021) describes as China’s larger “SF industry,” which encompasses “SF publishing, SF films, SF series, SF games, SF education, SF merchandise, and other SF-related industries.” Wang, like Rieder, points to sf’s inextricable association with mass culture. While broader mechanisms of multimedia cultural production deserve further study, this chapter focuses mainly on literary networks, including authors, editors, publishing professionals, fans, academics, and officials. I show how these categories often overlap, with individuals inhabiting multiple roles, forming an intersecting web of institutions.

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As in the West, contemporary Chinese sf depends on genre-specific publishing venues. In particular, China’s oldest professional sf magazine,《科幻世界》(Science Fiction World), has been key to the genre’s development.1 Given the dearth of other publishing options prior to the 2010s, Science Fiction World became, in the words of critic Zhang Feng (2019), “the primary—and sometimes sole—arbiter and tastemaker in Chinese sci-fi for decades.” According to Zhang, the magazine has been important in solidifying emerging authors’ reputations; several of Chinese sf’s biggest names, including Chen Qiufan 陈楸帆, Hao Jingfang 郝景芳, He Xi 何夕, Jiang Bo 江波, Liu Cixin, Wang Jinkang 王晋康, and Zhao Haihong 赵海虹, first gained popularity in Science Fiction World. Most notably, The Three-Body Problem was initially published serially in the magazine before being printed as a novel. Science Fiction World reached peak circulation of 361,000 copies per issue in 2000 (Wang 2019, 252) and remains popular as a source of high-quality sf today under the editorship of Yao Haijun 姚海军. It has grown into “a comprehensive SF publishing group which encompasses magazines, books, intellectual properties, SF events and internet commerce,” even establishing an sf film company in 2020 (quoted in Wang 2021). Recently, publishing options for short works have grown to include newer professional magazines like《科幻 Cube》 (Science Fiction Cube) and online platforms like《不存在》 (Non-Exist Daily) and the state-sponsored《蝌 蚪》 (Tadpole) (Zhang 2019). In addition to the publishing industry, Chinese sf communities are formed by various fan and professional organizations. Fan associations are often tied to geographic locations or universities. For example, 科幻苹果核 (SF AppleCore), a collaboration among university sf clubs in Shanghai, hosts regular festivals, film screenings, panels, dinner discussions, reading groups, and writing workshops. Various WeChat groups allow fans to connect more casually. Meanwhile, 世界华人科 幻协会 (The World Chinese Science Fiction Association), established in Chengdu in 2010, is the genre’s primary professional organization, boasting around three hundred members from within the industry, including writers, translators, editors, and scholars (Wang 2019, 453–57). The traditional publishing industry and professional and fan organizations have recently been augmented by sf-related startups, often outgrowths of the same communities described above. Examples include 八光分文化 (Eight Light Minutes Culture, headed by former Science Fiction World deputy editor Yang Feng 杨枫), 未来事务管理局 (Future Affairs Administration, founded by journalist and sf fan Ji Shaoting 姬少亭), 翌星文化 (Future Light Culture, headed by sf-fan-turnedentrepreneur Sun Yue 孙悦), 南派泛娱股份有限公司 (NP Entertainment, partnered with Wang Jinkang), 微像文化 (Storycom, headed by sf filmmaker and critic Zhang Yiwen 张译文), 传茂文化 (Thema Mundi, founded by Chen Qiufan), and 三体社区 (Three-Body Universe, working with Liu Cixin) (Wang 2021). These companies fulfill several broader functions: generating new content (publishing novels and producing sf films, television, comics, and merchandise), cultivating talent (training and mentoring emerging writers, awarding literary prizes, and supporting authors pursuing media adaptation or international publishing opportunities), and broader outreach (promoting sf and popular science, collaborating with media and technology companies, and consulting for local governments).

Among the sf magazines established in the post-Mao thaw, Science Fiction World was the only one to survive the 1983 Anti-Spiritual Pollution Campaign. Founded in 1979 as《科学文艺》(Scientific Literature), it changed its name in 1991. See Wang (2019).

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Chinese sf’s development is also supported by the intersection of fan and academic communities, an example of what Angie Chau describes as Chinese sf’s unique ability “to navigate the elite/ popular divide” (2018, 127). Science fiction studies has grown as an academic field in China. Academic publications and conferences, along with degree programs, have proliferated (Song 2019). Moreover, recent years have seen the establishment of interdisciplinary research institutes blurring the lines among academic, commercial, nonprofit, and political institutions, including 中国科幻研究院 (Chinese Science Fiction Academy), 钓鱼城科幻 (Fishing Fortress Science Fiction Center), 科学与人类想象力研究中心 (Research Center for Science and Human Imagination), and 科学与幻想成长基金 (Science Fiction and Fantasy Growth Foundation). These institutes, like their commercial counterparts, promote Chinese sf by cultivating new talent, awarding literary prizes, hosting lectures and workshops, funding research on the sf industry, developing sf media, promoting sf on campuses, and consulting on issues of science, technology, and development for companies and government agencies (Wang 2021). Science fiction literary awards (and their accompanying ceremonies and conventions) are one of the most important mechanisms of genre formation initiated by sf publishers, professional organizations, fan associations, and startups, often with official support. Two of China’s most prestigious annual sf awards are 银河奖 (Galaxy Award), established in 1986 by Science Fiction World, and 全球华语科幻星云奖 (Chinese Nebula Award), established in 2010 by the World Chinese Science Fiction Association. Authors, fans, and scholars look to these annual events to curate the most innovative new works of sf and bring together the sf community. New awards have also popped up in response to the genre’s growing popularity, including 钓鱼城科幻大 奖 (Fishing Fortress SF Award), Eight Light Minute’s 冷湖奖 (Lenghu Award), Kedo’s 光年奖 (Lightyear Award), Future Light Culture’s 未来科幻大师奖 (Master of Future Award), and Science and Fantasy Growth Foundation’s 晨星奖 (Morning Star Award), providing publishing platforms for upcoming writers and, in many cases, significant cash prizes. The Chinese state has taken note of Chinese sf’s increasing fame, though the long-term effects of state interest on the genre’s literary infrastructure remain to be seen. Gwennaël Gaffric (2019b) and Jing Tsu (2020) both highlight how Chinese sf is leveraged in the name of soft power. Following Liu Cixin’s historic Hugo win, Gaffric notes, “the whole machinery of nationalist propaganda was fired up” (2019b, 27), with Liu invoked as “the standard-bearer of a new ‘era’ of Chinese science fiction, called upon to promote the ‘Chinese dream’ to the international community” (38). China’s vice president from 2013 to 2018, Li Yuanchao 李源潮, has been the most famous official to invoke this machinery, speaking in 2016 at the opening ceremony of an sf conference hosted by 中国科学 技术协会 (China Association for Science and Technology), an organization founded in 1958 to link China’s scientific community with the Chinese Communist Party. Li’s address predictably focused on sf’s role in supporting China’s national development and international prestige, a narrative familiar throughout Chinese sf’s history (22–5). As is typical in China, many of the publishing, educational, and commercial institutions described above are affiliated, to varying degrees, with local, provincial, and national government organs, and some act as consultants to these same government organizations (Wang 2020). Chinese sf’s growing popularity has also propelled China’s sf film industry. Developing film adaptations has been one of the primary functions of the startups mentioned above. Though 游族 网络 Yoozoo Network’s initial attempt to adapt The Three-Body Problem was delayed indefinitely, the industry achieved success in 2019 with its first big-budget sf film,《流浪地球》(The Wandering

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Earth), based on Liu Cixin’s novella of the same name. The Wandering Earth earned some $700 million at the Chinese box office, becoming the country’s second highest grossing film at the time and fifth highest to date. A sequel was released in 2023, along with a long-awaited 腾讯 视频 (Tencent Video) television adaptation of The Three-Body Problem. As with Liu Cixin’s Hugo win, the state has intervened. In 2020, 国家电影局 (National Film Administration) and the China Association for Science and Technology issued《关于促进科幻电影发展的若干意见》 (Several Opinions on Promoting the Development of Science Fiction Film; Guojia dianying ju 2020). In addition to guidelines for content and technical development, the document recommends the formation of institutions such as genre-specific film festivals and prizes, echoing the mechanisms of “definition, categorisation, inclusion and exclusion” (to quote Rieder) that have formed communities of practice behind Chinese sf in the literary sphere. Though science fiction accounts for only about 1 percent of China’s book industry revenue (Zhongguo kepu yanjiu suo 2020), China has nevertheless created a robust sf community driving the genre’s development domestically. This community is both tight-knit and nebulous, a contradictory set of features also characteristic of Anglo-American sf, as Rieder has noted. In the Anglo-American context, the development of modern sf can be traced, on the one hand, to a small circle of editors such as Hugo Gernsback and John Campbell, a “rather tightly knit community, a folk group who gets to say what sf is by virtue of their shared participation in the project of publishing, reading, conversing, and otherwise interacting with one another” (Rieder 2017, 20). In contrast to this exclusive view, Mark Bould and Sherryl Vint (2009) point to a “fluid and tenuous” network of “writers, producers, distributors, marketers, readers, fans, critics, and other discursive agents,” indicating an “anonymous, disparate, and disunified set of people” (quoted in Rieder 2017, 20). In Chinese sf, as elsewhere, we see elements of both models. There is certainly a “core” group of individuals, including star authors such as Liu Cixin or influential editors such as Yao Haijun. At the same time, a sprawling network has developed, growing as Chinese sf becomes more popular both domestically and globally. Moreover, there is more and more cross pollination among masscultural and academic circles, further blurring the lines among what Rieder defines as distinct but interacting literary contexts. In China, we see sf authors speaking at academic conferences, academics speaking at fan conventions, authors pursuing doctoral degrees, fans trying their hand at fiction writing, and every other possible combination. This overlapping blend of individuals and institutions forming domestic communities of practice has been one of the main forces driving the success of Chinese sf in translation, facilitated by extensive collaborations with their global counterparts.

CHINESE SF IN THE GLOBAL SF INFRASTRUCTURE Translation has been key to the global success of Chinese sf. While translation of foreign works into Chinese has played an important role in the genre’s early development (Jiang 2013), widespread translation of Chinese sf into other languages is a largely new phenomenon. Besides a few translations into English and Japanese in the twentieth century, translation of Chinese sf only became prominent in the 2010s (Wang 2018; Harrison 2021). This recent boom is the result not only of the texts’ quality (after all, much excellent sf from around the world remains untranslated), but also of successful collaborations among global sf communities of practice.

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Translators are central to these collaborations on both textual and institutional levels. An illustrative example is Ken Liu, whose role in the global circulation of Chinese sf cannot be overstated. Liu, who immigrated to the United States from China as a teen, is a well-known American sf and fantasy author with previous careers in software engineering and contract law. His entry into Chinese sf can only be described as serendipitous. Chinese sf author Chen Qiufan had admired some of Liu’s stories in Chinese translation and in 2009 emailed Liu to ask for his feedback on an English translation of one of Chen’s own stories. Liu was intrigued by the story but concluded he could do a better job translating it from scratch. Liu’s translation was published in 2011 as “The Fish of Lijiang” in Clarkesworld. Since then, Liu has published translations of five novels and over fifty short stories (Wang 2020). On a textual level, Liu has a knack for producing smooth translations that appeal broadly to anglophone sf fans. The mass appeal of Liu’s translations is a product of deliberate aesthetic choices, for, as Liu notes, “It’s not a sentence-by-sentence or word-by-word recreation […] It’s about, how do I recreate the overall effect?” (Alter 2019). At the same time, Liu’s translations highlight (often through footnotes) historical and cultural references that might be unfamiliar to non-Chinese readers. Liu’s focus on readers’ experiences can only be informed, consciously or unconsciously, by his own career as a successful sf and fantasy writer within the same Anglo-American publishing sphere. He is a master at navigating what Yen Ooi describes as the “duality” often placed on Chinese or diaspora writers due to the cultural imbalances of world literature, requiring writers to incorporate “personal cultural experiences in stories that still fit the expectations of the science fiction genre” (2020, 142). Ooi’s focus on readers’ expectations aligns with what Rieder describes as the “protocols and reading strategies” used by communities of practice to define sf as a genre, pointing to the way Chinese sf in translation is as much a product of the Anglo-American masscultural genre system as works originally written in English. While navigating this duality, Liu carefully balances his own interventions with the authors’ words. On the one hand, the translation process often involves editing (with the authors’ collaboration), particularly when translations appear in established publication venues with the benefit of experienced editors. Such editing can come in the form of sensitivity reading (for example, removing overly gendered language), but it can also involve restructuring, such as when Ken Liu restored the chronology of The Three-Body Problem in English so that the novel begins in the Cultural Revolution, which was, in fact, the original order when Liu Cixin’s work was serialized in Science Fiction World (Cao 2019). At the same time, Liu is conscious of respecting the author’s intent, particularly when it comes to politically sensitive topics. Liu notes: As a translator, it’s very easy to slip into the role where you feel like you’re explaining, or are in a superior position to the author to say what you think they meant to say, or to say what you think ought to be said. I think it’s very dangerous. When you’re translating somebody from a different culture, who is subject to a different political system and who is writing for a different audience than you are, you have to be very careful about not substituting your voice for the author’s voice and not taking away the author’s prerogative to tell the story she wants to tell. (Alter 2019) Liu’s aesthetic choices as translator have had a ripple effect, particularly in the case of The ThreeBody Problem; Liu’s English translation has been key to pitching translations in other languages,

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resulting in “paratextual standardisation” among translations into more than a dozen languages (Gaffric 2019a, 118–21). Even Liu Cixin himself at times recommends Ken Liu’s translation of The Three-Body Problem over the Chinese version, commenting “Usually when Chinese literature gets translated to a foreign language, it tends to lose something. I don’t think that happened with ‘The Three-Body Problem.’ I think it gained something” (Alter 2019). But Ken Liu’s influence goes beyond aesthetic choices, as he has become one of the key figures promoting sf from China to the English-speaking world. A New York Times profile describes Liu as follows: As an emissary for some of China’s most provocative and boundary-breaking writers, Liu has become much more than a scout and a translator. He’s now a fixer, an editor and a curator — a savvy interpreter who has done more than anyone to bridge the imagination gap between the world’s current, fading superpower and its ascendant one. (Alter 2019) In his role as curator, Liu has capitalized on mechanisms characteristic of mass-cultural genres to discover and promote new works of Chinese sf, scouring “internet forums and social-media messaging sites like Weibo, WeChat and the self-publishing platform Douban,” and relying on recommendations of friends and colleagues in China (Alter 2019). In addition, Liu has personally expanded the network of Chinese sf translators, collaborating with or mentoring translators such as Emily Xueni Jin, S. Qiouyi Lu, and Carmen Yiling Yan. In addition to the work of Ken Liu and other individual translators, many behind-the-scenes institutional collaborations have been necessary for Chinese sf’s global success. Translations have found supportive venues in Anglo-American sf’s top magazines and online publishing platforms, thus integrating into already well-developed communities of practice. The most significant of these collaborations is the partnership between the American online sf magazine Clarkesworld and Storycom, a “Chinese story commercialisation agency focusing on the science fiction genre” (Wang 2019). Since the partnership began in 2014, Clarkesworld has published dozens of works of Chinese sf in translation, along with two stand-alone anthologies. Storycom has similarly collaborated with genre-specific magazines to publish Chinese sf translated into other languages, including the Italian Future Fiction, the German Kapsel, and the Romanian Galaxy 42. In English, Chinese sf has also appeared in other genre-specific magazines such as Lightspeed, Apex, Fantasy & Science Fiction, and Future Science Fiction Digest. Through these publications, Chinese sf in translation has become available to a ready-made audience of global sf fans. These fans have, in fact, been key to the continued success of translations, not just in the traditional sense of readership driving publication but also through direct fan fundraising platforms such as Kickstarter, which supports the Clarkesworld/Storycom collaboration. While sf magazines are the primary venue for new short stories, genre-specific imprints of trade publishers distribute sf novels, and Chinese sf has also forged strong connections in this sphere. What Clarkesworld has been for short form Chinese sf, Tor Publishing Group, a subsidiary of Macmillan specializing in sf and fantasy, has been for novels and anthologies. Tor’s venture into Chinese sf began with Ken Liu’s translation of The Three-Body Problem, which was acquired after a collaboration with China Educational Publications Import and Export Corporation, a stateowned publications importer and exporter. To date, Tor has published seven Chinese sf novels and

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five anthologies, including Tordotcom’s The Way Spring Arrives and Other Stories (2022, edited by Yu Chen and Regina Kanyu Wang), an anthology of Chinese speculative fiction produced in partnership with Storycom by an all women and nonbinary team. While Tor/Macmillan has led the field of Chinese sf in translation, Simon and Schuster has also joined in with publications in two imprints: Hao Jingfang’s novel Vagabonds (translated by Ken Liu) was published in 2019 by Gallery/Saga, and Sinopticon 2021: A Celebration of Chinese Science Fiction, an anthology edited and translated by Xueting C. Ni, was released by Solaris in 2021. Beyond the “Big Five” trade publishers, Amazon Crossing published Michael Berry’s translation of Han Song’s 韩松 dystopian novel Hospital (2023). Berry was subsequently awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship to translate the remainder of the Hospital trilogy (Brenner 2023). Among independent genre fiction presses, Dark Moon Books has published A Primer on Han Song 韩松 (2020, edited by Eric J. Guignard), a collection of translations and critical essays, the fifth in its series Exploring Dark Short Fiction. In the UK, independent press Head of Zeus has taken the lead, publishing the British versions of Ken Liu’s translations. Works of Chinese sf have also appeared in recent genrespecific anthologies edited by prominent anglophone sf writers, including “best of” collections that drive the canon formation, such as The Apex Book of World SF, Volumes 1–5 (2009–2018, series edited by Lavie Tidhar), Jeff and Ann VanderMeer’s The Big Book of Science Fiction (2016), and various yearly “best of” collections. These publications signal Chinese sf’s acceptance into the global sf canon, which is still largely defined by the anglophone world due to broader power imbalances, despite efforts to posit sf as a global genre. While genre-specific commercial magazines and publishers have been the main vehicle for Chinese sf in translation, the genre has also seen success in the traditional “academic-classical” genre system, against which Rieder defines the mass-cultural genre system. In the West, academic interest in Chinese sf developed in the early 2010s, partially inspired by collaborations with Chinese academics (Song 2019, 465) and has since capitalized on the genre’s commercial success. Translation has also played a key role in the academic sphere, with Renditions, a journal of Chinese literature in translation published by the Research Centre for Translation of the Chinese University of Hong Kong, releasing a special issue on Chinese sf in 2012. Translations of short works have also appeared in Peregrine and Pathlight (the English supplements to《天南》[Chutzpah Magazine] and 人民文学 [People’s Literature Magazine], respectively). The Renditions issue formed the foundation of Columbia University Press’s 2017 anthology, The Reincarnated Giant (edited by Mingwei Song and Ted Huters). In addition to university presses, independent publishers remain common venues for literature in translation, and in 2019 independent Two Lines Press published an anthology of Chinese speculative fiction, That We May Live. Along with translation, interest in literary analysis of Chinese sf has emerged in both Chinese literary studies and sf studies. Special issues have appeared in journals such as China Perspectives, PRISM, Science Fiction Studies, Vector, Chinese Literature Today, and Science Fiction Research Association Review, with the latter two commissioning translations alongside academic articles. AAS Publications, Columbia University Press, the University of Toronto Press, and Wesleyan University Press have all published scholarly monographs on Chinese sf by Jing Jiang, Mingwei Song, Hua Li, and Nathaniel Isaacson, respectively. In collaboration with Storycom, Routledge has released The Making of The Wandering Earth: A Film Production Handbook (2022, edited by Jiaren Wang and Regina Kanyu Wang). Over the past several years, scholarly organizations and universities in North America and Europe have hosted panels and lectures on Chinese sf featuring authors, translators, and scholars. Recently,

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many such occasions have been open to audiences worldwide in the Covid era of online events. As in China, Chinese sf bridges the gap between the academic-classical and mass-cultural genre systems, accelerating a broader trend in the field of cultural studies. Chinese sf’s international recognition has been shaped by The Three-Body Problem’s Hugo Award for best novel in 2015 and Hao Jingfang’s《北京折叠》(Folding Beijing; also translated by Ken Liu) win for best novella the following year. Hugo winners are fan-selected, voted on by members of the World Science Fiction Association, an organization of sf and fantasy professionals and fans. The awards are presented annually at Worldcon, a massive sf and fantasy convention, which despite its name, still mostly centers on anglophone works. Awards such as the Hugos not only confer literary clout but also act as a mechanism of inclusion and exclusion, shaping which texts and authors are accepted into particular communities of practice and, thus, genres. Liu Cixin’s and Hao Jingfang’s wins mark their (and, by extension, Chinese sf’s) acceptance by one of anglophone sf’s most influential communities of practice. Considering mechanisms of canon formation and the individuals and institutions behind these mechanisms is particularly illuminating in the case of The Three-Body Problem, whose Hugo win was somewhat of an anomaly. Initially, Liu’s novel did not receive enough nominating votes to make it on the ballot; it was a last-minute addition after Marko Kloos withdrew his nomination upon learning his novel had been promoted by reactionary groups of fans committed to eliminating diversity and inclusion within sf and fantasy. Nathaniel Isaacson points to this debacle as an illustration of how Chinese sf is positioned differently within the American and Chinese cultural fields. Chinese sf is often positioned in the West as an example of diversity within a publishing environment struggling to break free of its predominantly white, male, straight, anglophone history, even as such struggles have primarily been led by marginalized authors and creators of color living in the West, rather than by authors, such as Liu Cixin, who remain part of the dominant demographic in their home country (Isaacson 2021, 65–7). The Three-Body Problem’s contradictory position within global sf’s struggle for diversity and inclusion is further complicated by the way the text itself reinforces reactionary gender norms. At the same time, the novel’s win has paved the way for an entire body of Chinese sf, including more explicitly feminist works by women authors such as Chi Hui 迟卉, Regina Kanyu Wang 王侃瑜, and Xiu Xinyu 修新羽. Thus, Chinese sf, in no small part due to the canon-making mechanism of the Hugo Award, has, for better or worse, appealed to deeply divided communities of practice globally. Beyond awarding literary prizes, international sf conventions such as Worldcon have fostered Chinese sf’s interaction with global sf communities, aiding Chinese sf’s emergence as an internationally recognized phenomenon. These interactions occur at conventions outside China as well as international conventions hosted within China. Both avenues of exchange have been made feasible by the publishers, organizations, and startups that comprise the domestic Chinese sf infrastructure. Storycom and Eight Light Minute, for example, regularly send delegations to Worldcon, the Science Fiction Writers Association of America’s Nebula Conference, the European Science Fiction Society’s Eurocon, and Smofcon, an event expressly for connecting global sf convention organizers. Moreover, Storycom provides funding to support Chinese fans’ Worldcon attendance. At these conventions, Chinese sf authors, professionals, and fans participate in panels, staff expo tables, and connect with global counterparts, promoting Chinese sf to wider international sf communities. At the same time, China has hosted sf conventions since the 1990s, often in Chengdu, China’s “sf capital” and home of Science Fiction World

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and Eight Light Minute. These events have strategically courted fans and industry professionals from outside China. In 2007, Chengdu hosted the International Science Fiction and Fantasy Convention, timed to coordinate with Worldcon, held in Japan that year, allowing attendees to participate in both events back-to-back. More recently, conventions have been hosted by organizations such as the World Chinese Science Fiction Association (in conjunction with the Chinese Nebula Awards), the Future Affairs Administration (亚洲太平洋地区科幻大会 [Asia Pacific Science Fiction Convention]), and the new transnational Asia Science Fiction Association (Asiacon). These events have made a point to invite important figures in global sf, including chairs of Worldcon (Crystal M. Huff and Bill Lawhorn), presidents of various nations’ Science Fiction Writers Associations (Cat Rambo from the United States, Taiyo Fujii from Japan, and Kim Juyoung from South Korea), and editors such as Neil Clarke (Clarkesworld) and Lavie Tidhar (Apex). These efforts at home and abroad have culminated in a successful campaign (led by the World Chinese Science Fiction Association, Science Fiction World, and Eight Light Minute) to host Worldcon in Chengdu in 2023. Subsequently, more than eighty speculative fiction authors worldwide, including Hugo winners N. K. Jemisin, Jeannette Ng, and Martha Wells, have publicly condemned this decision in light of “serious and ongoing human rights violations taking place in the Uyghur region of China” (“Open Letter to WorldCon Committee,” 2022). This response perhaps foreshadows a new era of increased tension, pointing to conflicting interests among stakeholders in Chinese and global sf communities. Such tensions only underscore the degree to which these communities have become intertwined, both with one another and with larger political pressures and institutions. In addition to global conventions, social media has provided a more accessible platform for Chinese sf’s entry into world sf. For example, the Shimmer Program (affiliated with Storycom) and the Future Affairs Administration promote Chinese sf in translation on social media. These posts are clearly aimed at a global audience, as they are usually written in English and published on platforms such as Facebook and Twitter, which are inaccessible in mainland China without a VPN. Besides efforts from within China, several individuals and institutions in Europe and North America have taken to social media, blogging, and podcasting to promote Chinese sf in translation. Some of these efforts are tied to established institutions within the anglophone sf sphere, including blog and social media posts by Clarkesworld and Tor promoting new translations; Clarkesworld also releases audio versions of stories as podcasts, and in 2021, Tor Books and Macmillan Audio released the audiobook of The Three-Body Problem as a serial podcast. In the academic-adjacent sphere, Rachel S. Cordasco’s blog, Speculative Fiction in Translation, has compiled and reviewed a comprehensive list of Chinese sf in English; based on this work, Cordasco has authored Out of This World, a reference guide on speculative fiction in translation, published in 2021 by University of Illinois Press, which includes a chapter on Chinese speculative fiction. Angus Stewart has developed the Translated Chinese Fiction Podcast, which ran an eight-episode series interviewing Chinese sf authors, translators, and researchers in 2019. In 2020, The London Chinese Science Fiction Group, comprising scholars and fans, moved their monthly discussions online, allowing participation beyond the UK, including guest appearances by authors and translators. Each of these mechanisms allows fans, scholars, and professionals around the world to connect over Chinese sf, even without fluency in Chinese. That these online mechanisms of mass culture and fan engagement, long familiar to industry insiders and fans, have been taken up by scholars points once again to sf’s ability to traverse disparate genre systems and high/low culture divides.

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Global enthusiasm for Chinese sf has been buoyed by media adaptations, including The Wandering Earth, which has been released on Netflix with English subtitles. Netflix has also ordered an English-language drama series based on The Three-Body Problem trilogy. The series will be the product of an agreement between the US-based streaming giant and Three-Body Universe, the Chinese content developer dedicated to expanding Liu’s trilogy “into a full-fledged universe” (quoted in Wang 2021) through multimedia adaptation. Netflix has brought on some of sf and fantasy’s biggest-name producers, including David Benioff and D. B. Weiss (of Game of Thrones fame), and Rian Johnson (director of Star Wars: The Last Jedi) (Otterson 2020). As with Chinese sf literature in translation, the Netflix adaptation seems poised to benefit from collaboration with Chinese sf’s domestic institutions and proximity to high-profile individuals already operating within the Anglo-American sf sphere. Chinese sf has garnered wider attention outside of sf fandom and its mechanisms, particularly following Liu Cixin’s and Hao Jingfang’s back-to-back Hugo wins. Obama’s recommendation of The Three-Body Problem in a New York Times interview brought the novels into popular discourse, and some of this fame has extended to Chinese sf as a whole. Popular news media has reported on Chinese sf, with articles appearing in The New York Times, The New Yorker, The London Review of Books, Business Insider, The Economist, and Financial Times, among others. These stories range from book reviews and author profiles to articles that frame Chinese sf as the key to decoding contemporary China. Such framing, as Ken Liu and others have warned, feeds into essentialism and Orientalism. Gaffric notes that this type of media coverage often invokes tropes of manufacturing or invasion, veering into Yellow Peril rhetoric and fanning the flames of ultranationalist rhetoric among a segment of Chinese fans (2019a, 121–23). International discourse surrounding Chinese sf has thus become a microcosm of the anxieties and dreams surrounding China’s rise, and this has undoubtedly contributed to the genre’s success.

CONCLUSION Chinese sf’s global success has been dependent not only on the quality of the stories or translations themselves but also on the effective multidirectional translation of the institutions and mechanisms that support genres within mass-cultural genre systems. Through extensive international collaboration, Chinese sf has found a global audience among established sf communities, particularly in the Anglo-American context. Chinese sf has been buoyed by a cycle of positive reinforcement. The genre’s global success has only increased interest among Chinese readers, writers, fans, investors, and officials. This increased interest has contributed to the development of an ever-more robust domestic literary infrastructure, bolstering the communities of practice behind Chinese sf’s development and paving the way for further international collaborations. It remains to be seen the extent to which these collaborations will shape the development of global sf communities moving forward.

REFERENCES Alter, Alexandra. 2019. “How Chinese Sci-Fi Conquered America.” New York Times Magazine, December 8. Available online: https://www.nytimes.com/2019/12/03/magazine/ken-liu-three-body-problem-chinesescience-fiction.html?searchResultPosition=1 (accessed April 26, 2021).

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Bould, Mark, and Sherryl Vint. 2009. “There Is No Such Thing as Science Fiction.” In Reading Science Fiction, edited by James Gunn, Marleen S. Barr, and Matthew Candelaria, 43–51. New York: Palgrave. Brenner, Sean. 2023. “5 UCLA Professors Receive 2023 Guggenheim Fellowships.” UCLA Newsroom, April 7. Available online: https://newsroom.ucla.edu/stories/ucla-professors-2023-guggenheim-fellows (accessed May 9, 2023). Cao, Xuenan. 2019. “The Multiple Bodies of The Three-Body Problem.” Extrapolation 60 (2): 183–200. Chau, Angie. 2018. “From Nobel to Hugo.” Modern Chinese Literature and Culture 30 (1): 110–35. Gaffric, Gwennaël. 2019a. “Chinese Dreams: (Self-)Orientalism and Post-Orientalism in the Reception and Translation of Liu Cixin’s Three-Body Trilogy.” Journal of Translation Studies 3 (1): 117–37. Gaffric, Gwennaël. 2019b. “Liu Cixin’s Three-Body Trilogy and the Status of Science Fiction in Contemporary China,” translated by W. Peyton. Science Fiction Studies 46 (1): 21–38. Guojia dianying ju. 2020. “Guojia dianying ju, Zhongguo ke xie yinfa ‘Guanyu cujin kehuan dianying fazhan de ruogan yijian’” 国家电影局、中国科协印发《关于促进科幻电影发展的若干意见》[National Film Administration and China Association for Science and Technology Issue “Several Opinions on Promoting the Development of Science Fiction Film”]. gov.cn, August 7. Available online: http://www.gov.cn/ xinwen/2020-08/07/content_5533216.htm (accessed July 1, 2021). Harrison, Niall. 2021. “Accelerated History: Chinese Short Science Fiction in the Twenty-First Century.” Vector, June 23. Available online: https://vector-bsfa.com/2021/06/23/accelerated-history-chinese-shortscience-fiction-in-the-twenty-first-century/ (accessed July 1, 2021). Isaacson, Nathaniel. 2017. Celestial Empire: The Emergence of Chinese Science Fiction. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press. Isaacson, Nathaniel. 2021. “Sino-American sf: Trans-national Participatory Culture and Translation.” SFRA Review 51 (2): 62–70. Jiang, Qian. 2013. “Translation and the Development of Science Fiction in Twentieth-Century China.” Science Fiction Studies 40 (1): 116–32. Kakutani, Michiko. 2017. “Transcript: President Obama on What Books Mean to Him.” New York Times, January 16. Available online: https://www.nytimes.com/2017/01/16/books/transcript-president-obamaon-what-books-mean-to-him.html (accessed September 2, 2020). Li, Hua. 2021. Chinese Science Fiction during the Post-Mao Cultural Thaw. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Liu, Ken. 2016. “China Dreams.” In Invisible Planets: Contemporary Chinese Science Fiction in Translation, edited by Ken Liu, 13–16. New York: Tor. Milner, Andrew. 2012. Locating Science Fiction. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Ooi, Yen. 2020. “Chinese Science Fiction: A Genre of Adversity.” SFRA Review 50 (2–3): 141–48. Ooi, Yen. 2021.《龙马精神》(Dragon Horse Vitality Spirit). Vector, March 29. Available online: https:// vector-bsfa.com/2021/03/29/龙马精神-dragon-horse-vitality-spirit/ (accessed June 17, 2021). “Open Letter to WordCon Committee to revoke Chengdu Bid 2023.” 2022. Available online: https://docs. google.com/document/d/1MbHdM8rLG7tWhJgIam5oFfHHutDI5wHQ/edit (accessed June 9, 2022). Otterson, Joe. 2020. “‘Three-Body Problem’ Series from David Benioff, D.B. Weiss, Alexander Woo Set at Netflix.” Variety, September 1. Available online: https://variety.com/2020/tv/asia/three-body-problemseries-netflix-david-benioff-d-b-weiss-alexander-woo-1234755170/ (accessed July 1, 2021). Rieder, John. 2017. Science Fiction and the Mass Cultural Genre System. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press. Song, Mingwei. 2015. “After 1989: The New Wave of Chinese Science Fiction.” China Perspectives 2015 (1): 7–13. Song, Mingwei. 2019. “A New Continent for China Scholars: Chinese Science Fiction Studies.” In Broken Stars: Contemporary Chinese Science Fiction in Translation, edited and translated by Ken Liu, 465–72. New York: Tor. Tsu, Jing. 2020. “Why Sci-Fi Could Be the Secret Weapon in China’s Soft-Power Arsenal.” Financial Times, May 29. Available online: https://www.ft.com/content/85ff1488-82ec-11ea-b6e9-a94cffd1d9bf (accessed May 11, 2021).

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Wang, Regina Kanyu. 2018. “Another Word: Chinese Science Fiction Going Abroad—A Brief History of Translation.” Clarkesworld, May 18. Available online: http://clarkesworldmagazine.com/another_ word_05_18/ (accessed May 11, 2021). Wang, Regina Kanyu. 2019. “A Brief Introduction to Chinese Science Fiction and Fandom.” In Broken Stars: Contemporary Chinese Science Fiction in Translation, edited and translated by Ken Liu, 447–63. New York: Tor. Wang, Regina Kanyu. 2020. “Chinese Science Fiction Goes Global.” Korean Literature Now, September 25. Available online: https://koreanliteraturenow.com/essay/essay-chinese-science-fiction-goes-global (accessed July 1, 2021). Wang, Regina Kanyu. 2021. “Chinese SF Industry.” Vector 293, April 2. Available online: https://vectorbsfa.com/2021/04/02/chinese-sf-industry/ (accessed June 17, 2021). Zhang, Feng. 2019. “To Community and Beyond: Chinese Sci-Fi’s Next Giant Leap.” Sixth Tone, April 19. Available online: http://www.sixthtone.com/news/1003827/http%3A%2F%2Fwww.sixthtone. com%2Fnews%2F1003827%2Fto-community-and-beyond-chinese-sci-fis-next-giant-leap (accessed July 1, 2021). Zhongguo kepu yanjiu suo Zhongguo kehuan yanjiu zhongxin nanfang keji daxue kexue yu renlei xiangxiang li yanjiu zhongxin 中国科普研究所中国科幻研究中心南方科技大学科学与人类想象力研究中 心 [Chinese Science Popularization Research Institute Chinese Science Fiction Research Centre Southern University of Science and Technology Science and Human Imagination Research Center] (2020) “Zong lun” 总论 [General Remarks]. kpcswa.org.cn, October 31. Available online: http://www.kpcswa.org.cn/ web/news/110144342020.html (accessed July 1, 2021).

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CHAPTER NINE

Translating “Bird Talk”: Cross-Cultural Translation, Bergsonian Intuition, and Transnational Modernism in the Fiction of Xu Xu FREDERIK H. GREEN

“If bird talk was like a foreign language,” the narrator in Xu Xu’s short story《鳥語》(Bird Talk) muses, “then it should be possible to translate it” (Xu 2020, 112; 2008, 6:386).1 “Bird Talk” was one of the first works of fiction that Xu Xu 徐訏 (1908–1980) published after leaving the newly founded People’s Republic of China (PRC) for Hong Kong in 1950. In “Bird Talk,” Xu Xu explores the question of translatability between human and nonhuman forms of communication. However, translation as a practice not limited to the transfer of language but also a transfer and interpretation of cultural or philosophical concepts was central to much of Xu Xu’s creative work. In this chapter, I will illustrate how multiple acts of translation underpin the literary aesthetics not just of the short story “Bird Talk” but also of a number of other short works of fiction by Xu Xu. In the process, I will comment on the degree to which Xu Xu’s fictional aesthetics and his attempt at translating between cultures need to be read both within the context of prewar Shanghai, whose cosmopolitan literary atmosphere had a profound impact on Xu Xu, and also in the broader context of twentieth-century modernism. I will illustrate that it was, in particular, Xu Xu’s interest in Bergsonian ideas of intuition and the function of art that connected him to global trends in modernism. Finally, by comparing two different English translations of Xu Xu’s short story “Bird Talk”—Lin Yutang’s 林語堂 (1895–1976) from 1971, and my own from 2020—I will discuss the implications of reading “Bird Talk” in a free translation that attempts to bridge perceived cultural divides and comment on the degree to which Lin Yutang’s version reveals his views of translation, cosmopolitanism, and modernity. Unless otherwise indicated, citations from Xu Xu’s fiction refer first to my translations collected in Bird Talk and other Stories by Xu Xu: Modern Tales of a Chinese Romantic (2020), followed by a reference to the Chinese text as it appears in the respective volume of the《徐訏文集》(Complete Writings of Xu Xu; 2008).

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Xu Xu was one of the most widely read Chinese authors of the 1930s and 1940s, and many of his utopian fantasy stories and cosmopolitan spy novels became bestsellers in their day (Rosenmeier 2017, 1). After leaving mainland China in the wake of the founding of the PRC, Xu Xu’s popularity, especially among readers in Hong Kong, Taiwan, and overseas communities, continued well into the 1960s, helped in part by the many cinematic adaptations of his fiction by film studios in postwar Hong Kong (Xu 2020, 26). Xu Xu was born into a gentry family in Cixi near Ningbo in the coastal province of Zhejiang during the last years of the Qing dynasty. Like many of his peers, he received an early education that was steeped in classical Chinese learning, but he was also exposed to modern schooling and Western ideas that became more widely accepted during the last years of the Qing dynasty and the early Republican period. In 1927, Xu Xu was admitted to Peking University, which was then the country’s leading center for progressive social and political ideas. He majored in philosophy and developed a lasting interest in the ideas of Henri Bergson (1859–1941), the French philosopher whose writings on intuition and creativity not only had a profound impact on the literary works of European modernists but also on Xu Xu’s literary aesthetics and fictional oeuvre. In 1933, Xu Xu moved to Shanghai to begin his literary career under the auspices of Lin Yutang, the well-known polyglot writer, critic, and translator who ran a number of successful publishing ventures. Xu Xu became a member of Lin Yutang’s Analects group 論語派, a loose circle of likeminded liberal and cosmopolitan intellectuals, and worked as an editor for two of the group’s bimonthly journals, namely, 《論語》(The Analects) and《人間世》(This Human World). Both journals published predominantly prose essays, or xiaopinwen 小品文, a genre that Lin Yutang was actively promoting and that many of the group’s writers excelled at. Often humorous in nature, these essays presented social or cultural commentaries that were an alternative to the increasingly politicized and polemical writings of leftist intellectuals. Xu Xu, in those early years, wrote mostly free-verse poetry but also contributed his own essays that typically commented on cultural differences between China and the West, a topic that was of great interest to readers in Shanghai and Republican-period China. Lin Yutang had made a career out of thematizing cultural differences between East and West and promoting cross-cultural dialogue in his journals, many of which enjoyed great popularity with urban readers. Throughout 1930s China, Qian Suoqiao reminds us, Lin’s cosmopolitanism and his unique cross-cultural translations held much appeal to the emerging urban middle class, even though it was increasingly criticized by leftist intellectuals in the name of the cultural politics of the nation (Qian 2011, 161). In September 1936, Lin Yutang, together with Tao Kangde 陶亢德 (1908–1983) and the brothers Huang Jiade 黃嘉德 (1908–1993) and Huang Jiayin 黃嘉音 (1913–1961), established a new journal specifically dedicated to cross-cultural dialogue between China and the West called《西風》(West Wind). West Wind was conceived with an even broader scope in mind, focusing on both literature and international affairs, frequently carrying articles by Chinese and foreign contributors on Japanese imperialism and fascism in Europe alongside translations of literary or scientific texts. Lin Yutang further used West Wind as a platform for publishing Chinese translations of his original English writings. Xu Xu had been invited to join the editorial board of West Wind, but because he was planning to leave Shanghai to study abroad in Paris, he only committed to regularly contributing essays and fiction composed during his travels. As a result, many of his travel essays composed during his outbound journey and while in Europe found their way into West Wind. Most displayed a cosmopolitanism not unlike that of Lin Yutang’s that often sought to recover

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hermeneutical truths about the relationship between East and West (Green 2011, 91–2). However, it was in his fictional works from that period that Xu Xu came to embrace a lyrical exoticism that approached an East–West cultural dialogue, through a quest for hermeneutical illusions rather than an attempt to recover hermeneutical truths, that was to become the hallmark of his early fiction. 《阿拉伯海的女神》(The Goddess of the Arabian Sea; 1936) best epitomizes this aesthetic shift. Serialized in《東方雜誌》(The Eastern Miscellany), another important cosmopolitan literary journal from Shanghai, the story describes an encounter onboard a steamer traveling from China to Europe between a Chinese, male first-person narrator and an older Arab woman. The woman tells the narrator a tale about a beautiful young goddess who roams the waters of the Arabian Sea they are passing through, and subsequently, one night, the narrator meets the goddess and falls in love with her. On their ensuing nightly meetings, they discuss at length cultural differences between Arabs and Chinese and their respective views of religion, beauty, aesthetics, and love. When, after a passionate embrace, the goddess vanishes, and her existence is thrown into doubt, the narrator emphatically declares that “in this world there are people who pursue dreams of the real, while I seek out the real within dreams” (Xu 2020, 17–18; 2008, 6:219). Another short story that similarly engages in East–West cultural dialogue by way of a fictionalized romance between a Chinese male protagonist and a non-Chinese female character is《猶太的彗星》 (The Jewish Comet) from 1937. It is an account of a Chinese, male first-person narrator traveling to Europe aboard an Italian steamer in the company of a mysterious European woman named Catherine, who eventually turns out to be a Jewish undercover agent fighting fascism in the Spanish Civil War. While “The Jewish Comet” lacks the fantastical element of “The Goddess of the Arabian Sea,” it displays a similar mix of mystery, exoticism, and romance. The two protagonists eventually fall in love, get married in Paris, and “for a week, the two of us experienced heaven on earth” (Xu 2020, 90; 2008, 6:106–07). “The Jewish Comet” also bespeaks the interest of cosmopolitan Chinese readers in global politics—the Spanish Civil War, for example, was frequently featured in the current affairs columns of Lin Yutang’s journals. At the same time, the story engages in similarly exoticized explorations of East–West cultural differences as Xu Xu’s other fictional works of the period. On several occasions during their voyage, the narrator and Catherine discuss at length the differences between the ways love and emotions are expressed in China and Europe. Reluctant at first to consummate their marriage, the narrator expounds that “I think this is where Chinese and Westerners differ,” explaining that “[w]hat I mean is that the Chinese see physical love as the starting point of love while Westerners see it as the finish line” (Xu 2020, 86; 2008, 6:103). In addition, by way of the narrator assisting Catherine in her mission, the story bestows agency on the Chinese narrator and, by extension, on Xu Xu’s readers at a time of struggle against fascism and militarism. Cultural translation through fiction can also be observed in the anglophone writing of certain 1920s Shanghai intellectuals, what Shuang Shen termed “strategic cultural translation” (2009, 39). This discursive practice that combines nationalism and cosmopolitanism enabled Xu Xu, on the one hand, to conform to the national discourse of resistance literature while, on the other hand, maintaining his aesthetics of lyrical exoticism as an alternative way of exploring East–West differences (Green 2014, 134–35). Interestingly, Xu Xu remained acutely aware of the practical need for translation as an essential part of cross-cultural dialogue even in his fictionalized and exoticized East–West encounters. In “The Goddess of the Arabian Sea,” the non-Chinese female characters both speak fluent Chinese and are admirers of Chinese culture, adding an additional

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dimension to the concept of strategic cultural translation, while in “The Jewish Comet” or in Xu Xu’s famous wartime spy novel《風蕭蕭》(The Rustling Wind; 1942), the Chinese protagonists fluently converse in French or English, further adding to their cosmopolitan allure. Since Xu Xu, like many other members of the Analects group, had studied abroad and was well versed in French and English, it is hardly surprising that translation and cross-linguistic exchange were explored in his fiction and played an important role in his fictionalized cross-cultural dialogue. While Xu Xu’s fictional aesthetics and his lyrical exoticism enjoyed broad popularity among Chinese readers in those years, the leftist literary establishment had long been critical of Xu Xu’s fictional output. In 1938, the influential Marxist critic Ba Ren 巴人, the pen name of Wang Renshu 王任叔 (1901–1972), had called Xu Xu’s fiction “a bomb full of poison,” capable of “extinguishing the fighting spirit of thousands of revolutionaries” (Wang 1995, 65−7), while in 1945, Shi Huaichi 石懷池 (1925–1945?), another leftist critic, had urged readers “not to read Xu Xu’s books anymore […] and to throw them into the cesspool” (1945, 151−54). Once the Chinese Communist Party had assumed power in China and established the PRC, it did not take long for Xu Xu to realize that his prewar literary legacy would invariably turn into a political liability, and he decided to relocate to Hong Kong for what he erroneously assumed would be a temporary exile. What both Ba Ren and Shi Huaichi had taken issue with was Xu Xu’s obvious rejection of and opposition to the social realist mode of narration that the literary left had been promoting in earnest, especially after the founding of the League of Leftist Writers 中國左翼作家聯盟 in 1930. While progressive writers such as Lu Xun 魯迅 or critics such as Ba Ren believed that literature played an important role in the struggle for social renewal, Xu Xu’s fiction, Shi Huaichi argued, would invariably cause the reader to “distance [oneself] from that cruel struggle between old and new that is currently being carried out all around us” and instead “invite [one] to enter an illusionary world” (1945, 153). It was most likely criticism like this that induced Xu Xu to leave mainland China for Hong Kong in 1950. Xu Xu would not have disagreed with Shi Huaichi’s charge. He had frequently displayed his overt preference for the aesthetic value of illusion over literary realism in his fiction. In the abovementioned “The Goddess of the Arabian Sea,” the first-person narrator not only readily announces his eagerness to “seek out the real within dreams” but also vows to “pursue all artistic fantasies, because their beauty to me is reality” (Xu 2008, 6:219). In《幻覺》(Hallucination), a short story published in 1947, the story’s narrator meets a painter who, whenever he gazes at one of his small oil paintings, is able to access his own past and temporarily relive the happiness he knew with his now-deceased lover (Xu 2008, 6:72). Aware that his account might raise suspicion, the painter then declares that “illusions and reality are very difficult to tell apart, for reality may consist of the common illusions of the majority, while an illusion can be one person’s reality” (6:72). This deliberate blurring of illusion and reality and of past and present appear to engage in Bergsonian theories of art that assert the ability of artists to apprehend time and consciousness by way of artistic creation, which Xu Xu had become interested in during his studies at Peking University and that he later immersed himself in during his time in Paris (Xu 1991, 375–80). Henri Bergson was one of the most influential philosophers of the pre-First World War era and subsequent interwar years, and his theories of time and creative evolution in particular had a profound impact on European modernists (Bradbury and McFarlane 1991, 614). What made Bergson so relevant to modernist artists was the fact that he provided a philosophical framework

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that captured and suggested a way out of the dilemma of the dichotomy between naturalism and idealism, or modernity and spiritual salvation, that occupied the zeitgeist especially of the interwar period (Maxwell 1999, 14–28). Bergson was unsatisfied with the determinism of scientific positivism that ignored the essential elements of the self as more than the composites of its parts. A brilliant mathematician and biologist, Bergson developed his metaphysical method and his view of life as a self-evident and comprehensive evolving force that could not entirely be explained by a materialistic mechanism from physiological and biological evidence. Bergson’s two main theories, those of duration, which he understood as time as experienced by consciousness, and of creative evolution and “élan vital,” the process behind a non-Darwinian evolutionism, were widely embraced by European modernists, from writers such as Marcel Proust and James Joyce to painters such as Paul Cézanne and Henri Matisse and composers such as Arnold Schoenberg and Erik Sati, all of whom were empowered by Bergson’s theories to actively participate in life-creation through artistic creativity (Ardoin, Gontarski, and Mattison 2014). In his highly influential Creative Evolution, Bergson writes that it is “to the very inwardness of life that intuition leads us—by intuition, I mean instinct that has become disinterested, selfconscious, capable of reflecting upon its object and of enlarging it indefinitely” (1911, 176). Other than the eye that only perceives the features of living beings, this instinct, according to Bergson, is able to perceive of “the intention of life,” to reconnect to the vital impulse that is impossible for the intellect to comprehend: “This intention is just what the artist tries to regain, in placing himself back within the object by a kind of sympathy, in breaking down, by an effort of intuition, that barrier that space puts up between him and his model” (177). Bergson, who had been awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1927, was widely read in China throughout the 1920s and 1930s. However, as Shu-mei Shih has pointed out, his theories of duration and creative evolution were appropriated by prominent May Fourth intellectuals such as Feng Youlan 馮友蘭 (1895–1990) so as to be placed in the service of the rationalist paradigm of scientific progress (Shih 2001, 60–2). Xu Xu, on the other hand, appears to have felt empowered by Bergson’s philosophy that enjoined the artist to seek truths and realities beyond the purely mimetic or even to transform reality through art. In works such as “The Goddess of the Arabian Sea” and “Hallucination,” Xu Xu appears to do just that, namely, his narrators view fantasies and dreams as alternative measurements of the real. Xu Xu clearly gave voice to Bergson’s belief that art could trigger immediate and intuitive communication with an object, nature, and the self. The belief in art’s ability to grant access to truths and realities defiant of scientific reason and customarily hidden by our everyday experiences is nowhere more evidently espoused than in Xu Xu’s short story “Bird Talk.” “Bird Talk” was serialized in the Hong Kong daily《星島晚報》(Sing Tao Evening Post) in 1950, the year Xu Xu took up exile in Hong Kong. The story opens in Hong Kong when the male first-person narrator receives a worn copy of the Diamond Sutra and a letter that informs him of the death of a certain Buddhist nun named Juening 覺寧 (Peaceful Awareness). The letter greatly saddens the narrator and evokes in him memories of a period of his life in rural China long before his exile in Hong Kong. It is the account of these memories that is narrated as a long flashback and that constitutes the main body of “Bird Talk.” The flashback starts when the narrator, who is suffering from mental exhaustion, decides to temporarily leave his newspaper job in Shanghai to convalesce in the countryside. While staying with his grandmother in his ancestral village, he encounters Yunqian 芸芊, a shy and introverted young woman whose autistic features cause the

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villagers to slight her. The narrator, however, is drawn to her mysterious charm, especially after he has witnessed one morning that she appears to be able to communicate with birds: It was a hazy morning. The sky was colorless except for a faint red glow in the east. Soon, the birds in the bamboo thicket started to sing. […] Just then, I heard a response from beyond the fence and I caught sight of the girl, wearing a gray dress, her hair done up in two braids. A chorus of birds began chirping from inside the bamboo thicket. […] The girl raised her head. Her face was round, and her eyes shone brightly. She bore a happy smile. The sounds she was making were beautiful. They neither sounded like the trilling of birds, nor did they sound like singing. The girl and the two birds seemed like old acquaintances. (Xu 2020, 99; 2008, 6:375) Intrigued by her unusual talent, the narrator offers to school Yunqian in math and Chinese, hoping that she might teach him bird language in return. Yunqian, however, at first is just as unreceptive to conventional schooling as she is unable to teach the narrator bird talk, as we learn when he reminds her of her promise after observing her communicate with a magpie: “Yunqian, I have been teaching you for over ten days now and you still haven’t taught me any bird talk.” “Bird talk?” She laughed, and then suddenly blurted, “Yes, they seem to be talking, but they are not actually talking.” “They are not talking?” I asked. “But you understand what it is that they are saying?” “Yes, I understand,” she replied, “but I don’t quite know how to put it into words.” “Well, what was the meaning of what the magpie just said?” I asked. “She said … Well, she said …” She began to stutter. “She doesn’t mean things the way we do.” “But if there is life, then there is always meaning,” I said to her. “The magpie is also a living creature and like other living creatures has to eat and sleep and look for a mate.” “Maybe, maybe …” She knitted her brows and was struggling to find the right words. “But they are different from us, they are not like us. … How can I put this? What I’m trying to say is, their lives are not complicated like ours. They don’t need to mean things like we do.” She tried hard to express herself. I could see that she was very agitated, and I did not dare to ask any further. I was thinking that if bird talk was like a foreign language, then it should be possible to translate it. Could it be that it was not a language but rather a set of symbols in the way an exclamation mark is a symbol? It was of course because Yunqian was unable to translate bird talk that no one in the village believed that she could understand birds. But to me, there was no doubt that Yunqian and the birds were interacting. (Xu 2020, 111–12; 2008, 6:385–86) This passage appears to transpose the question of translatability of language into philosophical debates about the commensurability of languages and, more generally speaking, forms of communication. Yunqian is clearly able to understand bird talk, yet her inability to translate it in any meaningful way hints at the general incommensurability between human and nonhuman language, something the narrator eventually also comes to accept. Xu Xu here seems to engage with the ideas of logical positivism, both echoing and challenging Ludwig Wittgenstein’s famous

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assertion that “[i]f a lion could speak, we could not understand him” (Wittgenstein 1958, 223). However, the story then takes an unexpected turn when Yunqian happens to come across a poem entitled “Bird Talk” that the narrator had written the previous day in an attempt to put into words what he imagines birds might be saying to each other. Yunqian expresses an instant intuitive liking for the poem, and the narrator realizes that, despite her limited literacy, she is highly susceptible to poetry. The two then start to read Tang poetry, the meaning and beauty of which Yunqian seems to grasp intuitively: I did not know what it was that made her grasp the sentiment of each poem. What I read out to her was the literal meaning of the words, but the beauty of a poem often is something that eludes explanation. Her vocabulary naturally was limited, and her compositions frequently lacked cohesion. What’s more, her spelling was very poor. Yet with the help of my explanations she effortlessly overcame all the difficulties those poems presented and immediately grasped their poetic qualities. (Xu 2020, 114; 2008, 6:388) Xu Xu embraces the Bergsonian notion of the function of art and its promise of bridging incommensurability between different forms of perception. In addition to her unusual gift of being able to communicate with birds, which gives her access to the sublime spheres of nature, Yunqian is also able to appreciate poetry in a sensually cognitive way. It was access to such sublime spheres that Bergson (and modernists inspired by his writings) believed the genuine work of art might enable. Xu Xu, in an act of romantic irony, at first reverses this process in that Yunqian, who already possesses a transcendental self-consciousness because of her ability to communicate with birds, gains access to formal education and socialization by way of the very means that are thought to transport us away from normality: art or, in this case, Tang poetry. However, Yunqian’s socialization is not of permanence. When the narrator has to return to Shanghai, he decides to take Yunqian with him and to enroll her at school. However, in the bustling modern city, she is deeply unhappy and reverts to her shy and introverted self. When she eventually begs the narrator to let her return home, he decides to abandon his mundane life in Shanghai and to live with Yunqian in the countryside. On their way back to their ancestral village, they spend a few nights in a Buddhist convent. Here, Yunqian is introduced to Buddhist sutras for which she displays the same intuitive understanding as when she had first encountered poetry: “Did you like the Heart Sutra?” I asked. “Yes,” she said, her face shining with a marvelous radiance. “I can already recite it from memory. It’s even more interesting than poetry.” “You can already recite it from memory?” I asked in surprise. “How about I’ll recite it for you?” And she began to recite fluently. Her low murmur again was imbued with a marvelous beauty. (Xu 2020: 139; 2008, 6:402) Poetry at first had seemed like a way for Yunqian to master conventional learning and thereby overcome social marginalization, yet in reality, poetry—not unlike bird language—is depicted by Xu Xu as a language the true meaning of which ultimately defies linguistic interpretation or

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translation, and instead is grasped intuitively. The same goes for Yunqian’s understanding of Buddhist sutras. This realization then eventually prompts the narrator to leave Yunqian behind at the convent and return to Shanghai alone: I knew well that Yunqian was detached from such yearnings and that she was of a nobler kind. She did not belong with me; she belonged in a world unspoiled by worldly matters. Only in such a world could her sublimity and magnificence manifest itself. Only in such a world could she truly feel at ease and be happy. (Xu 2020, 143; 2008, 6:405) Back in Shanghai, the narrator leads a meaningless life full of sin and regret until, years later, he eventually ends up in Hong Kong. It is here where he receives the news of the passing of Yunqian, who had changed her name to Juening after her ordination. The story ends with a line from the Diamond Sutra, read out under tears by the narrator: “All sentient beings […] will eventually be led by me to enter Nirvana where all their anguish will be extinguished” (Xu 2020, 145; 2008, 6:407). Bird talk, poetry, and Buddhist sutras all convey meaning and truth value for Yunqian, even though they may defy definitions of what constitutes a logical and verifiable transfer of meaning. Poetry serves as a tool for the narrator and Yunqian to communicate—her liking of his poem “Bird Talk” suggests that maybe the poem itself came close to conveying the meaning of bird language or, to put it differently, to translate bird talk. By extension, the entire short story “Bird Talk” can be thought of as an attempt at rendering Bergsonian notions of art and intuition into tangible narratives, or to translate Bergson for Chinese readers. As such, even though the story is no longer set in exotic locales, it nevertheless participates in the cross-cultural dialogue that characterizes so much of Xu Xu’s fiction and that had been at the core of Lin Yutang’s and the Analects group’s prewar cosmopolitanism. Lin Yutang himself might have perceived of “Bird Talk” in this way, which in turn might explain why, in 1971, he published an English translation of the story (Hsu 1971). Lin Yutang thought highly of Xu Xu’s literary talent. In fact, together with Lu Xun, Shen Congwen, and Fei Ming, Lin Yutang considered Xu Xu the most remarkable fiction writer of the Republican period (Shi 2019, 493). He must have had a particular liking for “Bird Talk,” judging by his own criteria for choosing Chinese texts to translate into English, which he articulated when explaining how he had arrived at the texts included in his famous anthology, The Importance of Understanding: Of course I selected only the best, things that have stuck in my mind since my reading them and things that communicate something to me. I refuse to translate anything which does not awake in me an echo of hearty assent. […] But I am also a translator, and felt no obligation to translate any author except those I liked, if not approved. (Lin 1960, 19) While “Bird Talk” was not included in The Importance of Understanding—the anthology consisted exclusively of translations of premodern Chinese works of literature—it should not be surprising that the story awoke in Lin “an echo of hearty assent.” Li Ping reminds us of just how central translation was to Lin Yutang’s lifelong endeavor of facilitating transcultural communication between China and the West (Li 2012, 155), and “Bird Talk,” which is at once deeply grounded

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in Chinese culture by way of its setting and references to Tang poetry while also speaking to a transnational modernist aesthetic through its dialogue with Bergsonian philosophy, might have seemed particularly worthy of translation to Lin Yutang. What is interesting is that Lin Yutang chose an extremely free translation style to render “Bird Talk” into English. This is most apparent in his deliberate omission of the opening chapter and closing paragraphs of “Bird Talk” that frame the story with direct references to the transcendentalism of Buddhist spirituality. He also omitted overt references to the narrator’s state of exile in Hong Kong. I have argued in the afterword to my translation of “Bird Talk” that Xu Xu’s deliberate juxtaposition of the pastoral beauty of the prewar Chinese countryside with the bitter reality of exile served the purpose of giving voice to a deep sense of nostalgia experienced by many Chinese exiles who had left China in the wake of the founding of the PRC (Xu 2020, 195–219). Lin Yutang might have felt that the plight of the Chinese diaspora was too little understood by Western readers and would have gotten in the way of appreciating the literary qualities of “Bird Talk.” Xu Xu’s references to Buddhism at the beginning and end of “Bird Talk,” however, clearly underpin the story’s modernist aesthetics in that it echoes the intuitive and transcendental qualities exhibited by Yunqian. Lin Yutang’s omission thus considerably changes the story’s structure and atmosphere. Lin Yutang might have had compelling reasons for altering the beginning and the ending and for adopting a free approach to translation throughout the narrative. After all, as Li Ping observes, Lin Yutang wrestled with the inherent tension between foreignization and domestication, between accurate translation and artistic representation, throughout his entire career as a translator and mediator between languages and cultures (Li 2012, i). At the same time, Lin Yutang believed that all truly artistic works were ultimately untranslatable and hence all translations were free production, not reproduction, and essentially an artistic act (35, 44). Maybe Lin Yutang felt that his free translation of “Bird Talk” mirrored the actions of the narrator in the story who eventually accepts the untranslatability of bird language and who then composes the poem “Bird Talk” that so captures the attention of Yunqian. However, I think the main reason for Lin’s omission of the overt references to Buddhism at the beginning and ending of the story might lie in his urgency to place universal concerns over cultural essentializing in transcultural dialogue. As Qian Suoqiao has illustrated, Lin Yutang, the translator and mediator between China and the West, always resisted and resented being seen foremost as a “Chinese philosopher” and an “oriental other,” appealing instead to Western readers to see him and his fellow Chinese as cosmopolitan “moderns” (Qian 2011, 189). In the preface to On the Wisdom of America, Lin Yutang had emphatically written that “[i]n looking at American as well as at Chinese thought, I have always felt myself a modern, sharing the modern man’s problems and pleasures of discovery. Wherever I say ‘we,’ I mean ‘we moderns’” (189). Lin Yutang must have seen in the narrator’s lament over the news of Yunqian’s passing the lament of a fellow modern who had experienced for a moment the promise of transcendental beauty and oneness with nature in an age otherwise overshadowed by violent conflict and scientific determinism. Xu Xu’s aesthetic quest as expressed in his espousal of Bergsonian aesthetics is one that Xu Xu shared with other twentieth-century modernists, especially those who have collectively been referred to as neoromantics, and who according to the philosopher Michael Löwy expressed in their work “their hatred of the modern world in its bourgeois, capitalist, urban, scientific … aspects” and their “dreams of a primitive past of instinctual life” (2001, 68). While to Xu Xu’s narrator, Yunqian’s intuitive understanding of Buddhist sutras was just one more example

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of her quasi-transcendental self-consciousness, on par with her poetic sensibilities and her ability to understand bird language, Lin Yutang might have feared that to Western readers, Yunqian’s attaining nirvana at the end of the story might have confirmed Western views of the “oriental other.” Especially the concept of nirvana that had been popularized in postwar America by novels such as Siddhartha, Hermann Hesse’s iconic tale about a spiritual journey of self-discovery that had been enthusiastically embraced by America’s Beat generation and the hippie culture of the 1960s, was something that Lin Yutang might have feared could distract from the story’s universal modernist gesture. This modernist gesture, then, is the expression of a deep yearning of a modern urbanite to be one with nature and to see beyond the scientifically proven and socially accepted. In Xu Xu’s story, art, religion, or appreciation of bird talk all hold the promise of enlarging consciousness in a sensually cognitive way, and that could pave the way for access to the sublime spheres of nature and the universe. Xu Xu’s quote from the Diamond Sutra at the end of his novel does terminate “Bird Talk” on a utopian note—Yunqian, the reader is made to infer, has reached nirvana. The narrator, however, remains behind in Hong Kong, a city he now reluctantly calls home. Yet whenever the narrator leaves the city and ventures into the mountains (presumably the then still largely undeveloped New Territories of Hong Kong), his mind is transported back to the blissful days he spent with Yunqian in his ancestral village, where he experienced such sublime happiness: “Every time I travel to the countryside and gaze at the mountains and streams and the lush forests, and I hear the distant singing of birds, the figure of Yunqian flashes into my memory” (Xu 2020, 144; 2008, 6:406). Xu Xu appears to suggest that mindfully listening to the singing of birds can be all it takes for us moderns to gain intuitive access to nature, our past, or realities defiant of scientific reason. Striving to translate bird talk might only get in the way of true understanding.

REFERENCES Ardoin, Paul, S. E. Gontarski, and Laci Mattison, eds. 2014. Understanding Bergson, Understanding Modernism. New York: Bloomsbury. Bergson, Henri. 1911. Creative Evolution, translated by Arthur Mitchell. New York: Henry Holt and Company. Bradbury, Malcolm, and James McFarlane, eds. 1991. Modernism: A Guide to European Literature 1890–1930. London: Penguin Books. Green, Frederik H. 2011. “The Making of a Chinese Romantic: Cosmopolitanism, Nationalism and Lyrical Exoticism in Xu Xu’s Early Travel Writings.” Modern Chinese Literature and Culture 23 (2): 64–99. Green, Frederik H. 2014. “Rescuing Love from the Nation: Love, Nation, and Self in Xu Xu’s Alternative Wartime Fiction and Drama.” Frontiers of Literary Studies in China 8 (1): 126–53. Hsu, Yu (Xu Xu). 1971. Bird Talk, translated by Lin Yutang. Hong Kong: South Sky Book Co. Li, Ping. 2012. “A Critical Study of Lin Yutang as a Translation Theorist, Translation Critic and Translator.” PhD diss., City University of Hong Kong. Lin, Yutang. 1960. The Importance of Understanding: Translations from the Chinese. Cleveland, OH: World Publishing Company. Löwy, Michael. 2001. Romanticism against the Tide of Modernity, translated by Robert Sayre and Catherine Porter. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Maxwell, Donald R. 1999. The Abacus and the Rainbow: Bergson, Proust, and the Digital-Analogic Opposition. New York: Peter Lang. Qian, Suoqiao. 2011. Liberal Cosmopolitan: Lin Yutang and Middling Chinese Modernity. Leiden: Brill.

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Rosenmeier, Christopher. 2017. On the Margins of Modernism: Xu Xu, Wumingshi and Popular Chinese Literature in the 1940s. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Shen, Shuang. 2009. Cosmopolitan Publics: Anglophone Print Culture in Semi-Colonial Shanghai. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Shi Huaichi 石懷池. 1945.《石懷池文學論文集》[Collected Literary Criticisms of Shi Huaichi]. Shanghai: Gengyun chubanshe. Shi Jianwei 施建偉. 2019.《近幽者默:林語堂傳》[Close to the Humorist: A Biography of Lin Yutang]. Hong Kong: Open Page. Shih, Shu-mei. 2001. The Lure of the Modern: Writing Modernism in Semi-Colonial China, 1917–1937. Berkeley: University of California Press. Wang Yixin 王一心. 1995.《徐訏與巴人的筆墨官司》 [The Dispute between Xu Xu and Ba Ren].《世界華 文文學論壇》[Forum for Chinese Literature of the World] 1: 65–7. Wittgenstein, Ludwig. 1958. Philosophical Investigations, translated by G. E. M. Anscombe. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Xu Xu 徐訏. 1991.《現代中國文學過眼錄》[An Eye Witness Record of Modern Chinese Literature]: Taipei: Wenhua congshu. Xu Xu 徐訏. 2008.《徐訏文集》[Complete Works of Xu Xu], vols. 1–16, edited by Qian Zhenhua 钱震华. Shanghai: Sanlian shudian. Xu Xu 徐訏. 2020. Bird Talk and Other Stories by Xu Xu. Modern Tales of a Chinese Romantic, translated by Frederik H. Green. Berkeley, CA: Stone Bridge Press.

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CHAPTER TEN

Ling Shuhua and the Bloomsbury Group: Modernism, Autobiography, and Translation JEESOON HONG

INTRODUCTION Given her literary style and the literary circle with which she was associated, Ling Shuhua 凌叔 華 (1900–1990) can be categorized as a Jing pai 京派 (Beijing school) modernist writer. Beijing modernists such as Shen Congwen 沈從文 (1902–1988) and Fei Ming 廢名 (1901–1967) are generally characterized as writers who depicted the artistic world of classical Chinese painting in linguistic form. Ling Shuhua aspired to a similar aim in her short stories although her attempts have not been as widely recognized as those of the male members of the group. Her paintings are scarcely discussed in the history of modern Chinese art, but when they are mentioned, they are included within the Jing pai.1 Ling Shuhua’s relationship with the Bloomsbury group—a British modernist circle—has drawn attention from scholars of Chinese and English literature, in addition to being depicted in fiction (Hong [1999] 2002). In conversations between Julian Bell and Ling Shuhua, Ling’s coterie in Beijing, probably the Contemporary Review group 現代評論派,2 was referred to as the “Chinese Bloomsbury in Beijing”: “She [Ling Shuhua] tells me about the Chinese Bloomsbury in Peiping, that’s very like the London one indeed, so far as I can make out.”3 In this chapter, I explore Ling Shuhua’s translations while paying attention to the characteristics of her literary modernism and her cross-cultural relationship with the Bloomsbury group. This is based on archival research on the published and unpublished letters and manuscripts related to Ling and the Bloomsbury group, as well as a close reading of Ling’s literary works and (self-)translations. Ling Shuhua translated from English into Chinese and also from Chinese into English.4 While she translated English stories into Chinese during the early stages of her career, when she reached fame in China, she began translating her Chinese stories into English. In the 1920s, she translated into Chinese Katherine Mansfield’s short story “The Little Girl” (1912) and Anton Chekhov’s “An

For instance, Chu-tsing Li lists Ling’s paintings under the section “Traditionalism in Peking” (Li 1979, 22–9). On the Contemporary Review group, see Ni (1995a, b). 3 Letter from Julian Bell to Virginia Woolf (November 15, 1935) (Bell 1938). 4 For a detailed comparative reading of Ling’s translations, see Hong (2009). 1 2

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Incident” (1886). In the 1930s, when she stayed in Wuhan, she translated into English three short stories of her own,《瘋了的詩人》(A Poet Goes Mad; 1928),《寫信》(Writing a Letter; 1935), and《無聊》(What’s the Point of It?; 1934). Her domestic memoir, Ancient Melodies (1953), includes her own translations of her short stories depicting childhood:《搬家》(Moving Home), 《死》(Death), and《一件喜事》(A Happy Event). Focusing on Ling’s translations included in Ancient Melodies, I look at the relationship between translation and autobiography, and between translation and modernism. If the genre of autobiography in the print market operates under the spirit of truth and the authority of memory, the nonWestern woman’s autobiography appeals to Western readers due to the fantasy of its unmediated image of the Other, in which the question of translation is conveniently elided. If we consider that the modernists’ aesthetic explorations began with a problematization of “representation,” and that modernism was intrinsically related to imperialism, “translation” as cross-cultural “representation” should have been one of the central questions of modernism. The Bloomsbury group, however, does not seem to have shown particular interest in the question of translation, and their relationship with Ling Shuhua is characterized by the familiar form of modernist exoticism that mixes both a fascination with the Other and a desire for distancing.

AUTOBIOGRAPHY Ling Shuhua’s relationship with the Bloomsbury group and the publication of Ancient Melodies, which arose as a result of that relationship, have been approached from different angles. If Patricia Laurence (2003), Fu Guangming (2003), and Xiaoquan Raphael Zhang (2012) celebrate the artistic exchanges or feminist solidarity between Ling Shuhua and the Bloomsbury group, Shu-mei Shih (2001) stresses the hierarchical relationship formed between a “First world” writer, Virginia Woolf, and a “Third world” writer, Ling Shuhua.5 Shih provides an incisive critical analysis of Woolf’s letters to Ling Shuhua, pointing out “exoticisation and self-exoticisation flowing through the communication” (Hong 2007, 243). More recent criticism by Jun Lei (2018) brings forward aspects related to the diaspora by discussing the tension between Ling’s narrated child-self and the narrating self of the middle-aged Ling Shuhua, who had moved to the metropolis. While autobiography has been seen as an “inferior literary mode,” “marginalia,” and a “suspect mode of trivia” in literary history, women’s life writing has often been approached as a strategic act of defiance against a language of abstraction and the “masculine” subject.6 In particular, life writing by non-Western women has not only brought forward more intensified questions about marginality and identity but also about the politics of translation. Spivak articulates the problem of assuming women’s solidarity in translation. The presupposition that women have a natural or narrative-historical solidarity, that there is something in a woman or an undifferentiated women’s story that speaks to another woman

For (a metacriticism of) Ling Shuhua’s relationship with the Bloomsbury group, see Hong (2007). “How women engage autobiographical discourse to renegotiate their cultural marginality and enter into literary history” (Smith and Watson 2010, 210, originally in Smith 1987).

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without benefit of language-learning, might stand against the translator’s task of surrender. Paradoxically, it is not possible for us as ethical agents to imagine otherness or alterity maximally. (Spivak 1993, 183) The critical discourses regarding (women’s) autobiography, translation, and memory over the last few decades can help to reread Ling Shuhua’s translations and her publication of Ancient Melodies. As the mainstay notion for autobiography—that is, the individual—has been challenged by poststructuralist, postmodernist, and posthumanist critics, the central role of autobiography in constructing the liberalist, masculine, Western individual has been problematized.7 The myth of the unitary self and the cognitive, creative subject has been challenged from various directions: Lacan and Derrida, for example, highlighted that the self is split and is an illusion or fiction, while Foucault argued that the individual is the outcome and effect of discourses (Smith and Watson 2010). Autobiography is above all the representative anthropocentric model seen from a posthumanist viewpoint. Scholars such as Cynthia Huff prioritize zoe over “the bios in biography and autobiography,” and advocate a posthumanist life narrative that focuses on interrelationships between life forms and surroundings, developing Rosi Braidotti’s nonanthropocentric interpretation of Agamben’s notion of zoe (Huff 2017, 281). I call Ancient Melodies a family, domestic, or childhood memoir, in the sense that it only provides segments of life rather than its entirety.8 In their letters, while Julian Bell called Ling’s memoir project alternately an “(auto)biography” or the “book,” Virginia Woolf never called it an “autobiography,” instead, mostly referring to it as a “book.”9 In her later essay, “A Sketch of the Past” (1939–1940), Virginia Woolf settled for “life-writing” to embrace the “broader philosophical implication” of life and writing, and to capture the fluid relationship between life and writing.10 The autobiographical pact internalizes the myth of truth as well as that of the self. However, as autobiography carries both aspects of history and art, “unreliability is an inescapable condition” (Smith and Watson 2010, 202). In particular, life sketches of Ancient Melodies draw closer to art than to a historical account. Truth and the self should be understood in terms of the autobiographical performativity of the book.

TRANSLATIONS AND MODERNISM Ling Shuhua’s translations are deeply integrated into her literary modernism in many senses. Despite Ling’s famous nickname, “the Chinese Mansfield,” Chekhov’s influence on Ling’s fiction seems

Smith argues: “‘autobiography’ has been as a master narrative of Western rationality, progress, and superiority” (Smith and Watson 2010, 194); In particular, Georges Gusdorf views autobiography as a “Christian form of self-writing” (Smith and Watson 2010, 201). 8 Smith and Watson define “memoir” as a literary genre referring “generally to life writing that takes a segment of a life, not its entirety, and focus on interconnected experiences” (2010, 274). 9 Vita Sackville-West used terms like a “recollection,” “reminiscence,” and “memoir” in her letters to Ling Shuhua. 10 Abel confirms: “As a passionate reader and writer of the biographies, memoirs, diaries, and letters that the category of life-writing collectively comprises, Woolf was wary of the more restrictive designations ‘autobiography,’ which raises the spectre of the ‘damned egotistical self,’ and ‘biography,’ inevitably constrained by the ‘granite’ of fact. Her ‘preferred term was ‘memoir,’ a genre whose embrace within her milieu reflected the consensus that it offered a particular lens on a shared historical experience” (Abel 2014, 55). 7

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more direct and significant than Mansfield’s.11 Ling Shuhua shows a deep fondness for literary irony in many of her stories, including those in Ancient Melodies. As I mention elsewhere (Hong 2009), a few of Ling’s stories show a significant and at times problematic resemblance to Chekhov’s short stories. In particular,《花之寺》(The Flower Temple; 1925) almost directly imported the motif and plot of Chekhov’s “At a Summer Villa” (1886) (Lang-Tan 2004, 104–25). In 1925, the story was accused of plagiarism, and the ensuing scandal contributed to elevating the tension between Lu Xun and Ling’s husband, Chen Xiying 陳西瀅 (1896–1970).12 In other stories by Ling, I find additional examples of resemblance in motifs and plots. For instance, Ling’s fiction《小哥 倆》(Two Little Brothers) resembles Chekhov’s “An Incident,” which she translated into Chinese as mentioned above; while her story “Writing a Letter” reads like a loose adaptation of Chekhov’s “At Christmas Time” (Hong 2009). The stories and translations Ling published during her stay in Wuhan gravitate around the theme of “boredom.” In October 1928, Ling Shuhua and Chen Xiying, who had married the previous year, moved to Wuhan, where Chen Xiying was the Dean of the Department of Foreign Literature at Wuhan University. Based on the couple’s letters to Hu Shi 胡適 (1891–1962), Ling Shuhua must have led a very unhappy, boring life in the city: Chen Xiying wrote, “Shuhua is as if buried alive in this place, she is bored to tears and I don’t know how to comfort her,” while Ling herself complains that “Wuchang is a place in which all the weak points of Chinese cities are concentrated together.”13 In this gloomy city she met Julian Bell, a professor in the Department of English, who had arrived in September 1935. Julian Bell played an essential role in Ling Shuhua’s self-translation into English of the three stories, “Fengle de shiren” (The Poet Goes Mad), “Xie xin” (Writing a Letter), and “Wuliao” (What’s the Point of It?), and the publication of Ancient Melodies. Bell aided and encouraged Ling to translate her stories. The three stories were rejected by the British journal London Mercury, an art and literature magazine that occasionally published articles on Chinese art and culture. “The Poet Goes Mad” and “What’s the Point of It?” (1936a) were instead published in 1936, in the Beijing English journal T’ien Hsia. The three stories Ling Shuhua picked and translated explore the modernist themes of boredom and incommunicability. Bearing similarities to Chekhov’s “At Christmas Time,” “Writing a Letter” presents a story in which an illiterate woman asks somebody to write a letter. In both stories, the women are unable to convey their emotions through written language. Yet, unlike “At Christmas Time,” which is composed of two parts for the sender-mother and the receiver-daughter, “Xie xin” presents only the story of the sender. On a Sunday morning, an illiterate woman, Mrs. Zhang visits her neighbor Miss Wu to ask her to write a letter for her. By putting ellipsis marks in the place of Miss Wu’s speech, Ling presents only Mrs. Zhang’s trifling monologues. Even though Zhang’s purpose in coming to Miss Wu’s room is, as the title suggests, to write a letter to her husband, the story is filled with Mrs. Zhang’s talk to Miss Wu, which Mrs. Zhang thinks is either unsuitable or undeserving to be written down. In contrast to her loquacious, overflowing verbal language, barely two insipid sentences are written in the letter: “We have received your letter and all of our No doubt, Mansfield herself was called “an English Chekhov” (Zohrab 1988, 137). Jun Lei defends it as Ling’s “formal experiment … to incorporate international literary trends” (Lei 2018, n6). 13 Letter from Chen Yuan to Hu Shi (December 26, 1929) (Hu 1994, 93) and Letter from Ling Shuhua to Hu Shi (October 16, 1929) (Hu 1994, 512–13). 11 12

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family are very well.” It must have been more challenging to translate this story as it accentuates the desultory nature of spoken Chinese by reproducing humorous, fertile, trifling language verbatim. The story attempts to topicalize incommunicability by aestheticizing women’s vernacular. Ling’s boredom in Wuhan seems to have culminated in the writing of her story, “Wuliao” (lit. boredom or ennui, and translated as “What’s the Point of It?”). In the story, she explores the modern emotional terrain of boredom, marking a departure from the traditionally sanctioned thematic ground of emotions in literature such as love, hate, jealousy, and zeal. The female protagonist, Rubi 如璧, is a translator who leads an extremely boring life in the “uninspiring, colorless city” of Wuhan. The bored translator is reminded of a humorous interpretation of the character 家 (home) as the combination of 宀 (cangue) and 豕 (pig). She thinks: “Right. A pig must feel bored. Except for eating its fill, it only sleeps. How can it possibly have any hope? A pig just relaxes peacefully in the pen!” When she goes out shopping to Hankou to buy a birthday present for her husband’s uncle, she feels even more miserable than at home. Rubi fails to buy a present and decides to go back home. In the rickshaw, which drives very fast, Rubi feels extremely uncomfortable. She is reminded of a mad woman in a strange costume who used to roam the streets of Beijing in a rickshaw. When the fast-driving rickshaw hits a man, Rubi decides to get off the rickshaw and to walk. When Ling Shuhua sent this story to the London Mercury, she changed the title from “Wuliao” (boredom), which would have had little appeal for the Western reader, to “What’s the Point of It?” which comes from the last sentence of the story,《忙什麼》 (For What Are You Busy?). If the image of the self in suffocating boredom at home is associated with a pig, on the street it is reflected by the mad woman. Most of Ling’s stories adopt a thirdperson narrator, but not an omniscient one. She typically refrains from directly expanding on the characters’ inner feelings and thoughts, instead, she likes to evoke them by describing the scenic atmosphere. In “Wuliao,” however, the bulk of the narration is devoted to exhibiting the bored but securely married middle-class woman’s inner reality, which is that of a mildly unpleasant state of unrest. “Fengle de shiren” takes on the daunting task of reifying the poetic spirit of Chinese literati painting in the modern genre of the short story. Poetic and visual vocabularies are the salient characteristics of this short story, which is often mentioned by critics as an example of Ling’s reference to Chinese painting. For instance, Clara Yu Cuadrado calls the story a piece of “verbal graphic art” (1982, 53), highlighting the vocabulary of painting employed, its pictorial mood, and its explicit references to famous artists such as Wang Wei 王維 (699–759) and Mi Fu 米黻 (1051–1107). She also indicates that the story “is consciously and conspicuously written in the format of a horizontal handscroll” (53). “Fengle de shiren” also merits attention because it signposts the way in which Ling makes literary associations between the poetic spirit of traditional Chinese painting, that is yiqi 逸氣 (a transcendental, lofty state of mind in which human beings attain absolute harmony with nature), and women.14 In the story, the poet and painter Juesheng 覺生 pursues yiqi in the mountain, but he is only able to attain it after he comes down from the mountain and is driven mad by following his wife, who herself has become mad because of extreme boredom at home. Shu-mei Shih reads

For Ling Shuhua’s view of yiqi, see her article “An Introduction to Chinese Painting,” in MAKC and also Hong (2009). This article was rejected by the English journal The New Statesman & Nation: The Weekend Review.

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this story as Ling’s implicit critique of the male classical Chinese written language. Perceptiveness is often observed and emphasized in so-called “female sentences,” while the “male sentence” is seen to be more cognitive (Shih 2001, 227–28). The intuitive characteristics of women’s language also link Ling’s short story to the yiqi of Chinese painting. As in Lu Xun’s《狂人日記》 (Diary of a Madman), here too madness has the ambiguity of speaking the truth. Ling described it as approximating the ingenious and deep perception of children, enabling one to reach the transcendental spirit of yiqi. The story ends with a complexity of feelings in which Juesheng’s mother is both delighted at seeing the happiness of her son and worried about people’s sneering pity. “Fengle de shiren” explores incommunicability in the literati painting, and Ling’s exploration of incommunicability moves to the interstices between yiqi and boredom. Ancient Melodies Julian Bell urged Ling Shuhua to write her “autobiography” in English from the early stage of their relationship.15 This idea became a reality as Ling started to exchange letters with Virginia Woolf. Indeed, the production of the book was greatly helped by the Bloomsbury group. Ling sent the manuscripts of the family memoir to Virginia Woolf between March 1938 and the end of 1939. Woolf read them and encouraged Ling to keep writing, sometimes sending Ling books such as Elizabeth Gaskell’s Life of Charlotte Bronte. Ling Shuhua’s correspondence with the Bloomsbury group vindicates Julian Bell’s anticipation that Virginia Woolf would occupy a significant role in the book project.16 The book was also considered as a means of Ling Shuhua acquiring the financial freedom to go to England. In 1937, Ling Shuhua became involved in a bitter family argument over her father’s bequest, which Ling and Bell saw as her means of guaranteeing financial independence from her husband. To Julian Bell, the publication of her autobiography was on a parallel with the lawsuit.17

For instance, “Meanwhile what are you at? I hope writing your biography hard.” Letter from Julian Bell to Ling Shuhua (August 3, 1936, NYPL). 16 “He [Julian Bell] also was interested in knowing Chinese culture and civilisation, the old one, not the modern one, so he always came to ask me all about it. After some time, he tried to persuade me to write a book on the real Chinese family—in which one would see the real Chinese nation. He also said he was sure that Virginia Woolf would like it if I could bring about all the things we talked about. He believed it could be a wonderful book which Virginia would like to help me to publish.” Letter from Ling Shuhua to Nigel Nicolson (June 16, 1979, SCSUL). In Ling’s early letter to Virginia Woolf, she explains how the idea of writing an autobiography was first generated: “Since Julian and I became intimate friends, I had almost got a habit to make him understand China in telling him stories which I know really happened to some people and they were interesting. I think Julian had a good taste of life and art from an Eastern point of view, he sometimes reminded me of my father who died 5 years ago which he was 70 by age. I’m thinking to choose all the stories I had told Julian and write them down would be something anyway to the Western people.” Letter from Ling Shuhua to Virginia Woolf (May 25, 1938, SCSUL). 17 “I think it is an extremely good thing about your family property, for if you are independent in that way you will find that everything else will get itself arranged. The real difference it would make to us is that it will be easy for you to go abroad if you want to, and live as you choose; there need be no scandal at all, and everyone would think it natural enough for you to go to England if your book were a success there. We could see as much as we liked of each other in perfect freedom and yet no one in the Chinese community in London would need to know or think anything about it. T. P. [Tongpo: Chen Yuan] would not need to feel he was losing face, and even your mother might be persuaded that it was natural enough for you to travel” (emphasis mine). Letter from Julian Bell to Ling Shuhua (no date and signature, NYPL). In another letter, he reiterates this wish: “If only the family business runs out well and you can get your money, and if you will do your book and have your exhibitions.” Letter from Julian Bell to Ling Shuhua (March 30, 1937, NYPL). 15

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The book, Ancient Melodies, was published in 1953, long after the death of both Julian Bell (1908–1937) and Virginia Woolf (1882–1941). Although the book’s production and reception were significantly influenced and supported by the Bloomsbury group and their acquaintances, Ling’s own literary characteristics are manifest in the memoir. Therefore, the book can be better understood within the broader context of Ling’s fiction and translations. Ancient Melodies can also be characterized as a childhood memoir, in which the majority of stories are about Ling Shuhua as a little girl, aged about six years old. Generally, the protagonists of Ling’s fiction can be divided into three major groups. The first group is young women, either married or unmarried. Ling’s works such as《酒後》(After Drinking),《绣枕》 (Embroidered Pillows), 《花之寺》(The Flower Temple), and《女兒身世太淒涼》(Ladies’ Lives Are too Desolate) have young female protagonists of a similar age to Ling at the time of publication. The second group is painter protagonists, including female artists in《病》(Sickness; 1927), 《再見》(Farewell; 1925), 《春天》(Spring; 1926), and《綺霞》(Beautiful Glow; 1927), and male painters in《倪 雲林》(Ni Yunlin; 1931) and《瘋了的詩人》(The Poet Goes Mad; 1928). Lastly, children are the protagonists in many of Ling’s childhood stories such as《弟弟》(The Brothers; 1927),《鳳凰》 (Phoenix; 1930), 《搬家》(Moving Home; 1929), and《小劉》(The Little Liu; 1929). It can be said that most of Ling’s protagonists contain some autobiographical elements and motifs, such as featuring a little girl from the traditional noble family, a young educated woman (a writer, a translator, an editor), or a painter. Among her childhood stories, Ling chose《死》 (Death; 1929),《搬家》(Moving Home; 1936), and《一件喜事》 (A Happy Occasion; 1936) to translate and include in Ancient Melodies, but the Chinese versions are not identical to their English counterparts. Ling talks to Woolf about her difficulties incorporating the short stories into the autobiography: “The chapter written about a new concubine of my father’s entering our family had appeared in Chinese as a short story. When I use it in my autobiography is still with something left like a story.”18 For Ling Shuhua, translating her short stories for Ancient Melodies meant making a transition in genre from episodic short stories to a novel-length childhood memoir, in addition to a narrative shift from third-person to first-person narration. For Ancient Melodies, Ling translated or wrote stories portraying spectacular, festive events. However, underneath the dazzling excitement lie indistinct feelings of desolation and sorrows that are tinted with light due to the little child’s cheery gaze. Thanks to the child narrator, Ancient Melodies is narrated in easy, plain English as if targeting children readers. In fact, Vanessa Bell is known to have read the book to her grandchildren. Although Jun Lei stresses, “the dynamics of diasporic subject’s multiple exiles on linguistic, cultural and esthetic registers” (Lei 2018, 103), I find a conspicuous absence of the migrated subject of the middle-aged Ling. There is a lack of dialogue between the narrating self and the narrated self in Ancient Melodies, which distinguishes it from other migrant Chinese women’s autobiographies such as Maxine Hong Kingston’s The Woman Warrior and Daughter of Confucius. Ling’s book is based on the narrative strategy of adhering mainly to the little girl (painter)’s perceptions. In the fragmented sketches of the childhood memoir, the focus on the self and subjectivity is greatly diffused. Instead, the author’s aestheticism of irony and yiqi resonates. The self-translation in Ling’s autobiographical act results in a narrative of self-erasure.

Letter from Ling Shuhua to Virginia Woolf (January 11, 1939, NYPL).

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Ancient Melodies may be seen as another example of a “small daughter” narrative in Chinese women’s English autobiography, such as Jade Snow Wong’s Fifth Chinese Daughter (1951).19 In particular, an autobiography with a striking resemblance to Ling’s, Daughter of Confucius (Wong and Cressy 1952) was published in the United States around the same time as the publication of Ancient Melodies. First of all, the authors’ names on the covers, Su Hua Ling Chen and Wong Su-Ling, were close enough to confuse foreign readers. Furthermore, both authors were from traditional upper-class families in which the patriarchs had multiple wives and children. If Ling Shuhua was identified as the “tenth” girl, Su-Ling Wong was introduced as “girl number seven.”20 Such similarities and the unfortunate timing seem to have irritated Ling. She expressed her concerns about the book and “relief” after reading it in her letter to Leonard Woolf.21 Daughter of Confucius, which is co-authored by Su-Ling Wong and Earl Herbert Cressy, her professor at the Hartford Seminary Foundation, is about Su-Ling Wong’s life and her transition from China to the United States, in addition to her religious conversion to Christianity. As the manuscript was written or edited by Cressy, its narrating style is more formal, mature, and masculine than Ling’s Ancient Melodies. Daughter of Confucius frequently uses words such as “clan” and “slave girl,” while Ling’s childhood memoir tries to limit the use of grown-up vocabulary. In Daughter of Confucius, Su-Ling Wong’s early childhood may be represented by the spatial description of her small, gloomy room, which she shared with her sister and two “slave girls,” and of her mother’s room with only one small window. The gloomy tone pervades the description of her past with the superstitious Confucius/Buddhist family and is a good foil for the Christian autobiographer’s present position. The first chapters of the two books show an interesting contrast, which hints toward what Ling meant by “the style and the way of telling it,” in her abovementioned letter to Leonard Woolf. Following a chronological order, Daughter of Confucius starts with Su-Ling Wong’s birth on the last night of the Lunar calendar year, which is depicted as ominous. In contrast, the chapters of Ancient Melodies are not arranged in chronological order: spectacular events such as marriages, “Moving Home,” and “The Mid-autumn Festival” are placed as the first chapters of the book. The first chapter of Ancient Melodies is “Red-Coat Man,” which had been published as a short story with the title “Si” (Death) in China. Ling must have changed the title in the English version to avoid beginning the book gloomily and also to invite readers’ curiosity about who the red-coat man might be. Above all, “RedCoat Man” reflects the six-year-old child’s ingenuous perceptions better than the somber word death. Ling’s decision to begin the book with a story about death merits attention. “Red-Coat Man” is about her childhood experience of watching the public execution of a criminal, which is portrayed

Mary Besemeres refers to Maxine Hong Kingston’s The Woman Warrior (1976) as a “small daughter” narrative (Besemeres 2002, 115). The tradition continues today as seen in the publications of memoirs such as Musings of a First Chinese Daughter: A Memoir (2014) by Jennifer Lee Robertson and Wild Swans: Three Daughters of China (2008) by Jung Chang. 20 Ancient Melodies interposes a page of notes between Vita Sackville-West’s introduction and the main body of the text to introduce the large family. All the family members are identified in numerical order without names; for example, “sixth mother” and “eighth sister.” 21 “I’ve read a new book named ‘Daughter of Confucius.’ It is about a large Chinese family. It is written by someone with a name very like mine: Su-Ling Wong, and her American teacher, cooperated with her. After I read it, I felt a relief. It is quite a different thing. It is only a story in a report-style. There had been published hundreds of books like that before. I’m afraid very few people want to read this kind of book. The style and the way of telling it is very ordinary and plain.” Letter from Ling Shuhua to Leonard Woolf (September 10, 1953, SCSUL). 19

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as a memorable event with huge crowds, a march, and singing. It is in a way reminiscent of Shen Congwen’s short story《新與舊》(New and Old), because both stories aestheticize ceremonial aspects of traditional executions and are careful not to present the execution process merely as a “barbaric” remnant of feudal China. In particular, in “Red-Coat Man,” the delightful gaze of the little child seems to signal Ling’s intention not to satisfy the metropolitan readers’ expectations about the cruelties of old China. One noticeable difference between the Chinese and English versions is found in the beginning of “Red-Coat Man.” The English version starts with the classical poetry line: “Things in old days which one recalls all pitiful, all lovable!” (Ling 1953, 11), which does not exist in the Chinese short story “Si.” Ling’s translation strategy of balancing desolation and gaiety is manifest in the addition of this first sentence in the English version. “A Happy Occasion,” the title of another translated story in the book, is also deeply ironic because the happy occasion indicates the day of hubbub “welcoming” the father’s new concubine. In contrast to many female autobiographers from China who accentuate a feminist interpretation of their lives in their English writings, Ling seems to dilute women’s sorrows in the process of translation. For instance, Janet Ng finds a serious withdrawal of the feminist narrative voice in the English version in her comparative reading of the Chinese and English versions of “A Happy Occasion.”22 In the Chinese version, the Fifth Mother’s discomfort and agony on the day that the sixth concubine is received into the household are extensively visualized. Today, Fifth Mother dressed herself even more beautifully. Feng’er did not know what kind of material she was wearing, she only knew that Fifth Mother was like a stem of a red peony but with a silvery sheen. However, her face was not as pretty as usual. Her determined, tight-lipped mouth did not even smile when mother was trying to joke with her and to get her to talk. After her breakfast, she disappeared into her room like a puff of smoke. (Ling 1928, 41; quoted in Ng 1993, 245) While in the Chinese version, the Fifth Mother’s bitterness is clearly externalized on her face (“her face was not as pretty as usual”), in the English version, her sorrow is only faintly hinted at in the end of the paragraph, still showing “a sort of beauty that arouses one’s pity.” Fifth Mother was crossing the court hastily. Like a puff of wind, she walked towards her house. She wore a very pretty dress, though I could not name the colour and the material. But I felt today that she, herself, was as pretty as the apple blossoms, a sort of beauty that arouses one’s pity. (Ling 1953, 55; quoted in Ng 1993, 245) Ancient Melodies may be better characterized as exhibiting a “self-exoticization” of the Chinese family rather than a feminist’s reflection.23 Such a tendency is apparent in the Orientalist title and also found in Ling’s eagerness to portray the “real China” in the book.24 In her letters to

Janet Ng’s reading of the book contradicts Shu-mei Shih’s interpretation, which observes Ling’s appeal to the Western reader due to the amplified feminist voice (Ng 1993; Shih 2001). 23 Shu-mei Shih finds both an amplified feminist voice and “self-exoticism” in Ancient Melodies. 24 The title that was given by Vita Sackville-West is from Arthur Waley’s translation of “The Old Harp.” Letter from Vita Sackville-West to Ling Shuhua (October 11, 1952, NYPL). 22

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Virginia Woolf and other members of the Bloomsbury group, Ling keeps emphasizing the “real China” but defines it in shallow and negative ways, for example, alluding to: “real Chinese mind (I mean one who has not been changed by Western influence).” The Orientalist fantasy of old China appears to dominate the book. Ling’s convenient view of the “real” China is also reflected in unkind footnotes such as the one for Three Kingdoms, described as “a most popular novel in China” (Ling 1953, 104). However, the seemingly shallow view of self-Orientalization can also be approached in relation to Ling Shuhua’s lifelong interest in incommunicability, as seen in her translations such as “Writing a Letter,” “The Poet Goes Mad,” and “What’s the point of it?.” Ancient Melodies does not prioritize the delivery of content or characters. As much as the Bloomsbury group maintained their fascination with the exoticized “wild” Other through distancing, Ling Shuhua’s book project does not show serious efforts to narrow the distance. In Ling’s logic, the “real Chinese mind” cannot be conveyed to the “West”; or if it is conveyed, it is not “real” anymore. Ling’s perspective on incommunicability continues in her translation practice, which is imbued with untranslatability. Ling’s narrative strategy of authenticity couples with the translation strategy of erasing the self and distancing the Other. The autobiographical authenticity is performative and the translation aestheticizes the empty space of in-betweenness.

CONCLUSION In the Western print market, the “third-world” woman’s autobiography presents an exotic spectacle of difference, and often of suffering, to readers. Ling Shuhua was (self-)positioned as a Chinese noble-class woman in her relationship with the Bloomsbury group. She was never recognized as an established let alone modernist writer by Virginia Woolf and other members of the Bloomsbury group. Her autobiography may relate less to subjectivity than to subjectification. Ling Shuhua’s translation strategy defies both legacies of autobiography; that is, the myth of the self and the pact of truth. Borrowing from the popular genre of Chinese women’s autobiography, Ling aspired to embody her lifelong aestheticism by integrating a poetic vision of Chinese literati painting, modern women’s boredom, and a childlike intuitive perception. Ling Shuhua pursues the sublime of yiqi in the modernist thematic terrain of boredom; in the silence that springs from eloquent spoken language; in the domestic space of women; and through the vision of a child.

REFERENCES Abel, Elizabeth. 2014. “Spaces of Time: Virginia Woolf’s Life-Writing.” In Modernism and Autobiography, edited by Maria DiBattista and Emily O. Wittman, 55–66. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bell, Julian. 1938. Julian Bell: Essays, Poems and Letters, edited by Quentin Bell. London: Hogarth Press. Besemeres, Mary. 2002. Translating One’s Self: Language and Selfhood in Cross-Cultural Autobiography. Oxford: Peter Lang. Cuadrado, Clara Yu. 1982. “Portraits by a Lady.” In Women Writers of Twentieth-Century China, edited by Angela Jung Palandri, 41–61. Eugene: Asian Studies Program, University of Oregon. Fu, Guangming. 2003. “Preface.” In Guyun, by Ling Shuhua, translated by Fu Guangming, 1–19. Beijing: Zhongguo huajiao chubanshe. Hong, Jeesoon. 2007. “The Chinese Gentlewoman in the Public Gaze: Ling Shuhua in Twentieth Century’s China and Britain.” In The Quest for Gentility in China: Negotiations beyond Gender and Class, edited by Daria Berg and Chloe Starr, 235–52. London: Routledge.

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Hong, Jeesoon. 2009. “Stereotyping and the Translation of Subjectivity: The Image of ‘The Little girl’ in Ling Shuhua’s Chinese and English Translations.” Translation Quarterly 52: 70–99. Hong, Ying. (1999) 2002. K: The Art of Love. London: Marion Boyars Publishers Hu Shi 胡適. 1994.《胡適遺稿及秘藏書信》[Hu Shi’s Posthumous Manuscripts and Private Letters], vol. 35, edited by Geng Yunzhi. Hefei: Huangshan shushe. Huff, Cynthia. 2017. “After Auto, after Bio: Posthumanism and Life Writing.” a/b: Auto/Biography Studies 32 (2): 279–82. Lang-Tan, Meihua Goatkoei. 2004. Begegnungen mit Anton Tschechow (1860–1904), Cao Xueqin (1715–63), Wang Shifu (ca. 1250–1300) und dem mongolischen Dramen-Dichter Sa Dula (1308–) in der Erzälung “Blumentempel” (1925) der Autorin Ling Shuhua (1900–1990). Heidelberg: Heidelberger Hochschulservice. Lei, Jun. 2018. “Capitalizing China: Writing Autography into World Literature.” Modern Chinese Literature and Culture 30 (1): 87–109. Li, Chu-tsing. 1979. Trends in Modern Chinese Painting. Ascona: Artibus Asiae Publishers, Ling Shuhua 凌叔華. “An Introduction to Chinese Painting” (typescript, MAKC). Ling Shuhua 凌叔華, trans. 1926.《小姑娘》[A Little Girl].《現代評論》[Contemporary Review] 3 (72): 11–14. Ling Shuhua 凌叔華, trans. 1928. 《一件事》[An Event].《現代評論》[Contemporary Review] 8 (195): 12–14; (196): 10–12. Ling Shuhua 凌叔華, trans. 1936a. “What Is the Point of It?” T’ien Hsia Monthly 3 (1): 53–62 (typescript, MAKC). Ling Shuhua 凌叔華. 1936b. “Writing a Letter” (typescript, MAKC). Ling Shuhua 凌叔華. 1937. “A Poet Goes Mad.” T’ien Hsia Monthly 4 (4): 401–21 (typescript, MAKC). Ling Shuhua 凌叔華 (Su Hua Ling Chen). 1953. Ancient Melodies. London: The Hogarth Press, 1953. Reprinted by London: The Hogarth Press, 1969; also by New York: Universe Books, 1988. Ling Shuhua 凌叔華. 1988.《女兒身世太淒涼》[Ladies’ Lives Are Too Desolate; 1924];《酒後》[After Drinking; 1925]; 綉枕 [Embroidered Pillows; 1925];《花之寺》[The Flower Temple; 1925]; 瘋了的詩 人 [A Poet Goes Mad; 1928]; 小哥倆 [Two Little Brothers; 1929];《搬家》[Moving Home; 1929]; 《倪雲林》[Ni Yunlin] (1931); 《無聊》[Boredom; 1934];《寫信》[Writing a Letter; 1935];《一件 喜事》[A Happy Event; 1936). In《凌叔華文存》[Works of Ling Shuhua], vol. 1., edited by Chen Xueyong 陈学勇. Chengdu: Sichuan wenyi chubanshe. Ling Shuhua 凌叔華. 1994.《古韵》[Ancient Melodies], translated by Fu Guangming. Beijing: Zhongguo huajiao chubanshe. MAKC. n.d. “Bell Papers.” Modern Archives of King’s College, University of Cambridge. Ng, Janet. 1993. “Writing in Her Father’s World: The Feminine Autobiographical Strategies of Ling Shuhua.” Prose Studies 16 (3): 235–50. Ni Bangwen 倪邦文. 1995a.《现代评论派的团体构成》[The Formation of the Contemporary Review Group].《新文学史料》[Historical Materials of New Literature] (11): 137–49. Ni Bangwen 倪邦文. 1995b.《论现代评论派的创作》[On the Literary Creation of the Contemporary Review Group].《中国现代文学和研究丛刊》[Modern Chinese Literature Studies] (3): 254–69. NYPL. “Berg Collection of English and American Literature.” The New York Public Library. SCSUL. “Special collections.” Sussex University Library. Shih, Shu-mei. 2001. “Gendered Negotiations with the Local: Lin Huiyin and Ling Shuhua.” In The Lure of the Modern: Writing Modernism in Semicolonial China, 1917–1937, by Shu-mei Shih, 215–28. Berkeley: University of California Press. Smith, Sidonie. 1987. A Poetics of Women’s Autobiography: Marginality and the Fictions of SelfRepresentation. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Smith, Sidone. 2011. “Narrating Lies and Contemporary Imaginaries.” PMLA 126 (3): 564–74. Smith, Sidonie, and Julia Watson. 2010. Reading Autobiography: A Guide for Interpreting Life Narratives, 2nd edn. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

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Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. 1993. “The Politics of Translation.” In Outside in the Teaching Machine, 179–200. New York: Routledge. Watson, Julia. 2010. Reading Autobiography: A Guide for Interpreting Life Narratives, 2nd edn. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Wong, Su-Ling, and Earl Herbert Cressy. 1952. Daughter of Confucius: A Personal History. London: Victor Gollancz; New York: Farrar, Straus and Young. Zhang, Xiaoquan Raphael. 2012. “A Voice Silenced and Heard: Negotiations and Transactions across Boundaries in Ling Shuhua’s English Memoirs.” Comparative Literature Studies 49 (4): 585–95. Zohrab, Irene. 1988. “Katherine Mansfield’s Previously Unknown Publications on Anton Chekhov.” Journal of New Zealand Literature (6): 137–56.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Sappho’s Younger Brother: Shao Xunmei, Translation, and His Golden House Bookshop PAUL BEVAN

INTRODUCTION The literary journal《金屋月刊》(Golden House Monthly; GHM), with its emphasis on both the historical and contemporary, might be seen as a transition from Shao Xunmei’s 邵洵美 (1906–1968) focus on English Decadence during the 1920s—one that included the Greek poet Sappho (c. 630–c. 570 bce) as a major figure—to a focus on all things “modern” as seen in the foreign magazines he enjoyed reading toward the very end of the decade: magazines that would serve as models for the pictorial magazines he went on to publish during the 1930s. Shao’s admiration for Sappho’s poetry is widely recognized by scholars today. He wrote poems dedicated to her and translated a number of her best-known poems into Chinese. This chapter will explore how Sappho, and her followers in more recent centuries in Britain and France, were influential for Shao’s work as both poet and publisher during the second half of the 1920s and how this influence appears to have become less important to him as his interest shifted to contemporary themes during the 1930s. Up to now, it has been Shao’s own poetry that has been the main target of research concerning his creative output (Lee 1999; Hutt 2001; Sun and Swindall 2016; Jin 2020). In addition, some have looked at his work as a publisher (Wang 2012), but Shao’s translations and those of his associates in GHM have received less attention, and it is these that will be the focus of this chapter.

SHAO’S EARLY PUBLICATIONS Shao’s translations were mostly published in the period 1927–1930, that is, from shortly after his return to China from Europe until the time when GHM ceased publication four years later. Likewise, the publication of Shao’s own poetry largely dates to this period. A notable exception is his《詩二十五首》(Twenty-Five Poems), Shao’s last poetry anthology of 1936. It should be understood, however, that all the poems in this collection were written well before it was published and had previously appeared in a variety of different journals, as many as eleven of them in GHM.1 《獅吼》(Sphinx; 1928), 《雅典》(Athens; 1929), 《詩刊》(Poetry Journal), 《聲色畫報》(Vox; 1935), and《詩篇》 (Poems; 1933).

1

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Shao’s trip to Europe, when he spent time in Cambridge and Paris (as well as a brief excursion to Naples), might be seen as his own tailor-made “grand tour”—his pursuit of the study of European art, literature, and manners, in a similar mode to the journeys abroad undertaken by young English gentlemen and ladies of Georgian and Victorian England. Formal study for preliminary entrance examinations for the University of Cambridge took up some of his time, though Shao never matriculated as he had to return to China before he could meet the necessary requirements for entry.2 The intellectual environment in which Shao lived in Cambridge was steeped in the study of classical poetry, and Shao picked up on this. It was there, too, that he came under the spell of a number of nineteenth-century Western poets, and these would shape the course of his creative life during the years that immediately followed his return to China (Shao 1929a, 56–60).3

BACK IN CHINA Shao’s first published book,《天堂與五月》(Heaven and May), appeared in 1927 and included many of the poems he wrote while in Europe and on his return journey to China. In these can be seen a strong debt to the poetry of Sappho as well as Sappho’s Victorian follower, Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837–1909). In March 1928, two years after his return, Shao established the Golden House Bookshop and published two further books. One, 《火與肉》(Fire and Flesh) was a book of essays about figures who had caught his imagination during the time he was in Europe, including Swinburne, Sappho, Catullus (c. 84–c. 54 bce) and Théophile Gautier (1811–1872). The other was a collection of twenty-four translated poems entitled《一朵朵玫瑰》(Every One a Rose), which included the poetry of Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828–1882), Christina Rossetti (1830–1894), Swinburne, Thomas Hardy (1840–1928), Sara Teasdale (1884–1933), Paul Verlaine (1844–1896), Gautier, Sappho, and Catullus. A cursory examination of the poems, whether they be from nineteenth-century Europe or the late Roman Republic, reveals more than anything else their importance to Shao’s own understanding of Sappho. It might be said that Shao’s love affair with the poetry of nineteenth-century England and France was actually one with Sappho, as each one of the poets included in his collection had been influenced by the Greek poet to some degree or other. The book’s title, Every One a Rose can also be explained with reference to Sappho. It has its roots in the Garland, a collection of epigrams compiled by Meleager of Gadara (130–136 bce), the prefatory poem to which states that surviving poems of Sappho were few in number: “and of Sappho little, but all roses” (Mackail 1890, 13). Having read this in J. W. Mackail’s Select Epigrams from the Greek Anthology, Shao translates it into Chinese in his own essay to the following effect: “although few, there is not one of them that is not a rose,” and continues by saying, “the fragrance of these

In a register of provisional new Cambridge students (1919–1927), Shao appears as Yuin Loong Zau (a Romanization based on the Shanghai pronunciation of his original name, Shao Yunlong 邵雲龍). My thanks to Amanda Goode, Emmanuel College Archivist, for permission to cite her unpublished memorandum concerning Shao’s time in Cambridge. On a similar subject, Philippe Cinquini has noted that Shao’s attendance at the École des Beaux-Arts, Paris, is not borne out by the school’s archives (Cinquini 2020). 3 Shao’s interest in Sappho was sparked off by seeing what he thought was a portrait of her in Naples. “Tondo of woman with wax tablets and stylus (so-called ‘Sappho’),” National Archaeological Museum of Naples (inventory no. 9084), c. 1st century ce. 2

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few roses has had a great influence on later generations” (Shao 1929c, 2–3).4 These generations are represented by the poets Shao chose to include in Every One a Rose, and by many other figures he goes on to mention in his essay, including the poets John Lyly (1553–1606), Tobias Smollett (1721–1771), Baudelaire (1821–1867), Pierre Louÿs (1870–1925), and translations and publications by the Victorian figures J. A. Symonds (1840–1893) and H. T. Wharton (1846–1896). Shao’s essay on Sappho appeared in《真美善》(Truth Beauty Goodness) in 1929, and his writings and poetry related to her can be found in a number of periodicals other than GHM. His essays on D. G. Rossetti (Shao 1928) and Swinburne (Shao 1927b) appeared in Sphinx; his essay on the love poems of Catullus (Shao 1927a) in《藝術界周刊》(Art World Weekly); and his translation of an essay on Gautier by Arthur Symons (1865–1945) was published in《現代評論》(Contemporary Review) in 1927 (Symons 1927). On May 5, 1928, Shao published a second volume of his own poetry《花一般的罪惡》 (Flower-Like Evil). Almost half of the thirty-one poems included in it had already appeared in Heaven and May, which had been published as one of a series of books issued by 《獅 吼社》(The Sphinx Society) (Lin 2002, 31). The society was formed in 1924, and their fortnightly journal Sphinx appeared on July 15, that year, while Shao was still in Europe. It ceased publication in December 1924 after just twelve issues. Then, following a series of publishing starts and stops that seemed to plague the Sphinx Society, including the fleeting appearances of《新紀元》(New Epoch; 1926),《屠蘇》(Tusu; 1926), and another version of Sphinx (1927), in 1928 Shao approached the society with a proposal to inject money into the publishing business and bring Sphinx well and truly back to life. This resulted in the journal’s reappearance under the banner of Shao’s Golden House Bookshop from July 1, 1928, with the individual issues designated as復活號 (“resurrection” numbers) (Lin 2002, 56). The resurrected Sphinx continued to publish features on foreign literature, typically including Chinese-language renderings of nineteenth-century British and French literature; essays on the English Romantic poets and the Aesthetic movement; and other forms of literature that occupied the society’s members—including Greek and Roman writings. From this, it can be seen that although some of these areas of study were major focuses of Shao’s work, he was by no means exceptional in his Anglophile/Francophile passion. What was unique in Shao’s writings was his deliberate focus on Western poets who had been specifically inspired by Sappho. Toward the end of the publishing life of Sphinx, Shao briefly took over as chief editor of the journal, but despite his best efforts, he was eventually compelled to write a farewell address to its readers in the final issue of December 16, 1928. It was now that he took the bold step of branching out to publish his own literary journal, GHM, the first issue of which appeared on January 1, 1929, just weeks after the final demise of Sphinx. Whereas the editors of Sphinx were not explicitly named on the journal’s cover, they now appeared prominently on GHM as Shao Xunmei and (former Sphinx editor) Zhang Kebiao 章克 標 (1900–2007) on a simple, text-based cover designed by Qian Juntao 錢君匋 (1907–1998).5

Shao quotes a writer he calls “Makail,” actually John William Mackail (1859–1945). Mackail is directly quoting Meleager in this case. 5 Qian is often remembered for his modernist cover designs for publications by left-wing writers such as Lu Xun and Mao Dun. See Minick and Jiao (1990, 40–1). 4

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In a declaration stating the publisher’s aims, readers were informed that this new offering was a totally different type of magazine to others on the market. Unlike other publishers, writers, and literary groups, those in charge of GHM claimed to be unfettered by “colors and banners,” referring to the metaphorical flag waving and political posturing that was so prevalent in the literary world in the late 1920s. Instead, they were wholeheartedly devoted to art—namely, that well-trodden path of art for art’s sake. As editors of GHM, Shao and Zhang were also keen to make clear that it was a mistake for anyone to think of their new journal as a reincarnation of Sphinx (“Secai yu qizhi” 1929, 3). This statement should be taken with a pinch of salt, however, as there are clear links between the two publications. Even in GHM’s “postbox” column, it plainly states that readers’ letters published in this new journal had originally been addressed to the postbox of Sphinx (“Jinwu youxiang” 1929, 153–54). GHM might be seen, then, as just one more in a line of literary journals distributed by a group of like-minded colleagues in Shanghai’s publishing world. Despite the protestations of the editors, there is little doubt that GHM, at least to some extent, was modeled on The Yellow Book, the quintessential periodical of English Decadence. In reply to a reader’s letter, the editors of GHM sought to distance themselves from any direct links to the English journal, but this was likely to be simply part of their professed strategy to distance themselves from all literary schools (“Jinwu tanhua” 1929b, 160–61). In fact, reading between the lines, this will have been done specifically to disassociate themselves from literary schools in China—the aforementioned “flag-wavers,” and in particular those who would go on, in 1930, to form the League of Left-Wing Writers (“Secai yu qizhi” 1929, 4–6). By claiming to distance themselves from all schools of literature, it gave them the perfect opportunity to disassociate themselves from Chinese writers they had no time for—without having to name names—thereby avoiding incurring the wrath of some very influential literary figures. Up to this time, they had not been altogether successful in avoiding criticism. A critique written just before the launch of GHM by Zhao Jingshen 趙景深 (1902–1985), writing under the penname Bo Dong 博董, points out that all publications issued by Shao’s publishing house not only included writings by or about Sappho but that the writings they did include were all the same. In《本本都是莎茀》 (Every Book a Sappho)—a pun on Shao’s Every One a Rose—Bo Dong argues that purchasing the overly expensive books published by Golden House Bookshop was simply a waste of money, as identical material was available in Sphinx magazine at a considerably lower price (Bo Dong 1928, 332–33). This critique appeared in《文學周報》(Literature Weekly), a journal associated with the Literature Research Society文學研究會, one of the major competing literary factions of the time and just the sort of society from which the editors of GHM were hoping to distance themselves.

SAPPHO’S YOUNGER BROTHER In Swinburne’s poem about Sappho’s fabled suicide, On the Cliffs, the narrator refers to her as “sister” several times in the text (Swinburne 1904, 311–25). In one of Shao’s own youthful poems, 《致史文朋》(To Swinburne), he picks up on this and addresses the English poet across the decades with the words, “You are Sappho’s elder brother, I am her younger brother,” while later

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in the poem suggesting that the three of them together, “are like three wild flowers on a barren mountain.”6 With a love for Sappho that Shao would no doubt have considered to be equally fervent as Swinburne’s obsessive infatuation, Shao’s work became immersed in the decadent version of Sappho that had circulated within Western literary circles during the nineteenth century. “To Swinburne” is a decadent offering, replete with the striking imagery found in poems by both its dedicatee and Baudelaire. Shao recognized many similarities between the work of these two poets, and Swinburne was indeed a devoted follower of both Baudelaire and Gautier (Reynolds 2000, 232–33). Surprisingly, despite Shao paying homage to Baudelaire in calling his third volume of poetry Flower-Like Evil (after the French poet’s Les Fleur du Mal), Baudelaire’s poems do not appear in Every One a Rose. But Shao did choose to include those by Gautier and Verlaine. In a short postscript to a translation of an essay on Gautier by fellow decadent poet (and editor of the periodical The Savoy) Arthur Symons—to Shao the most precise and accurate short account of the French writer available—Shao declared that Gautier was greatly admired by Swinburne, and the English poet was someone who he himself most admired (Symons and Shao 1927, 15–18). That is not to say that we should believe he considered Baudelaire to be in any way inferior to Gautier, but in this particular essay, this is simply what he chose to write. Gautier and Baudelaire were heroes of both Swinburne and Shao. Bearing in mind Shao’s deep love for Sappho and Swinburne, it is perhaps surprising that poetry by neither appeared in GHM. What did appear, however, was Shao’s essay《兩個偶像》(Two Idols), which introduces the portraits of the two poets that hung on the wall of his Shanghai studio (Shao 1929a, 56–60). In fact, Shao had at least three idols. The third was the Irish writer George Moore (1852–1933), whose work was particularly important to Shao in the publication of GHM and appeared there a number of times in his own translations (Moore and Shao 1929a, b, 1930). Bearing in mind the Sapphic focus of the poets Shao chose to translate, it can come as no surprise that Moore also drew inspiration from Sappho, notably in his short verse drama, Sappho, in which can be found retellings of Sappho’s Fragment 31 and Baudelaire’s Femmes Damnées (Women Damned), both sung by the Sappho character in the play, and transformed in Moore’s English versions into Sapphic verse (Reynolds 2003, 200–205; Baudelaire and Richardson 1975, 190–91). Another Victorian writer, Thomas Hardy, features in GHM and as an admirer of Sappho had appeared in Every One a Rose. A partial translation of Hardy’s Jude the Obscure was published serially in GHM, translated by Guo Youshou 郭有守 (1901–1978) and one of his poems, “Beyond the Last Lamp,” was translated by Guo’s younger brother, Guo Zixiong 郭子雄 (n.d.) (Hardy 1929a, b). Hardy’s interest in the Greek poetess ran deep, and he made translations of her poetry, while at the same time being much taken with Wharton’s anthology of Sappho, a volume that was well known to Shao (Wharton 1895; Thomas 2006, 129; Shao 1929c, 8). Notoriously, Hardy and Moore did not see eye to eye, but Shao admired the poetry of both. According to GHM, Guo Youshou was proud to say he had met Hardy in person (as indeed had Shao’s friend Xu Zhimo 徐志摩 [1897–1931]), and Hardy had apparently given Guo his blessing to translate his works into Chinese (“Jinwu tanhua” 1929b, 160–61).7 For his part, Shao was in correspondence with In Chinese, the term for younger brother, didi 弟弟, is different to that for older brother, gege哥哥. Here, Shao is not suggesting that Swinburne is older than Sappho, but rather Swinburne is older than Shao. For the original Chinese poem see Sun and Swindall (2016, 99). The English translation is my own. 7 See also Xu (1928). 6

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George Moore. Shao mentions this fact in his own writings, but it even found its way into the English-language press of the time, The North-China Daily News reporting that Shao “received from the doyen of English [sic] novelists … an autograph-letter and an autographed copy of ‘Confessions of a Young Man’” (“Notes on Chinese Personalities” 1928, 12).8 Shao met a number of Sappho scholars while he was in England, not least John Maxwell Edmonds (1875–1958), whom he visited in Cambridge following an introduction by his landlord, the sinologist Arthur Christopher Moule (1873–1957). Edmonds was something of a controversial figure in Sappho circles, as his recent 1922 translation, which received far from favorable reviews, was considered by many to veer too heavily toward a fanciful reconstruction of Sappho’s fragments rather than providing a faithful scholarly translation (Finglass 2021, 256). Nevertheless, it was Edmonds who introduced Shao to the poems of Swinburne, and it was he also who first suggested to Shao that he translate Sappho’s poetry into Chinese (Shao 1929a, 56–60). Shao was not the first to translate Sappho into Chinese. Essayist and translator of Japanese and Ancient Greek, Zhou Zuoren 周作人 (1885–1967) had done so in 1914, translating short examples of Sappho’s poetry into classical Chinese and later, in 1923, into modern Chinese verse (Chen 2021, 474–78). But it seems that Shao was unaware of this, and on the suggestion of Edmonds, the youthful Shao tried his hand at translating Sappho’s poetry into modern Chinese. His autobiographical writings tell us that he attempted to translate them from the originals with the aid of the “Greek Lexicon,” but there is little doubt that he will have relied chiefly on existing English translations to produce his Chinese versions (Shao 1929b, 1–7). Two of the poems he selected to publish are undoubtedly Sappho’s best known. They are famous for being rare survivors of her poetry to have come down to us from antiquity and had been popular in English translation for centuries. These are Fragment 1, “Ode to Aphrodite,” and the abovementioned Fragment 31, Sappho’s most famous poem. Two other poems were less complete. Fragment 2 had also been handed down from antiquity, but unlike Fragments 1 and 31, only survived in part. Fragment 5, translated by Shao as《女神歌》(Song to the Goddesses), was unearthed as one of countless papyrus fragments found at the key archaeological site of Oxyrhynchus, Egypt, in the late nineteenth century.9 Shao’s colleague Zhu Weiji 朱維基 (1904–1971) contributed a number of translations of Western literature to GHM, excerpts from Shakespeare’s Othello and the poetry of Tennyson among them. Tennyson paid homage to Sappho in his early poems, in particular to Fragment 31 (Reynolds 2003, 92–108), and he, in turn, was famously an inspiration to the pre-Raphaelites. The work of the pre-Raphaelites and the Aesthetic movement played a significant part in the lives of both Shao and Zhu Weiji, and a special issue of Sphinx devoted to Dante Gabriel Rossetti had included an essay by Shao, and Zhu’s translation of Hand and Soul.10 Later, poems by both D. G. and Christina Rossetti would be translated and published by Zhu in his own poetry journal《詩篇》(1933–1934), alongside those of Keats and Shelley, and Chinese poems by Shao and Xu Xu 徐訏 (1908–1980). In GHM, Zhu Weiji was given the honor of translating two essays by Walter Pater—leading light of

8 Shao is introduced here as having authored a poetic drama entitled “Sappho.” This is mentioned by Shao in his 《希臘文 學專家》(An expert in Greek literature) (Shao 2008, 99). 9 Fragment 2 was translated by Percy Osborn in 1909 as “A Cool Retreat.” Fragment 5 appeared as “To the Nereids” in a 1926 translation by C. R. Haines. See Reynolds (2000, 19–20; 32–5). 10 《獅吼復活號》(Sphinx, Resurrection Number) no. 2, 《羅瑟蒂專號》(Special Rossetti Number) (July 16, 1928).

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the British aestheticism (Pater and Zhu, 1929, 1930). One of these, “Style,” was held in such high esteem by the editors of GHM that it was described as nothing less than a prescription to cure the ills of the modern Chinese literary world (“Jinwu tanhua” 1929a, 155).

TWENTIETH-CENTURY WRITERS IN GHM In addition to the writings of the recent and not so recent past, a number of translations of the work of contemporary writers were included in GHM. In line with the stated aim of the journal to avoid factionalism, the examples of modern writing are an eclectic mix. As was the case with Shao, his fellow editor Zhang Kebiao contributed both original works and translations to the journal. Shao’s translations were from English-language originals whereas Zhang, who had studied in Japan, focused on Japanese authors, and works by Natusme Sōseki (1867–1916) and Tanazaki Jun’ichirō (1886–1965), two of the most celebrated Japanese writers at the time, appeared in translations by Zhang under both his own name and the cipher KP.11 Pen names and ciphers were widely used in the journal. A Contemporary English piece about John Masefield (1878–1967) taken from Twenty-Five (the 1926 autobiography of Beverley Nichols [1898–1983]) was translated into Chinese by Shao under his nom de plume Hao Wen 浩文, and Vendor’s Song, a poem by the American Adelaide Crapsey (1878–1914), by a writer with the pen name Shuheng 叔蘅 (n.d.) who additionally contributed a number of prose translations to GHM. Other examples of American writing appeared in the journal, including Nascuntur Poetae by Thornton Wilder, which was also translated by “Hao Wen” (Wilder and Hao [Shao] 1929, 77–81). Wilder had been greatly influenced by Theodor Dreiser’s dramatic works, but here the editors of GHM took the unusual step (according to an editorial, rather reluctantly and against their better judgment) of including an example of Dreiser’s travel writing that belongs firmly in the realms of left-wing politics, “Bolshevik Art Literature and Music” (Dreiser and Zeng 1929). Following the second installment of Dreiser’s piece, there was a six-month publication hiatus. When production resumed in December, the editors offered an apology to the translator for mistaken identity (“Jinwu tanhua” 1929c, 162). Rather than being the work of one Han Qi, as originally indicated in the journal, it was actually translated by Zeng Xubai 曾虛白 (1895–1994), eldest son of Francophile writer Zeng Pu 曾樸 (1872–1935), who together were editors of the journal Zhen mei shan. As well as Shao’s anglophone interests, he was associated with Francophile circles, and was a regular guest at Zeng Pu’s French literary salon in Shanghai. Translations from the French in GHM that reflect this interest include writings by André Maurois (1885–1967) and Paul Morand (1888–1976).12 Morand’s work had become popular with a number of Chinese writers due to their exposure to the stories he wrote around the time of the First World War. It is well known that the “New-Sensationists” published translations of Morand’s stories in their journal《無軌列車》(Trackless Train) in 1928, together with his biography, written by Bernard Crémieux as translated by Liu Na’ou 劉呐鷗 (1905–1940), the magazine’s editor.13 The two

“KP” almost certainly stands for “K’o-Piao”– Kebiao in the Wade-Giles system of Romanization. Maurois’s Ruskin à Wilde was translated for GHM by Guo Youshou, and Shao went on to translate Maurois’s autobiography for《新月》(Crescent Moon). See Maurois (1929, 1930a, b). 13 For more on this see Peng (2010, 92–5). 11 12

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stories by Morand in Trackless Train were both translated by Dai Wangshu戴望舒 (1905–1950), who continued to translate his work well into the 1940s. Although Dai also contributed to GHM, the one story by Morand to appear in the journal was not translated by him at all but was another offering by the elusive Shuheng.14 Dai’s only contribution to GHM was a translation of a short work of fiction by the Spanish author Azorin (1873–1967), another popular writer in Chinese literary circles, whose stories, like Morand’s, appeared in Trackless Train.15 Shao Xunmei’s own interest in Morand was largely due to his love of the magazine Vanity Fair, a publication to which Morand contributed on a regular basis. It was around the time when GHM first appeared that the English-language writing of Morand became a focus of Shao’s attention in the American publication (Bevan and Daruvala, 2023). It can be no coincidence that a number of writers whose work appears in GHM had links to Vanity Fair. The names of Morand, Nichols, and Dreiser all appeared in the magazine, as contributors, or as the butt of the caricaturists’ pen, and Ferenc Molnar’s story “The Iron Master,” which appeared in GHM in yet another translation by Shuheng, had been published in Vanity Fair in April 1926.16 Vanity Fair would go on to serve as an important model for Shao’s magazines.

SHAO MOVES ON Even before GHM folded in September 1930, the first issue of a periodical that would reflect a distinct change of focus for Shao had already appeared.《時代畫報》(Modern Miscellany) was first published on October 20, 1929, edited by Zhang Zhenyu 張振宇 (1904–1976) and Ye Lingfeng 葉靈鳳 (1905–1975). For the second issue, the artist Ye Qianyu 葉淺予 (1907–1995) took over from Ye Lingfeng and would remain chief editor for much of the magazine’s history. Ye Qianyu was joined in the third issue by his cartoonist colleague Lu Shaofei 魯少飛 (1903–1995), and it was at this point, while Shao was still publishing GHM, that he began to invest his time and money in Modern Miscellany (Lin 2002, 82). This was a new departure for Shao. GHM was primarily a literary journal and included only occasional, rather poor-quality images (paintings, drawings, and photographs), whereas Modern Miscellany bore more resemblance to magazines that featured a high proportion of visual material within their pages, such as《良友畫報》(The Young Companion) and《上海漫畫》(Shanghai Sketch).17 In the thirteenth issue of Modern Miscellany, Shao’s name appears for the first time as editor (Shidai huabao 1930).18 Now a real change of approach can be seen. He had moved from being a publisher of literary journals that focused largely

This was Morand’s “Céleste Julie!,” appearing as《天一般的秋孋》, a story that Dai Wangshu thought enough of to borrow its name for use as the title of his own 1929 collection of Morand’s stories—in his translation as《天女玉麗》. 15 For more on Dai and Azorin see Lee (1985). 16 Dreiser’s writings can be seen in Vanity Fair from 1926. A caricature of Beverley Nichols by Miguel Covarrubias can be found in Vanity Fair vol. 31, no. 6 (February 1929), 73. Molnar’s story reappeared in Frank Crowninshield, Stories from Vanity Fair (New York: H. Liveright, 1928) together with contributions by Maurois and Morand. Molnar became a Vanity Fair staff member in 1927. 17 It is likely that writings on Qu Yuan, Dante, and Byron that appear in Shanghai Sketch were written by Shao using the pseudonym Pingfan 平凡. See Pingfan (1928, 7). 18 Shao’s name appears first in a list of five editors. The others are: Zhang Guangyu 張光宇, Zhang Zhenyu 張振宇, Ye Qianyu 葉淺予, and Zheng Guanghan 鄭光漢. 14

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on Decadence—with their English-language counterparts in The Savoy and The Yellow Book—to produce publications that took inspiration from magazines such as Vanity Fair, which focused on the latest in all things modern. It is notable that the translation of foreign literature, which had been such a major part of GHM, is pretty much absent in Modern Miscellany. This is not to say that Shao’s interest in Decadence and other nineteenth-century European trends ever ceased entirely, but there was a clear change of emphasis that occurred when his involvement with Modern Miscellany began.19 In Modern Miscellany both translation and poetry became significantly less prominent. Now Shao’s focus was on publishing literature and art of a more contemporary nature and this is reflected in the array of fashionable pictorial magazines he began to produce in the early 1930s, two notable examples being《時代漫畫》(Modern Sketch) and 《萬象》(Van Jan). So few were Shao’s translations in the years immediately following 1931 that it was not until 1933 that his next translation of any note appeared. This was a version of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes by Anita Loos (1889–1981), translated into the local language of Suzhou (Shao 2008, 181). Shao’s decision to translate this quintessential novel of the jazz age (equally representative of the Roaring Twenties as F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Great Gatsby) is not as unusual as it may at first appear when one considers his continued interest in Vanity Fair, as Loos had been a contributor to the magazine since 1915.20 In a short 1936 newspaper article by Guo Shijie 郭世傑 (n.d.), Shao is described as a voluble host holding forth at his salon in discussions with friends, as had been the case in former years. Observing (quite tellingly perhaps) that it was since the tragic death of Xu Zhimo in 1931 that Shao’s poetic output ceased (it had certainly diminished considerably), Guo reports that Shao was now fully engaged in the running of his publishing company. With a distinct touch of nostalgic melancholy, Guo recalls Shao’s days as an “aesthetic poet,” back in what he describes as “the era of ‘Flower Like Evil’” and bemoans how quickly time had sped by since then (Guo 1936, 4). In fact, Shao was translating again but had turned his hand to Chinese–English translation. Under the name Shing Mo-lei (Xin Molei) 辛墨雷, he and his then girlfriend Emily Hahn translated Shen Congwen’s《邊城》(Border Town) as “Green Jade and Green Jade,” and this appeared serially in the Shanghai-published T’ien Hsia Monthly at the very time Guo’s reminiscence was published (Shing and Hahn 1936). Shao’s interest in translation picked up again considerably during the wartime period, notably in《自由譚》(1938–1939), which he published together with Hahn, but rarely, if ever, did he revert publicly to his former identity as an “aesthetic poet.” Now a flurry of translations appeared, mostly on themes related to the war. This upsurge in translation was out of necessity, as the Chinese-language Ziyoutan had an English-language sister magazine, Candid Comment. A number of the same articles appeared in both, and Shao translated selected Chinese articles into English (Hahn 1987, 26–8). Included in Ziyoutan were Shao’s Chinese translations of poems by W. H. Auden and Herbert Read.21 After this time, he continued translating, now largely out of

Shao’s interest in Decadence can still be seen as late as the 1940s. See Bevan (2015, 90–1). Anita Loos, “The Voice of Heredity and Nella” in Vanity Fair (February 1915). In 1935 Shao published another magazine in his “Shidai” series, and his translation of Private Lives appeared there serially. See Nuoyier·Kaote and Shao (1935). 21 Shao met Auden when he visited China with Christopher Isherwood to research their book Journey to a War. 19 20

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financial necessity, as well as writing a number of articles on the subject of another of his great passions—stamp collecting. By this time, Shao’s “era of Flower-Like Evil” had become a distant memory.

FROM AESTHETIC POET TO PUBLISHING ENTREPRENEUR Through the ages, the figure of Sappho had been reinvented and reimagined countless times by poets and scholars worldwide. Shao’s 1926 poem《致莎茀》(To Sappho), written while on board a ship, crossing the China Sea, shows her in decadent guise, the version of Sappho he adopted as a result of his admiration for fellow Sappho lovers Swinburne, Baudelaire, and the poets included in Every One a Rose. “To Sappho” That sweet fragrance, as you rise from your flowery bed, and that virginal nakedness like the bright moon. I see not your skin, which cloaks both fire and blood, Though you, like a rose, bloom within my heart.22 This poem exemplifies Shao’s youthful enthusiasm for the poetry of Sappho and Swinburne, a passion that was the catalyst for his short-lived career as a poet. In turn, his love of poetry became the spark that ignited his interest in publishing, which ultimately led, following his early experiments with Sphinx and other literary journals, to a full-blown commitment to the publication of pictorial magazines. This major undertaking—the importance of which to the Chinese publishing world cannot be overstated—represents a unique contribution to the cultural landscape of 1930s Shanghai, and was arguably Shao’s greatest and most enduring achievement.

REFERENCES Baudelaire, Charles, and Joanna Richardson, trans. 1975. Baudelaire: Selected Poems. London: Penguin Books. Bevan, Paul. 2015. A Modern Miscellany: Shanghai Cartoon Artists, Shao Xunmei’s Circle and the Travels of Jack Chen, 1926–1938. Leiden: Brill. Bevan, Paul, and Susan Daruvala, eds. 2023. One Man Talking: Selected Essays of Shao Xunmei, 1929–1939. Hong Kong: City of Hong Kong University Press. Bo Dong 博董 (Zhao Jingshen 趙景深). 1928.《本本都是莎茀》[Every Book a Sappho]. 《文學周報》 [Literature Weekly] (310–25): 303–04. Chen, Jingling. 2021. “Sappho in China and Japan.” In The Cambridge Companion to Sappho, edited by P. J. Finglass and Adrian Kelly, 473–86. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Cinquini, Philippe. 2020. “Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres, attr., Seated Male Nude Seen from the Rear, First Decade of the Nineteenth Century (?).” Nineteenth-Century Art Worldwide 19 (1): 106–16.

For the original Chinese poem see Sun and Swindall (2016, 97). The English translation is my own. Thanks to Shao Xiaohong for her kind permission to publish my translation of her father’s poem.

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Dreiser, Theodore, and Zeng Xubai 曾虛白, trans. 1929.《布爾塞維克的繪畫與文學》[Bolshevik art literature and music]. GHM 1 (5–6): 115–22. Finglass, P. J. 2021. “Editions of Sappho since the Renaissance.” In The Cambridge Companion to Sappho, edited by P. J. Finglass and Adrian Kelly, 247–59. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Guo Shijie 郭世傑. 1936.《唯美詩人邵洵美》[The Aesthetic Poet Shao Xunmei]. 《時代日報》[The Era Daily] (February 12): 4. Hahn, Emily. 1987. China to Me. London: Virago Press. Hardy, Thomas. 1929a.《在最後的燈旁》[Beyond the Last Lamp], trans. Guo Zixiong. GHM 1 (1): 9–12. Hardy, Thomas. 1929b.《無名的裘特》[Jude the Obscure], trans. Guo Youshou. GHM 1 (1): 135–52; 1 (2): 145–56; 1 (3): 123–32. Hutt, Jonathan. 2001. “The Sumptuous World of Shao Xunmei.” East Asian History (21): 111–42. Jin, Tian. 2020. The Condition of Music and Anglophone Influences in the Poetry of Shao Xunmei. Wilmington, DE: Vernon Press. “Jinwu tanhua”《金屋談話》[Golden House Conversations]. 1929a. GHM 1 (1): 155. “Jinwu tanhua”《金屋談話》[Golden House Conversations]. 1929b. GHM 1 (2): 160–61. “Jinwu tanhua”《金屋談話》[Golden House Conversations]. 1929c. GHM 1 (7): 159–62. “Jinwu youxiang”《金屋郵箱》[Golden House Post Box]. 1929. GHM 1 (1): 153–54. Lee, Gregory. 1985. Dai Wangshu: The Life and Poetry of a Chinese Modernist. Hong Kong: Chinese University of Hong Kong Press. Lee, Leo Ou-fan. 1999. Shanghai Modern: The Flowering of a New Urban Culture in China 1930–1945. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Lin, Qi 林淇. 2002.《海上才子——邵洵美传》[A Talent from Shanghai—A Biography of Shao Xunmei]. Shanghai: Shanghai renmin chubanshe. Loos, Anita. 1915. “The Voice of Heredity and Nella.” Vanity Fair (February). Mackail, J. W. 1890. Select Epigrams from the Greek Anthology. London: Longmans, Green, and Co. Maurois, André. 1929.《從羅斯金到王爾德》[De Ruskin a Wilde], trans. Guo Youshou. GHM 1 (5): 77–113. Maurois André. 1930a. 談自傳 [Aspects of Biography], trans. Shao Xunmei.《新月》 [Crescent Moon]. 3 (8): 1–17. Maurois, André. 1930b.《從羅斯金到王爾德》[De Ruskin a Wilde], trans. Guo Youshou. 新月 [Crescent Moon] 3 (8): 55–71. Minick, Scott, and Jiao Ping. 1990. Chinese Graphic Art in the Twentieth Century. London: Thames & Hudson. Moore, George, and Shao Xunmei, trans. 1929a.《和尚的情史》[The Hermit’s Love Story]. GHM 1 (2): 60–77. Moore, George, and Shao Xunmei. 1929b.《我的死了的生活的回憶》[Memoirs of My Dead Life]. GHM 1 (1): 55–84. Moore, George, and Shao Xunmei. 1930.《姊妹》[Sisters; Priscilla and Emily Lofft]. GHM 1 (9–10): 231–55. “Notes on Chinese Personalities.” 1928. North-China Daily News, October 11: 12. Nuoyier·Kaote 諾以爾·攷特 (Noel Coward), and Shao Xunmei, trans. 1935.《夫婦之間》[Private Lives].《文學時代》[Literature Times] 1 (1–4): 95–127. Pater, Walter, and Zhu Wenji. 1929.《文體論》[Style]. GHM 1 (1): 85–124. Pater, Walter, and Zhu Wenji, trans. 1930.《唯美的批評》[Critique of the Aesthetic; The School of Giorgione]. GHM 1 (12): 127–37. Peng Hsiao-yen. 2010. Dandyism and Transcultural Modernity—The Dandy, the Flâneur, and the Translator in 1930s Shanghai, Tokyo, and Paris. London: Routledge and Academia Sinica. Pingfan 平凡. 1928.《天才》[Genius].《上海漫畫》[Shanghai Sketch] (June 23): 7. Reynolds, Margaret. 2000. The Sappho Companion. London: Vintage. Reynolds, Margaret. 2003. The Sappho History. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. “Secai yu qizhi”《色彩與旗幟》[Colours and Banners]. 1929. GHM 1 (1) (January 1): 1–6.

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Shao Xunmei邵洵美. 1927a. 迦多羅斯 Catullus 的情詩 [The Love Poems of Catullus].《藝術界周刊》 [Art World Weekly]. 26: 1–4. Shao Xunmei邵洵美. 1927b. 史文朋 [Swinburne]. 《獅吼月刊》[Sphinx Monthly]. 1 (1): 94–108. Shao Xunmei邵洵美. 1928. “D.G. Rossetti.”《獅吼半月刊》 [Sphinx Fortnightly]. 2 (July 16): 1–16. Shao Xunmei 邵洵美. 1929a.《兩個偶像》[Two Idols]. GHM 1 (5): 56–60. Shao Xunmei 邵洵美. 1929b.《莫愁之愁》[The Sorrow of Mochou].《真美善》[Truth Beauty Goodness] 3 (5): 1–7. Shao Xunmei 邵洵美. 1929c.《希臘女詩聖莎茀》[The Saint of Women’s Poetry, Sappho]. 《真美善》 [Truth Beauty Goodness]: 1–11. Shao Xunmei 邵洵美. 2008.《儒林新史》[A New History of the Scholars]. Shanghai: Shanghai shudian chubanshe. Shidai huabao《時代畫報》[Modern Miscellany]. 1930. 2 (1). Shing Mo-lei 辛墨雷 (Xin Molei; Shao Xunmei), and Emily Hahn, trans. 1936. “Green Jade and Green Jade.” T’ien Hsia Monthly 2 (1): 93–107; 2 (3): 271–99; 2 (4): 360–90. Sun, Jicheng, and Hal Swindall. 2016. The Verse of Shao Xunmei. Paramus, NJ: Homa and Sekey Books. Swinburne, A. C. 1904. The Poems of Algernon Charles Swinburne in Six Volumes, vol. 3. London: Chatto & Windus. Symons, Arthur. 1927.《高諦藹》[Gautier], trans. Shao Xunmei.《現代評論》[Contemporary Review] 7 (158; December 17): 15–18. Thomas, Jane. 2006. “Thomas Hardy and Desire: From Sappho to the Stranglers.” Thomas Hardy Journal 22 (Autumn): 129–42. Wang, Jingfang 王京芳. 2012.《邵洵美:出版界的堂吉訶德》[Shao Xunmei: The Don Quixote of the Publishing World]. Guangzhou: Guangdong jiaoyu chubanshe. Wharton, H. T. 1895. Sappho: Memoir, Text, Selected Renderings with a Literal Translation. London: John Lane. Wilder, Thornton, and Hao Wen 浩文 (Shao Xunmei). 1929. Nascuntur Poetae. GHM 1 (4): 77–81. Xu Zhimo 徐志摩. 1928.《謁見哈代的一个下午》[The Afternoon I Visited Hardy].《新月》 [Crescent Moon] 1 (1): 79–85.

PART TWO

Production and Reception of Chinese Literature in Translation

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CHAPTER TWELVE

Perceptions of Power in Literary Translation: Translators and Translatees BONNIE S. MCDOUGALL

The study of translators, as distinct from studies of translation, is a growing area that still has plenty of space in which to develop, while the study of translators by translators is not yet fully established. The focus of this chapter is on two groups of translators in modern China, where these groups may be wholly distinct or hardly separable. (I happened to be part of both groups.) A preliminary issue concerns the explosion of transcultural translation in early twentieth-century China. In both cases, the discussion below is mostly limited to literary translation rather than translation in general. As recently as 1985, Theo Hermans deplored the then and still common conviction that virtually any translation of a literary work was bound to be inferior to the original (Hermans 1985a). Hermans notes instances where “the traditional servility of the translator” has been rejected by translators as far back as the European Renaissance; he did not investigate current relationships between authors and translators, however. By the time Edwin Gentzler’s wide-ranging Contemporary Translation Theories appeared in 1993, both author and translator had virtually disappeared as subjects of study. In China, nevertheless, new authors and translators, both of them relatively unconventional in terms of political loyalties, had been emerging in the 1970s and 1980s; direct interaction between the two groups slowly became a new field for academic research. The relationship between them, it seemed, could justify the invention of a new binary, the translatee and the translator, where the first group enjoyed priority in time but not in focus.1 After a decade or so of thinking about a suitable framework for understanding my own experiences as a translator, I included a chapter on this binary in Translation Zones in Modern China: Authoritarian Command versus Gift Exchange (2011).2 The book had barely reached print before I became dissatisfied with the chapter on power relations in translation transactions and associated issues of national ownership of cultural products or systems. I tried again the same year

The term “translatee” is so convenient that I expect I am not its inventor, but I have been unable to locate an earlier usage. It is not yet recognized as an English word. 2 I am grateful to Cambria Press for permission to include here a large section of this chapter. 1

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with a journal article drawing on additional material and better logic.3 The present attempt to handle what turned out to be more complicated than I had imagined is the third and the last. In all three versions, the discussion is based on personal observation and experience, therefore, except where privacy is not an issue, all participants, including myself, are anonymized.

TRANSLATION ZONES The expression “translation zone” has no fixed meaning and can be subject to a range of practical or theoretical interpretations. It could be applied to a session of the United Nations or it could describe a government outpost in Vanuatu. At every location and in every period in history as civilizations developed alongside or distant from one another, it may be supposed that makeshift or sophisticated translation relationships opened a space where different language acts took place with some level of shared understanding. One advantage in the term is that its open interpretation can relate to the multiplicity of translation practices not simply from country to country but within national borders. A translation zone may be large or small, may involve two or more translation practices, and so on. The term translatee is not in common use but is helpful in establishing relationships between actors who inhabit the same geographical and temporal space. Its advantage is its shift in focus: the translatee is passive, the translator is active; it is the translator who sets up translation zones and contributes new works to them. This chapter traces the modernizing doctrines of Chinese educated élites in two distinct periods from the late nineteenth to the late twentieth century. The zone that existed in the first period and within wide geographical borders yields specific examples of translation practice; the other zone describes a brief interlude of personal interaction between individuals where translation masks a little-understood power relationship between the parties themselves. Together they form a small part of the history of modern China in the world. From the start of my own academic life in the 1960s, I was encouraged to practice translation from Chinese into English as an integral part of sinological scholarship. As a postgraduate, I came to appreciate literary translation as a skill in its own right. As an editor and translator at Beijing’s Foreign Languages Press (FLP) in the early 1980s, I learned to appreciate what professionalism meant in translation. As a teacher and researcher in the 1990s, I found further encouragement in the growth of translation studies (TS) to regard translation as a proper subject of study and research. Along the way, I wondered about associated issues of national ownership of cultural products or systems, including language, literature, and translation. When I first wrote about being a translator in 1980s China, these experiences seemed to belong to another era, the pre-1989 stage of modern Chinese history and culture that has now almost disappeared. I was bothered by the sense that academic translation theories even as recently as the 1990s and 2000s, including research by Chinese scholars, were almost inevitably Euro- or

I am grateful for permission to include an early version of this paper at the University of Sydney in 2011 at the annual A. R. Davis Lecture sponsored by the Oriental Society of Australia and published as “Ambiguities of power: The social space of translation relationships” in Journal of the Oriental Society of Australia 44 (2012): 1–15. I am grateful to former and present JOSA editors Sue Wiles and Shirley Chan for permission to reprint. 3

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America-centered, failing to take into account the translation practices that I was most familiar with. This situation has now been corrected, and a huge volume of translation studies in China is now available. One topic, however, is not much discussed: power relations in literary or any other kind of translation.

COLONIALISM, POSTCOLONIALISM, AND TRANSLATION TRANSFER Among the first to consider power relations in translation transactions in the context of modern Chinese history is Lydia H. Liu in the 1990s. Two of her books (Liu 1995, 1999) were among the first to provide a theorized context for nineteenth- and twentieth-century translation history in China. Liu practiced a kind of “meta-translation studies,” investigating how power affects and is affected by large movements between China and other nation-states in modern world history.4 Colonial powers, whether based in Europe, Asia, America, or elsewhere, are commonly brutal, incompetent, and corrupt in varying degrees, including those that regard their mission as civilizing. The colonized, for their part, regard their domestic ills as due to colonization and their victimhood as accidental and undeserved. Some natives of both colonizing and colonized countries, aware of the dubious nature of these self-perceptions, try to introduce reason and reconciliation to the two parties; others seek to exacerbate one or the other’s sense of grievance. During this process, words such as colonialism and especially postcolonialism tend to lose definition and instead convey generalized imagery or attitudes. As a result of this blurring, some societies claim, or are claimed, to be colonies, using the term in a figurative rather than a literal sense. This ambiguity may cause considerable confusion, as, for instance, in the case of China. Liu examines the power structures inherent in global cultural transfer in colonial and postcolonial times. She emphasizes the imbalance of geopolitical power in language, literature, and other cultural systems, devoting particular attention to the translation of English-language material into Chinese in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. One of Liu’s examples of how Chinese reformers constructed translations of English vocabulary and grammar in Chinese is the invention of a Chinese character for the written form of the female third-person pronoun. The nineteenth-century Chinese translators and their followers who carried out these translations saw themselves as introducing modernity into the Chinese script. Feminists a century later might wonder if instead the new character for 她 (she) represents the loss to the Chinese written language of a postmodern gender-neutral pronoun. On the whole, nevertheless, the efforts of these pioneers may also be regarded as improving global communication. To Liu, however, such ingenious inventions appear as imperialist inflictions on the colonized language. This is in line with other studies conceptualizing the translation of English and other European texts into other languages as colonial or postcolonial violence. Even if we agree that some instances of translation transfer from English into Chinese now seem clumsy or unnecessary, to speak of nineteenth- and twentieth-century China as a figurative victim of translation violence— or as some kind of “sacrifice”—seems misleading and inappropriate.

4

I remain grateful to Lydia Liu for having provided a discursive space constructed to a large degree by her provocative ideas.

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Even more problematic is Liu’s inclusion of nineteenth- and twentieth-century China among colonial or postcolonial societies. By the early twentieth century, the term “semi-colony” was widely used to characterize the status of China, although Sun Yat-sen invented the term “hypocolony” in his 1924 claim that China’s standing was even worse than a colony (de Bary et al. 1960, 769–70). Some twenty-five years later, Mao Zedong’s Yan’an coinage “semi-feudal, semicolonial”5 became an official characterization of Republican China and remained in force while his writings were dominant, from roughly the late 1940s to the 1970s. More recently, the term “hyper-colony” has been introduced to refer to the multiple and multilateral presence of foreign powers in China during the Republican years.6 Yet the qualifications hypo-, semi-, and hyperare ambiguous: do they imply that China, although not actually a colony, still had some colonial characteristics; that China possessed not all but sufficient colonial characteristics to be regarded as a colony (of one or more Western powers); or, alternatively, were the Chinese people in the first half of the twentieth century genuine victims whose historical suffering must be respected or fortunate (if still impoverished) citizens of a country that had, if only barely, escaped the trauma of colonization. Both in English and in Chinese, the terms 租借地 (concessions) or 租界 (settlements, i.e., places leased to foreign powers) are distinguished from 殖民地 (colonies proper). Some of the foreign concessions or settlements in China were in remote and underdeveloped areas, but Hong Kong was the only one of these areas to become a colony proper, one that became wealthy and densely populated thanks to voluntary immigration by mainland Chinese nationals after 1949. If we did not know otherwise, however, it could be assumed from Liu’s argument that China was a full-scale British colony in the nineteenth century, despite that never being the case. Other historians think it more significant that China was never colonized by any Western power, neither in the nineteenth century nor at any other time. Prasenjit Duara (2009, 25), for instance, attributes the growth of strong nationalist movements and governments in twentieth-century China and Japan to their not having been directly colonized by Western powers. In contrast, the view held before 1911 by Sun Yat-sen and other revolutionaries was closer to reality: the commonly acknowledged colonizing enemy in nineteenth-century China was the Manchus, while the international community was a potential friend of a reinvigorated China (de Bary 1960, 769–70; Wilbur 1976). Following the overthrow of the Manchus in 1911, successive Han Chinese governments were in fact exposed to threatening interventions by Japan, European countries, the United States, and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR). Although its governments were feeble and corrupt, China still managed to prevent these countries from colonizing its territory, except for scattered and isolated outposts at the margins of its empire. Japan’s wartime occupation of eastern and northern China was the most significant twentieth-century territorial incursion. The global weakness of a huge country like China over several centuries cannot be due entirely to aggression by foreign powers. Nevertheless, twentieth-century Chinese nationalism was

Mao Zedong’s use of the term “semi-colonial” goes back to 1926, if not earlier: see “Analysis of the Classes in Chinese Society” in Mao (1965, 1:13–21); for a fuller account, see his 1939 Yan’an textbook, “The Chinese Revolution and the Chinese Communist Party,” chapter 1, section 3, “Present-day Colonial, Semi-Colonial and Semi-Feudal Society,” in Mao (1965, 3:309–13). 6 I am indebted to Maurizio Marinelli for this term, invented by Ruth Rogaski; see Marinelli (n.d.). 5

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presumably strengthened by the self-perception of China as the righteous victim of foreign powers. This perception has influenced most aspects of modern Chinese culture, including translation. The foreign power that had the most influence in the formation of PRC institutions, however, was not a Western country or Japan, but the USSR. This can be seen in many cultural institutions and practices in China in the 1950s and 1960s. It was certainly still evident in the Foreign Languages Press when I was employed there in the early 1980s. Trying to fit my data into this historical framework raised unexpected questions about how to relate colonialism and translation. While macro analyses such as Liu’s are invaluable, research at the micro level and set in a later period seemed to be telling a different story. It seemed useful, in the immediate post-Cultural Revolution years, to investigate this micro-level example of translator/ translatee interaction.

CULTURE AS STATE PROPERTY The Foreign Languages Press was established in the 1950s as a party-controlled institution on the model of the Foreign Languages Publishing House in Moscow, in effect from 1946 to 1964.7 The most striking similarity with the Soviet model that has persisted in modern China is the concept of culture as state property.8 In addition, claiming to own its native culture, the PRC also exercised rights of distribution of that culture, domestically and internationally. Since literature fell under state ownership, so did the translation of Chinese literature into foreign languages, its control varying according to political necessity. After the break with the Soviet Communist Party and the Soviet state in 1962, the distribution networks that the two countries had shared and other links were discontinued. Since then, the FLP has consistently brushed aside the reality of Soviet influence in a pretense that it never existed.9 Nevertheless, the Soviet legacy remained until the end of the twentieth century, well after the model itself had disappeared. The Soviet practice of Russian natives translating Russian literature into foreign languages for foreign readerships was also accepted as a self-evidently proper model in China. From the very beginnings of the FLP, therefore, it was taken for granted that translations of Chinese literature could be carried out by Chinese translators with only minor input (described as “polishing”) from natives of foreign countries. The Foreign Languages Press, like its Soviet model, added to the notion of ownership an ability to control or at least limit the uncertainty inherent in any translation activity. The period when this power was most effectively applied in China was the 1950s and 1960s.

Information on foreign-language publishing in the Soviet Union is scarce: see references in my Translation Zone (2011, 26, 36, 38–9). The only relevant autobiographical account I have discovered is Serpent’s Tooth: An Autobiographical Novel by Roger Milliss, an Australian Communist who spent the early 1960s in Moscow working for Moscow News (1984, 276–348 and 371). Some of his recorded experiences and observations correspond to passages about the FLP described in Translation Zones. 8 Here and throughout, by “state” I refer to the combined identity of the Chinese Communist Party and the PRC government it established and controlled. 9 For example, in two articles composed for publication in China, I was asked by the editors to omit references to the Soviet Union’s Foreign Languages Publications Press. 7

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THE COLLAPSE OF THE MONOLITH? The Cultural Revolution of 1966 to 1976 almost destroyed state institutions, especially those that were ultimately dependent on the exercise of intellectual skills. The FLP was just one of many examples. On its gradual return to full productivity in the late 1970s and early 1980s, the FLP was more exposed to significant levels of distrust and disaffection from its editors and translators. There was presumably never a time when the loyalty of these employees was total, but the Cultural Revolution made such loyalty seem outdated and even perverse. FLP staff in the 1980s on all levels and with rare exceptions were not slow to realize that their skills could effectively be employed to serve interests other than those of the party. Acts of subversion could be minor and go largely unnoticed; they were not necessarily motivated by political ideologies but may have been due to the personal interests and needs of employees and other interlocking institutions. Not all FLP translators were able to exercise these informal mechanisms of power. The systemic constraints of the 1950s were still in operation in the 1980s. They were exercised chiefly in the process of requiring repeated checking of draft translations by several hands and top-down management. The FLP was therefore still quite effective in limiting even minor acts of subversion from its translation staff. Nevertheless, the position of the translators at the bottom of a hierarchy in which the top level knew little and cared less about literary translation as a process or product was a fundamental weakness within the FLP system from the 1950s to the end of the century. Much of what went on in the FLP was not just about two entities, the translators and their texts, but about internal issues within the institution that were, strictly speaking, unrelated to translation as a textual activity. One way in which top-level control could be subverted was through horizontal relationships with staff in other institutions. An example of this was the operation of patronage in the influence of the Chinese Writers Association on the FLP. This influence is difficult to quantify as evidence, but there is no doubt that it existed. The result could be a mismatch between command and product. Another fundamental weakness basic to the FLP’s bureaucracy was its misunderstanding of literary translation. This misunderstanding was exhibited in several ways. On the simplest level, it was believed in the FLP that if one translation is correct, then other translations are not. Being correct in some instances was itself a matter of current political issues and might have little relevance to either the Chinese text or the translation language. The FLP also entertained the belief that translation imposes a fixed meaning in a literary text that may have been ambiguous in its original form. As a translation-authorizing body, the FLP regarded itself as able to present Chinese literature to foreign audiences in a format where the meaning was fixed and unambiguous. It took several decades for the FLP to become aware that the foreign response to these translations was not under the FLP’s control, either in sales or in interpretation. Poor sales became a national rather than political reason for change in the 1980s: the pressing need in China for convertible currency; reaching a wider readership; and generally seeking a more favorable international status were all factors. In any case, it was never very clear that uncertainty in interpretation or ambiguity in reception was perceived within the top levels of the FLP as a problem. The final and insurmountable cause of the FLP’s post-Cultural Revolution failure as a producer of literary translation was the loss of its monopoly on literary translation into foreign languages

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in China in the aftermath of the reform policies of 1978. The FLP was unprepared for the rise of an alternative literature outside the control of the Chinese Writers Association. It was even less prepared for the simultaneous rise in numbers of foreign students and experts in China, who were willing and able to translate this alternative literature. By the end of the century, the FLP no longer exercised monopolistic ownership over the translation of Chinese literature. Even when things are messy by nature, the totalitarian state in full operation can often manage to limit the mess. Nevertheless, the totalitarian model collapsed in the USSR, the former Eastern European states, and in China, as these societies and their governments were undermined by factors from within. As it turned out, within a decade or so the undermining itself gave way to a resurgence of authoritarian government. Conflict between two radically different translation models began to emerge in 1980s China: the authoritarian model, as conducted by institutions such as the FLP in Peking, and the giftexchange model, practiced for a brief period in the same decade by a handful of native writers and foreign translators in Peking and other cities. Between them, the two models offer insight into the complexity of translation practice and translator/translatee interactions. The concept of translation as power, both as an institutional system and in personal relationships, has now become a major preoccupation in recent TS.10 This has led to a reconsideration of strategies describing the relative strength of powers exercised by state or commercial institutions versus the translators they employ, or that between translator and translatee on an individual level. While translation itself can be regarded as a universal activity among literate cultures, it still assumes widely different and sometimes quite unexpected forms even within a single culture over short periods of time. This in turn leads to reconsiderations of cultural transfer, colonialism, and postcolonialism.

RESISTANCE FROM WITHIN Liu does not make it clear quite when China is supposed to have moved from a colonial or semicolonial status to a postcolonial one. However, the term postcolonial is even less appropriate to describe relations between China and the major Western powers plus Japan in the early 1980s. The Soviet Union, which perhaps can be classified as the most recent would-be colonizing power, had ceased to dominate Chinese politics even before it collapsed in 1991; Japan had been transformed into a friendly neighbor offering assistance in the recovery from the Cultural Revolution; and European and American countries also welcomed China into the global economy as a seductive trading and investment opportunity. In the eyes of many Chinese intellectuals in the aftermath of the Cultural Revolution, the harm done to Chinese people in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries was overwhelmingly executed by Chinese governments, especially since 1950. Those who had survived the Great Leap Forward (1958–1962) as well as the Cultural Revolution were acutely aware of this. At the same time, no outside power threatened military action against China in the 1980s. The outside world had long been excluded from internal Chinese affairs; it was the Chinese state itself that no longer seemed to have the ability to solve the nation’s political and economic crises. To

These issues are prominent in Edwin Gentzler’s “Translation, Poststructuralism, and Power” (2002; Cronin 2006).

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the “educated youth” who returned from the countryside to the metropolis in the second half of the 1970s, Japan and Western countries offered help and solutions, not threats. The description of China as a colony or semi-colony of Western powers was part of the discredited Maoist dogma they rejected, while the concept of China as a postcolonial society had not yet presented itself as a new slogan for nationalist fervor. Instead, to these young survivors, the presence of foreigners in China brought an unexpected opportunity to learn more about the rest of the world. It helped that many of these foreigners were young, able to speak Chinese, and eager for friendship with Chinese writers and artists. It was these personal relationships that gave rise to “gift-exchange” literary translations from Chinese into English and other languages. Personal translation transactions of this kind might be dismissed as cases of submission to one or more dominant external powers. Such a dismissal ignores the possibility of division between a country’s rulers and its citizens. The Chinese translatees were in rebellion against their own government’s restrictions on publication and overseas contacts. Translations of their work by foreigners to them were not acts of imperial or global oppression initiated by foreign commercial or political interests, but contributions to reach larger audiences by personal friends and acquaintances; further, the translatees were not passive victims suffering colonial or postcolonial cringe but of equal or even superior standing with their translators. The dominant culture in 1980s China was not imposed by a foreign power but internal party orthodoxy; the translatees were resistant to state power rather than dominated by foreign interests. The immediate impact of foreign influence was on disempowered members of the receiving country and not on the majority of its rulers. For the new Chinese writers, questions of identity arose in the process of defining themselves against the Chinese authorities, not against foreign powers. This could be seen in the 1980s debates about human nature and the autonomous self. In short, colonial and postcolonial translation theories applied to twentieth-century China ignore the kind of transaction where the foreign translator and native translatee are personally known to each other and where the translatee actively seeks translation. These colonial and postcolonial theories are even less able to provide a valid framework for describing how this kind of transaction operated and cannot account for the individual variations and perceptions in the gift-exchange relationship. Power in Gift Exchange Anthropologists have long recognized that relative power and status are factors in gift exchanges, affecting the nature of the initial gift and the return gift. Reciprocity is a term that describes these relationships without necessarily implying equality or balance in the exchanges: different societies place different obligations on the roles of the initiator and receiver of the gift exchange and on the value of the gifts in each direction. In geopolitical and economic respects, the individual foreign translators in 1980s China might at first glance appear to hold a superior colonialist position: ●●

They were from prosperous and stable societies.

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They could travel more freely than translatees within many parts of China and beyond.

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They could in most cases avoid or escape the consequences of dissenting from Chinese political orthodoxy.

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●●

●●

They were often better paid and better housed than most Chinese people, with access to shops and other services unavailable to the translatee. Except for students, foreigners mostly worked for state organs and were therefore generally treated as “honorary cadres” in China in the 1970s and 1980s.

In contrast: ●●

The translatees were from a country tentatively emerging from economic backwardness and political turmoil.

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They had little money or status in their own or any other country.

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Their work was mostly excluded from official publication.

On the other hand, these negative factors were only part of a picture that could be viewed in a very different light: ●●

●●

●●

●●

●●

●●

The Chinese writers’ parents and relatives were likely to be highly placed and able to offer support and protection. Their work might have an impressive (and worrisome, to the authorities) underground or unofficial circulation. They were mostly self- but well-educated young males in a male-dominated society that placed high value on literacy. They were relatively ignorant about the outside world, although they may have seen through PRC myths about Chinese economic and political superiority, they were also conscious of China’s rising power in the world as foreigners flocked to newly opened cities and established foreign firms and institutions. They were also aware of China’s history as one of the world’s major civilizations as historic landmarks and institutions were restored and rehabilitated. However much they chose to reject the Chinese past as a guide to its future, they could feel superior toward other, less ancient countries. (One translatee, for instance, is said to have turned down an invitation to visit Australia in the early 1980s with the comment that Australia was a place without culture.)

In short, the translatee often held himself to be the superior party in the relationship: ●●

He was superior to “New World” (American, Australian) translators in terms of his cultural heritage.

●●

He was superior in gender, since most of the translators were female.

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He was superior as the creator of cultural goods, not merely a mediator of their transfer.

Many translators accepted the translatee’s perspectives: ●●

Most agreed that creative writing was superior to its interpretation in academic studies or to its translation into other languages; in other words, the translator was no more than a mediator of transfer like a superior kind of editor, publisher, or printer.

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Most of their previous translation experience was based on classroom exercises subject to their teachers’ correction; few of them were professionals with confidence in their own skills. Those who came to China with a background in Chinese studies harbored a profound admiration and respect for Chinese culture. Many were critical of the social and economic policies of their own countries.

These matching sentiments certainly made the initial phase of the relationship easier. For similar reasons, translation relationships were likely to be long-lasting where both parties were of the same gender, or where the translator was older or had an equivalent or superior social or cultural status. It would not be surprising, in view of the youth and inexperience of most of these translatees and translators, that one or both parties may have been naïve in their translation transactions, but both entered into the relationship voluntarily and could exit voluntarily. Some personal relationships may have been exploitative but the arrangement itself was not. What was being exchanged in the 1980s was not then a tradable commodity but a gift. The problems occurred when either or both parties failed to understand the local system of gift exchange or that system’s incomprehensibility to the other person, where mutual incomprehension inevitably led to mutual disappointment.

CONCLUDING REMARKS The translation activities described above, whether in the FLP as an institution or as personal transactions, overlapped in several ways: ●● ●●

●●

The time period was roughly the same: the 1980s. The place was the same: Beijing, the major border town in 1980s China in terms of the impact of foreign cultures. The translations were predominately from Chinese into English or other European languages.

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They consisted primarily of literary translations, mainly poetry and fiction.

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Some of the same people appeared in both kinds of transactions.

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The descriptions above are drawn from my personal experiences in both activities, supported by observations and discussions with other translators and writers. Neither of these two models of literary translation is adequately covered in current TS theory.

From another perspective, there was one fundamental difference between the official and nonofficial modes of producing literary translation. In the case of the FLP, the translations were undertaken and supervised by a state authority that exercised strict control over the translation process. The other kind of translation was unmediated and informal. The organizing principle underlying the gift exchange or personal model was reciprocity, while the FLP model was authoritarian. The two

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different models could also be called formal and informal translation modes. Finally, both are expressions of different kinds of power relationships among translators, translatees, and agencies that sponsored translation production and publication. People accustomed to thinking of the PRC as a monolithic totalitarian state for most of its existence may be puzzled by the conjunction of two such different translation models, even over such a short period. In part, it can be attributed to the turbulent history of the modern Chinese state in the second half of the twentieth century, in which few institutions remained either monolithic or totalitarian. Authoritarian: yes, although the cultural apparatus of the Chinese state in its relations with its domestic clients as well as the outside world was in the 1980s mostly described as “soft authoritarianism.” The uneasy coexistence of both models is also due in part to the nature of translation itself: its troubled and messy transactions at global, state, and individual levels. Even powerful authorities have difficulty in exerting control over it, just as with other cultural activities. The nature of national and individual ownership rights over culture forms the larger context in considering the nature of translation as property. That is, it remains under debate whether any country should have an internationally recognized legal or moral right to exclusive control over the translation of its national literature into other languages. The Chinese state has now abandoned the policy of exclusive control of translating Chinese literature written and published on the mainland. So drastic has this withdrawal been since the reform policies of the late 1970s and early 1980s that comparatively little translation of Chinese literature now takes place through mainland agencies, and very little of that comes through the FLP. There are many countries that support the translation of their national literature into foreign languages for reasons of national pride, where market forces, operating abroad or at home, do not fulfill national expectations. This sponsorship can be channeled through state or private institutions and may include awards for translations and grants for translators. Few countries (Norway being an exception) are so wedded to the market that state-sponsored or any other noncommercial form of translation is considered wrong in principle. It is when the state tries to exercise exclusive control over the translation of its national literature that the problems experienced by the FLP described above would come into being. The end of state control over literary translation in China also brought about the end of the giftexchange model. In the end, the two systems briefly flourished together for a short period in the 1980s, only to perish together the following decade. The framework in which they operated has been transformed, and the power relationships have altered. In the authoritarian model, the position of power was held by the mediator: the translation publisher was backed by the power of the state, while the translatee and the translator exercised only marginal control over their work. In the gift-exchange model, by contrast, the mediator was absent, and the relationship between translator and translatee was experimental, flexible, and infinitely variable. Now, in the twenty-first century, commercial and academic factors dominate even literary translation. It remains to be seen how future records of achievement will compare with the authoritarian or the gift-exchange model. In the words of Theo Hermans (1985b), “Translation is irreducible: it always leaves loose ends, is always hybrid, plural and different.”

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REFERENCES Cronin, Michael. 2006. Translation and Identity. London: Routledge. de Bary, Wm. et al., eds. 1960. Sources of Chinese Tradition. New York: Columbia University Press. Duara, Prasenjit. 2009. The Global and Regional in China’s Nation-Formation. London: Routledge. Gentzler, Edwin. 1993. Contemporary Translation Theories. London: Routledge. Gentzler, Edwin. 2002. “Translation, Poststructuralism, and Power.” In Translation and Power, edited by Maria Tymoczko and Edwin Gentzler, 195–218. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press. Hermans, Theo. 1985a. “Images of Translation: Metaphor and Imagery in the Renaissance Discourse on Translation.” In The Manipulation of Literature: Studies in Literary Translation, edited by Theo Hermans, 103–35. London: Croom Helm. Hermans, Theo. 1985b. “Introduction: Translation Studies and a New Paradigm.” In The Manipulation of Literature: Studies in Literary Translation, edited by Theo Hermans, 7–15. London: Croom Helm. Liu, Lydia H. 1995. Translingual Practice: Literature, National Culture, and Translated Modernity—China, 1900–1937. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Liu, Lydia H. 1999. Tokens of Exchange: The Problem of Translation in Global Circulations. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Mao, Zedong. 1965. Selected Works of Mao Tse-tung, 5 vols. Oxford: Pergamon Press. Marinelli, Maurizio. n.d. “Tianjin’s Worldly Ambitions: From Hyper-colonial Space to ‘Business Park.’” Open House International. Available online: https://openhouse-int.com/abdisplay.php?xvolno=34_3_3. McDougall, Bonnie. S. 2011. Translation Zones in Modern China, Amherst, NY: Cambria. McDougall, Bonnie. S. 2012. “Ambiguities of Power: The Social Space of Translation Relationships.” Journal of the Oriental Society of Australia 44: 1–15. Milliss, Roger. 1984. Serpent’s Tooth: An Autobiographical Novel. Ringwood: Penguin Books. Wilbur, Martin C. 1976. Sun Yat-sen: Frustrated Patriot. New York: Columbia University Press.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

State-Sponsored Institutional Translation of Chinese Literature, 1951–1983 HUIJUAN MA

INTRODUCTION In his paper “Translating Institutions: A Missing Factor in Translation Theory,” Mossop points out that “[t]here is an important participant missing in existing models of translation: the translating institutions (corporations, churches, governments, newspapers) which directly or indirectly use the services of translators” (1988, 65). Though institutional translation was an ignored topic in translation studies before the 1990s, its practice has played an important role throughout translation history (Koskinen 2008, 3–4). In recent years, scholars started to examine the practices of institutional translation in various contexts, providing fresh insights to the once neglected topic of institutional translation. Nevertheless, given the complexity of translation activities in different institutions and the diverse cultural backgrounds and identities of individual translators who have been involved in institutional translations, their research findings only reveal part of the whole picture. For a better understanding of institutional translations worldwide, more local explanations and detailed case studies of different institutional contexts are required (3–4). This chapter examines the state-sponsored translations of Chinese literature into English by the Foreign Languages Bureau (FLB) of China. The FLB was set up by the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) in the 1950s according to the Soviet model and employed mainly Chinese translators to translate into foreign languages a wide range of books that were written in Chinese. It has functioned as the only state institution to introduce the new China since 1949 to the world through translation. Based on archival materials and historical documents, this chapter examines FLB’s translation policies from 1951 to 1983, and studies the complex relationships between its translation policies, translators, and translations, which have affected the selections of texts, translation strategies, translation quality, reception in the target countries, and so on. It also explores factors that influenced the translators and translations within the Chinese institution.1

The English magazine Chinese Literature was set up in 1951 and ceased publication in 2000. The operation of the statecontrolled magazine was complicated and underwent changes during the rapid transformation of Chinese society in the last half-century, so it is not possible for this chapter to make a comprehensive study covering the whole period. This study focuses on the period from 1951 to 1979. Following China’s reform and opening-up in the 1980s, the chief editors and the members of the editorial board were reformulated, and new translation policies for the magazine were instigated.

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DEFINING TRANSLATION POLICY In his seminal paper “The Name and Nature of Translation Studies,” James S. Holmes suggested that translation policy could “render informed advice to others in defining the place and role of translators, translating, and translations in society at large” (1988, 77–8). Gideon Toury further defined translation policy as “factors that govern the choice of text-types, or even of individual texts, to be imported through translation into particular culture/language at a particular point in time” (1995, 58). However, these two definitions of translation policy fail to include issues such as production and reception of translation, which could be influenced by translation policy. Because previous definitions of translation policy are too general, Reine Meylaerts redefined it as “a set of legal rules that regulate translation in the public domain: in education, in legal affairs, in political institutions, in administration, in the media” (2011, 165). Drawing on Bernard Spolsky’s definition of language policy, González Núñez extended it to encompass translation management, practices, and beliefs (González Núñez 2016, 54). Translation management refers to “the decisions regarding translation made by people in authority to decide a domain’s use or non-use of translation”; translation practices are “the actual translation practices of a given community”; and translation beliefs are “the beliefs that members of a community hold about the value of translation” (54–5). In his view, translation policy is both articulated in documents and implemented as implicit rules in both official and unofficial settings. To examine the complex relationships between translation policy, translators, and translations in an institutional setting, this study will adopt the definition of translation policy given by González Núñez to examine FLB’s translation management, practices, and beliefs.

THE FLB AND THE MAGAZINE OF CHINESE LITERATURE The FLB, which had existed as the China International Publishing Group before 1949, was renamed by the CCP following the founding of the People’s Republic of China (PRC) in 1949, and has been functioning as a state-run and government-funded institution for foreign-oriented publicity under the leadership of the CCP ever since. Its mission is to introduce a socialist China to foreign readers through publications that are either translated from Chinese or directly written in English. Before 1980, the FLB was the only authorized official institution in China responsible for publicity toward foreign countries through its subsections, for instance, the Foreign Languages Press and the magazine of Chinese Literature. As a publicity-oriented state institution, the FLB found it difficult to employ native speakers of foreign languages to translate Chinese works because China, as a socialist country since 1949, was isolated from the West during the Cold War. As a result, most publications translated into foreign languages were done by Chinese translators. As my study focuses on the translations of Chinese literature into English, it will take the English magazine of Chinese Literature as an example, examining literary translations published in the magazine, translators working for the magazine, and the magazine’s translation policies that influenced the translation activities within the institution. Chinese Literature under the direct control of the FLB was one of the magazines that had published translated Chinese literature into English for almost fifty years in the Chinese mainland.

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Chinese Literature was founded with the permission of the CCP in 1951 by Yeh Chun-chan 葉君健 (1914–1999), with Yeh as chief editor. A year later, it was incorporated into the state-run FLB. Its mission was to introduce the new China through classical and modern Chinese literature. Its productions had been regarded as part of CCP’s publicity toward foreign countries, and it had mainly translated and published works of socialist realism, most of which reflected Chinese socialist revolution and nation-building led by the CCP. The magazine had only two native English speakers working for it before the 1980s: Sidney Shapiro (1915–2014) and Gladys Yang 戴乃 迭 (1919–1999). The former was an American who came to China in the 1930s and worked as a foreign expert in the FLB. The latter was the wife of the great Chinese translator Yang Xianyi 杨宪 益 (1915–2009), who produced a large number of translations of Chinese literature into English. The Yangs worked together as employees in the FLB from the 1950s. The magazine lasted for half a century from 1951 to 2000. It ran quarterly from 1951 to 1957, bimonthly in 1958, monthly from 1959 to 1983, quarterly from 1984 to 1999, and bimonthly in 2000. The changes in frequency reflect the changing social and political environment of China in the second half of the twentieth century. The magazine ceased in 2000, due to China’s reform and opening-up, which began in the 1980s and had a tremendous effect on many sectors in China. Due to the social changes in China since the 1980s and the limit of the chapter’s length, this study will focus on the period from 1951 to 1983, when Chinese Literature was operated and organized in a less market-oriented mode. There are some studies on FLB’s translations. McDougall in her monograph Translation Zones in Modern China (2011) describes her translation experience as an employee working in the FLB in the early 1980s, exploring its translation policies and translation problems. Zheng (2012) discusses the translations and circulations of Chinese Literature from the perspective of state sponsorship. However, up to now, no study has attempted to explore the relationships between FLB’s translation policies, the translators, and the English translations of Chinese literature produced by the magazine. To fill this gap, this study tries to answer the following questions: Who are FLB’s the translation policymakers? What are its translation policies? How have they influenced the translation of Chinese Literature into English from the 1950s to the 1980s? What are the effects of the state-sponsored translations of Chinese literature into English? By answering these questions, I hope to reveal the interactive relations between translation product, state power, and translation policy, offering new perspectives to the state-sponsored institutional translations.2

A CASE STUDY OF THE MAGAZINE CHINESE LITERATURE As mentioned above, Chinese Literature was a state-run and state-sponsored magazine within the administration of the FLB. In what follows, I will take the magazine as an example to explore the complex relationships among its translation policies, the translators, and their translations. Translation Management of Chinese Literature Since Chinese Literature was publicity-oriented and its mission was to introduce the new China abroad through translated Chinese literature, its translation policy had to follow the party’s 2

For a more detailed study of English translations of Chinese literature by the FLP, see Ni (2021).

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policy on literature and art. Before the founding of the PRC in 1949, the CCP had laid down a policy on literature and art. At the Yan’an Forum on Literature and Art in 1942, Mao Zedong 毛泽东 (1893–1976) delivered a speech entitled “Talks at the Yan’an Forum on Literature and Art” 在延安文艺座谈会上的讲话, suggesting that Chinese writers in their writings should follow two guidelines: (1) art and literature should reflect the life of the working class, for whom Chinese writers will write; (2) art and literature should serve politics and the advancement of Chinese socialist construction (Mao 1991, 854–55, 866). Creative writing in the Chinese mainland had to follow the two guidelines in Mao’s talks until 1982, when the doctrine “literature and art are subordinate to politics” ceased to be used. Translated works from Chinese into English from the 1950s to the early 1980s were no exception. Mao’s talks had a great impact upon the operation and translations of Chinese Literature before the 1980s. Translators of the magazine were employed as literary workers under the structure of the administration of the FLB and received a monthly salary from the state. Since the government controlled the national budget, providing salaries and apartments to the employees working in the institution, the editorial office of Chinese Literature had the structure of top-down administration. It had direct leaders and indirect leaders who supervised translators and their translation works. Direct leaders were those of the FLB in charge of translation and publication of Chinese works into foreign languages. Under the supervision of the FLB, the Chinese Writers’ Association (CWA) was responsible for selecting works to be translated. Once the works were selected, translators would be assigned. Translators worked at the bottom of the organization, with no rights to choose the works to be translated. In addition to the direct leaders of the FLB and the CWA, the editorial office was under the indirect supervision of the Chinese central government. Because of its publicity-oriented mission, the magazine had strong connections to the government’s publicity project. As a result, top leaders of the CCP such as Chairman Mao Zedong, Vice-Premier Chen Yi 陈毅, Vice-Chairman Deng Xiaoping 邓小平, and general secretary of the CCP Hu Yaobang 胡耀邦 in the Ministries of Culture, of Publicity, and of Foreign Affairs, had been involved in the translation activity of the magazine in one way or another from the 1950s to the 1980s, which will be discussed later on in the chapter. In other words, Chinese Literature was under the indirect leadership of the CCP’s top organizations. Chinese Literature manifested some features of socialist institution translations: the party supervised the government ministers through direct and indirect intervention, while the editorial office was presided over by a “trusted Party member” and subject to ideological control (Pokorn 2012, 148). In what follows, examples will be given to illustrate the direct and indirect controls of the editorial office of Chinese Literature by the party. Example 1. Chairman Mao’s instruction on literature and art and Chinese Literature (1963)  Chairman Mao’s Yan’an Forum talks in 1942 attached great importance to the fields of literature and art from 1949. To be published in mainland Chinese, writers and artists had to follow the given guidelines in their creative works. Nevertheless, Mao was not satisfied with the publications of literary works in China in the 1960s. In 1963, he criticized the Ministry of Culture for “promoting feudalist and capitalist literature and art rather than socialist literature and art, which represents Chinese socialist revolution and construction” (Zheng 2012, 43). After his talk, some established modern Chinese writers who had produced their works following the May Fourth Movement were regarded as capitalist writers and were accused of advocating “capitalist humanity” and “nihilism”

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in their works. As a result, Chinese Literature stopped translating their literary works with the exception of Lu Xun 鲁迅, the only modern Chinese writer whom Mao highly praised in his works. Example 2. Jiang Qing’s lecture on literature and art and Chinese Literature (1966)  In 1966, on the eve of the Cultural Revolution (1966–1976), Jiang Qing 江青 (1914–1991), then Mao’s wife, delivered a speech on literature and art, which denied almost all the literary works written by Chinese writers from 1949 to 1966, the so-called seventeen-year Chinese literature (Zheng 2012, 46). Consequently, Chinese Literature stopped translating literary works written during this period. As a matter of fact, the magazine at that time had produced nothing but “cultural revolution literature,” which includes revolutionary model operas 革命样板戏, Mao’s works, and political articles delivered by the CCP leaders. Example 3. Instruction on foreign translators working in the FLB and Chinese Literature (1971)  During the Cultural Revolution, the CCP’s controls on publication and translation work in the FLB were stronger than ever. As Chinese Literature was publicity-oriented, it had to follow the CCP’s instructions. In the “1971 Report on the Publication Meeting,” editorial offices of the FLB were asked to “throw off foreign walking stick” (Dai and Chen 1999, 261). This meant that foreign experts working as language polishers or translators in the FLB should not be trusted. Yang Xianyi and Gladys Yang, who had been respected as foreign experts before, were put in prison for four years (1968–1972). And Sidney Shapiro was transferred to another department of the FLB. Without foreign experts or competent translators, the magazine almost stopped producing any literary works in English translation until the 1980s. Translation Policymakers of Chinese Literature and Their Regulations Chinese Literature is a subsection of the FLB, which also had operated another three magazines. Its editorial office worked as an independent department, having its own editors and translators. Nevertheless, the policies regarding translation practices of the magazine were made by people in authority in the FLB. To be specific, the head of the FLB in charge of foreign-language translations and publications was responsible for making specific translation regulations such as translation criteria, translation methods, solutions to translation problems, and so on. Regarding selections of literary works to be translated into English, the general editor of the magazine had to consult the CWA. The translators of Chinese Literature had to follow the work regulations made by the FLP, which was under the direct leadership of the FLB. For example, FLP’s 1964 work regulations stated: (1) Regarding translation criteria, translations should be faithful to the meanings and styles of the Chinese literary works. Fluent expression of target language is preferred to convey the meaning of the original text. (2) Cooperation between Chinese editors and translators: If there are major problems with source texts, translators must report and submit them to the editorial office of the magazine. It is the editorial office that has the right to make any changes concerning source texts. Translators must adhere to the modified version of source texts made by the editors. If there are minor problems with source texts, translators can solve them by themselves, but must notify any changes in their translations to the people in authority, who have the

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final say. Most importantly, the changes made in the translations must be notified to the editorial office. If there are great disagreements between Chinese editors and translators, the general editor and the editorial board must be notified for further discussion on them. (3) Different genres of materials such as political theoretical works, literary works and literary criticisms shall be dealt with differently. Any problems translators may encounter in their translations of political works must be reported to the general editor. (4) Foreign experts’ opinions on translations should be respected to improve translation quality. (Zhou and Qi 1999, 367–71) From the above regulations, it can be noted that the top officials of the FLP attempted to exert control over translators in translation criteria, translation problems, translation cooperation, translation solutions, and so on. The translators of the magazine needed to “cooperate” with Chinese editors and the general editor of the editorial office, to whom any translation problems they had encountered in their translations should be reported. In addition, the translators were responsible for translating not only literary works and literary criticism but also political theoretical works and CCP leaders’ speeches. Furthermore, regulation (3) shows clearly that the magazine was not restricted to introduce Chinese literature into the English-speaking world, but also could publish translations of political works that were attached with special importance, revealing the institutional nature of publicity. The last regulation shows that the FLB realized the importance of translation quality and the necessity of language polishing by native English speakers. Because most translators working in the FLB were translating into foreign languages, it was of great significance for the magazine to have native speakers of the target language to polish the translations. Translation Policies and Their Effects As stated above, translators working in different departments of the FLB, including Chinese Literature, were required to follow translation regulations made by policymakers. These institutional regulations exerted great influence upon the translators and their translations. In what follows, I will discuss translation policies and their effects in relation to: (1) the selection of texts to be translated; (2) the status of the translators; (3) “faithful” translations and textual interventions; and (4) the targeted readers and translation reception. Selection of Texts to be Translated The translators of Chinese Literature had to follow translation guidelines formulated by the FLB. Since the work of the magazine was heavily influenced by the then social situations of China, the guidelines for selection of source texts were varied over times. The present study covers two periods from 1950 to 1966 and from 1966 to the early 1980s. From 1950 to 1966, the guidelines of the magazine in terms of text selection for translation were as follows: (1) Literary works to be translated for the magazine should be representatives of Chinese literature and must be politically correct. That is to say, works must represent that: a) the Chinese people’s revolutionary fights during liberation movement against the Kuomintang

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(i.e., the Nationalist Party of China); b) the Chinese people’s efforts to construct a socialist new China under the leadership of the CCP and to promote the peace of the world. (2) Literary works and political theoretical treatises are written under the guidance of Chairman Mao’s talks on literature and art at Yan’an Forum. (3) Modern and classic Chinese literature are acceptable for translation if they are politically correct. (Chinese Literature Press 1990, 7) So, literary works translated in the magazine were “selective” rather than representative of Chinese literature. Most selected works were contemporary and shared some common features: namely, they were literary works of socialist realism written in accordance with Mao’s talk on literature and art. To be specific, the majority of selected works were contemporary writings published from 1949 to 1966, namely the seventeen-year literature, reflecting the working class’s revolution and social construction of the new China. A few modern and classical writings were chosen for translation with the purpose of “attracting English readers to read the contemporary ones” (Dai and Chen 1999, 141). From 1966 to the early 1980s, the list of selected works to be translated changed along with the social and political climate. The work regulations of the magazine in 1971 were: (1) to translate and publish literary works about Chinese socialist revolution, construction and war-related works, which are written under Chairman Mao’s talks on literature and art in Yan’an Forum; (2) to translate and publish revolutionary modern operas and the party leaders’ talks. (Dai and Chen 1999, 268; my translation) During the Cultural Revolution no literary works were translated or published in the magazine as some of their translators were put into prison or transferred to other departments, which meant the editorial office could not operate normally and was almost closed. Status of the Translators The translators of Chinese Literature consisted of foreign experts, Chinese translators, and editors. From the 1950s to the 1980s, the editorial office of the magazine employed thirty to fifty staff members. Most of them were Chinese, with only a few competent translators such as Yang Xianyi, Gladys Yang, and Sidney Shapiro. Some translators from English-speaking countries occasionally joined the editorial office and worked as short-term foreign experts in the FLB. For example, W. J. F. Jenner (1940–), the translator of the Chinese classic novel Journey to the West 西游记, worked as a foreign expert in the FLB from 1964 to 1965. Of the Chinese staff, some were graduates of Chinese majors, responsible for selecting texts to be translated, and others were graduates of English majors, who did the work of translation. In terms of translation management, the Chinese editors had more rights than the translators. The editors were in charge of the selection of works to be translated, and they ensured that any changes made to the source texts were politically correct. What is more, if the translators encountered any translation problems, they had to report them to the Chinese editors. However, the Chinese editors in charge of selecting works to be translated

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were young and unfamiliar with both Chinese literature and translation. They did their editorial work by following the political climate and seldom paid attention to problems related to translation quality, translation methods, or translation reception and effect. In socialist institutional translation, the translators were at the bottom of the administration. The translations published by the FLP had no translators’ notes or prefaces to introduce the source texts. Instead, they only had publisher’s notes written by Chinese scholars at the request of the editors. For the editor, the translators’ job was to translate them faithfully into English regardless of their appropriateness toward target readers. Yang Xianyi in his memoir writes, “Glady and I are only hired translators. We do not have rights to choose what texts to translate” (Yang 2001, 190). The translators in the editorial office were regarded as literary workers and were paid monthly according to their assigned position. There were no royalties or appearance of translators’ names on the translated books because collective work was valued highly in the FLB, as well as all Chinese public institutions at the time. The books translated by the Yangs, such as Selected Works of Lu Xun, have been reprinted several times both in China and America, but they received no royalties for them. In addition, the translators working for the FLB had no right to make any changes to the works, even if they thought it was necessary to make adjustments for their acceptability. For example, during the Cultural Revolution, quotations from Selected Works of Mao Zedong 毛泽东选集 were put at the end of each chapter of the Chinese text of A Brief History of Chinese Fiction 中国古代小说简史. When the translators deleted these quotations, which were regarded as inappropriate for English readers, they were severely criticized, and one of them was even punished and removed from his work (Ni 2021, 60). Moreover, the people in authority in the editorial office did not know what literary translation involved. They required “one correct translation” of the translators and did not care about the work’s reception. Translation was a political task given by the party, and employees had to do their work by following the party’s instructions. From the very beginning, the publication of the magazine was not for profit, but for publicity. Consequently, translators were required to do the work assigned to them and were not expected to make any adjustments to their translations based on their own ideas. A case in point is the translation work of Yang Xianyi and Glady Yang. Some of their translations were not literary works but covered a great variety of genres and themes, including revolutionary modern operas, different kinds of political theoretical essays, and CCP leaders’ talks related to current foreign affairs. Translators sometimes had to translate nonsensical materials. It was said that Gladys Yang was instructed to translate some poems that were published in Chinese newspapers, and she sometimes commented in her translations that they were “childish” (Zheng 2012, 117). “Faithful” Translations and Textual Interventions As noted above, translation in the state-sponsored FLB was not merely work but also a political task. The guidelines of the FLB required the translators to render the original text faithfully into another language in terms of both meaning and style. It seems that the translations published in Chinese Literature are faithful to source texts in appearance. However, if one compares source texts with their translations carefully, some translations are unfaithful to the original, and textual changes such as omission and rewriting did exist. As Jeffrey C. Kinkley (2000) points out, when he examined the translations in Chinese Literature, he found that there were deletions, free interpretations, and

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explanatory translations of the original literary texts. Some changes or rewritings of the original in the translations could be justified due to linguistic and cultural differences, but others could not. W. J. F. Jenner quoted one passage to illustrate the editor’s intervention in his translation of the Chinese contemporary writer Zhang Jie’s 张洁 (1937–) story. The translations are quoted as follows: Version 1 was translated by Jenner, while Version 2, the published translation, was revised by the editor: Example 1 Version 1: But what could he do for the little girl? “Listen, I really can see that you look just like a little girl.” “Really?” she said with a very nasal twang. Her tears and sobs stopped at once. “Yes,” he said in a very definite tone of voice. She looked up. Her tear-stained face was suffused with red, like a clear sky after rain. She folded her arms in front of her chest and looked through the chinks between the branches at the patients still gazing so eagerly from the balcony. “They’re waiting for their visitors,” she explained quietly. “Yes, they’re waiting,” he replied, just as quietly. (Jenner 1990, 191–92) Version 2: But what of this child? … what could he do for her? She needed to start all over again. “Listen,” he said, looking directly into her face, “I can see very clearly that you look just like a little girl.” “Really? Can you see that?” she asked with a calmer voice. Her tears and sobs stopped at once. “Yes,” he said with great conviction. “There is no question: You are yourself, a girl, and you can see perfectly well. You can be strong.” She looked up. Her red, tear-stained face was transparent, like a clear sky after rain. She folded her arms in front of her chest and peered through the openings in the branches at the patients still watching so eagerly from the balcony. “They’re waiting for their visitors,” she explained quietly. “Yes, they’re waiting,” he replied softly. They were no great distance from the balcony, yet far enough to see the path which had brought them both to the bench beneath the hawthorn. They stopped to listen … And without even being aware of it, Wu Cangyun had found at last, within his compassion, the beginnings of his story. Comparing the two versions, Version 2 contains some additions to Jenner’s translation, which is faithful to the original text. The additions, which are italicized above, are not only redundant but also ruin the brevity of the original story. Moreover, since it is the last paragraph of the story, the revised version reads as affectionate. The editor’s revision of the translation manuscript is evidently a failure. Worse is that the editor revised the translation without the translator’s permission! (Jenner 1990).

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In some instances, the editor made textual interventions in accordance with the party’s policy. It was the priority of publicity over the reader’s acceptability that guided the work of the editorial office. Being employees of a state-run institution, they did their work by following FLB’s rules. As Yang Xianying in his memoir pointed out, some of his literary translations were subject to deletions or changes due to political consideration of the editorial office or the political situation (Yang 2001, 190–200). Regrettably, sometimes when changes in a literary translation were made, the editors seldom took into consideration the integrity of the literary work. In the state-sponsored institution, there were regulations for whether a translated text was to be changed or not. The FLP formulated some translation guidelines for translators in 1966. One regulation states: “Don’t translate literally. Except for the works of the CCP leaders, other works can be changed or adapted in translations in order to be easily understood by target readers, without losing the main ideas of the original” (Zhou and Qi 1999, 396; my translation). This regulation seemed to justify the free translations done by some Chinese translators who were not well versed in translating literary texts from Chinese into English. The following example is an illustration of free translation from Chinese Literature. The excerpt of a Chinese story describes the dilemma a mother is facing when her daughter is sick but she has to go to work as a doctor. Compared with Version 2, Version 1, the published translation in Chinese Literature, is only a free explanation of the hesitation of the mother, which does not represent vividly the difficult choices the mother has to make between her daughter and her work (Ma 2013). Example 2 Version 1 She couldn’t make up her mind where to take her daughter, hating to leave the sick child alone in the kindergarten’s isolation room. But who could look after her at home? (translated by Yu Fanqi and Wang Mingjie) Version 2 She stood in the middle of the compound holding her child, not knowing where to go. Back to the nursery? She thought of her sick child lying all alone there, and couldn’t bear it. Take her home, then? But she had to return to the hospital in the afternoon, and who would watch the child? (translated by Margaret Decker) As noted above, most translators working for Chinese Literature were Chinese except for a few foreign experts. Therefore most translations produced by the magazine were inverse translations, which are rendered into a foreign language rather than the translator’s native language. Even if we do not deny that a Chinese translator could produce readable English translations, language problems do exist in most inverse translations, literary translations in particular. For instance, another example given by Jenner: Example 3 “You should never have got her entangled so rashly!” “I know I am sorry! You must break it to her gently—don’t get her too upset.”

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“What can I say? You break it to her! It’s your doing!” “One of these days I’ll go over and visit you, I promise. And I’ll have a good talk with Xiao Ying. Just tell her it’s nothing to worry about. Brother Cai will look around for another one for her.” (Jenner 1990, 189) This translation is not written in good English. It is hard for English readers to enjoy a translation that is not idiomatic. It is a challenge for most Chinese translators to produce good English translations of literary works because it takes many years to achieve a good command of a foreign language. This explains why a great number of translated modern and contemporary Chinese literary texts have been taken as social documents for Chinese studies rather than literary works with aesthetic values, some of which were invariably lost in English translations. It also explains why English readers lack an interest in reading translations of Chinese literature, even though some translations by the Yangs and Shapiro were of a better standard. Chinese Literature did not sell well and was mainly given as a gift to those readers who might be interested in China. When China moved to a free market policy in from the early 1980s, the magazine lost its financial support from the government and had to discontinue in 2000. Targeted Readers and Translation Reception One may wonder for whom Chinese Literature translated? Regrettably, the magazine did not target specific readers, although it does not mean that the editorial office did not take readers into consideration. Since it was a translation activity initiated by the source-language culture, they did not know who the readers of their translations would be. As a result, the readership of the magazine was too general. The following are some translation regulations concerning target readers of the magazine in different periods: 1. In the early 1950s, the translations of the magazine targeted three kinds of readers: readers from capitalist countries, socialist countries, and nationalist countries such as African countries. Its readers were neither leftist nor rightest in the above countries (Luo 1999, 68). 2. In 1959, the translations were for readers of nationalist countries such as African countries, Southeast Asian countries, and Latin America countries (Zhou and Qi 1999, 155–59). 3. From 1959 to 1963, intellectuals in Western countries were the target readers after the then Vice-Premier Chen Yi gave a talk about the translation instruction of the magazine (Zhou and Qi 1999, 161). 4. During the Cultural Revolution (1966–1976), there were no translation guidelines regarding the readers (Zheng 2012, 52). These regulations show that the editorial office and translators did not know for whom they translated, although regulations regarding targeted readers had been formulated by the FLP. Furthermore, as the institution-sponsored translations were initiated in the source-language culture and subject to foreign publicity, the translators did not know who might be interested in their translations. The people in authority thought that their works were finished once the magazine was published, they did not care about its reception or circulation. From 1959 to 1983, the magazine was changed from quarterly to monthly, publishing more translations of nonliterary works without any increase of orders as well as little reader feedback.

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Although some translations of Chinese literature produced by Chinese Literature were poor in quality, there were good translations of modern and contemporary literary works, such as those translated by the Yangs. They were selected for the Panda book series and republished in book form, as Yang Xiangyi became the general editor in the 1980s when China carried out the reform and opening-up policy. Some have been used as textbooks for Chinese literature in universities in the United Kingdom and the United States, and some translations have been read widely in English-speaking countries. For example, Selected Works of Lu Xun translated by the Yangs has been reprinted several times in the United States since it came out in the 1970s.

CONCLUSION As a state-sponsored magazine, the editorial office of Chinese Literature had to follow FLB’s translation policies and regulations, and instructed translators to follow suit. Translation, literary translation in particular, has always been a political matter in the FLB. As translation in the FLB was a political task, translations of Chinese Literature were foreign-oriented publicity. Consequently, its translation policies were subject to and changed along with the CCP’s policies on literature and art. With its political mission, the people in authority in the FLB made translation policies regarding text selection, translation criteria, translation procedures, target readers, and so on, but did not understand what the activity of literary translation involved. This is one of the reasons why some translations of Chinese literary writings have been used for the study of society rather than literature, and most translators in the institution did inverse translations, which led to the poor quality of translation. Similarly, the editorial office of Chinese Literature organized its translation works by following the political climate and had a mistaken translation belief, considering translations finished once they were published and ignoring factors that might have influenced the reception and circulation of the magazine. The translators at Chinese Literature were at the bottom of the administration level before the 1980s. Translation was a collective work. Like other workers, translators did their assigned work, had no rights to choose the texts they wanted to translate, and had to follow translation regulations made by the institution. The state-sponsored translations of Chinese Literature can offer some insights into institutional translation. As different institutional translations happened in their own social contexts, each may have its own translation policy and special feature. Translation management, practice, and belief of the institution work together to influence the translators, translation products, and their receptions in the target countries.

REFERENCES Chinese Literature Press. 1990.《中国文学出版社大事记》[Records of Events of Chinese Literature Press]. Unpublished. Dai Yannian 戴延年, and Chen Rinong 陈日浓. 1999.《中国外文局五十年大事记》[Records of Fifty Years of Events of the Foreign Languages Bureau of China]. Beijing: Xinxing chubanshe. González Núñez, Gabriel. 2016. Translating in Linguistically Diverse Societies: Translation Policy in the United Kingdom. Amsterdam: John Benjamins.

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Holmes, James S. 1988. “The Name and Nature of Translation Studies.” In Translated! Papers on Literary Translation and Translation Studies, edited by James S. Holmes and Raymond van den Broeck, 67–80. Amsterdam: Rodopi. Jenner, W. J. F. 1990. “Insuperable Barriers? Some Thoughts on the Reception of Chinese Writing in English Translation.” In Worlds Apart: Recent Chinese Writing and Its Audiences, edited by Howard Goldblatt, 177–97. New York: E. M. Sharpe. Kinkley, Jeffrey C. 2000. “A Bibliographic Survey of Publications on Chinese Literature in Translation from 1949–1999.” In Chinese Literature in the Second Half of a Modern Century: A Critical Survey, edited by Pang-yuan Chi and David Der-wei Wang, 239–86. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Koskinen, Kaisa. 2008. Translating Institutions: An Ethnographic Study of EU Translation. Manchester: St. Jerome. Luo Jun 罗俊. 1999.《中国外文局五十年回忆录》[Memoir of Fifty Years of Events of the Foreign Languages Bureau of China]. Beijing: Xinxing chubanshe. Ma Huijuan 马会娟. 2013.《汉译英翻译能力研究》[Exploring Translation Competence from Chinese into English]. Beijing: Beijing shifan daxue chubanshe. Mao Zedong毛泽东. 1991. 《毛泽东选集》(第三卷) [Selected Works of Mao Zedong (vol. 3)]. Beijing: Renmin chubanshe. McDougall, Bonnie S. 2011. Translation Zones in Modern China. New York: Cambria Press. Meylaerts, Reine. 2011. “Translation Policy.” In Handbook of Translation Studies, vol. 2, edited by Yves Gambier and Luc van Doorslaer, 163–68. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Mossop, Brian. 1988. “Translating Institutions: A Missing Factor in Translation Theory.” TTR: Traduction, Terminologie et Redaction 1 (2): 65–71. Ni Xiuhua 倪秀華. 2021.《1949–1966中国文学对外翻译研究》[Outward Translation of Chinese Literature, 1949–1966]. Guangzhou: Guangzhou chubanshe. Pokorn, Nike K. 2012. Post-Socialist Translation Practices: Ideological Struggle in Children’s Literature. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Toury, Gideon. 1995. Descriptive Translation Studies – and Beyond. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Yang, Xianyi. 2001. White Tiger: An Autobiography of Yang Xianyi. Hong Kong: Chinese University Press. Zheng Ye 郑晔. 2012.〈国家机构赞助下中国文学的对外译介〉[Outward Translation of Chinese Literature under State Patronage]. PhD diss., Shanghai International Studies University. Zhou Dongyuan 周东元, and Qi Wengong 亓文公. 1999.《中国外文局五十年史料选编》[Collection of Historical Records of Fifty Years of Events of the Foreign Languages Bureau of China]. Beijing: Xinxing chubanshe.

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Translating American Literature into Chinese during the Cold War Era: The Literary Translation and Cultural Politics of the World Today Press TE-HSING SHAN

THE COLD WAR AND AMERICAN CULTURAL DIPLOMACY In the immediate aftermath of the Second World War, the confrontation between the United States and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR) escalated rapidly. In 1947, American strategist George F. Kennan (1904–2005), in an article published in Foreign Affairs under the pseudonym X, put forward the Containment Policy, proclaiming that as the leader of the Free World, the United States should form alliances with countries holding similar political ideas to contain the expansion of the USSR-led communist sphere (Kennan 1947, 566–82). This confrontation was not limited to the military sphere. In fact, no effort was spared that might contribute to strengthening the United States and to diminishing the USSR, or their respective allies. One important domain of the ideological battle concerned soft power, that is, how to present an image of the United States as a herald of freedom, democracy, and progress, in short, an inspiring role model for its allies. In this respect, culture and education had important parts to play. So far as the Chinese-speaking world was concerned, the Republic of China (ROC) in Taiwan remained at the forefront of this worldwide anti-communist campaign, despite losing mainland China to the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) in 1949. After the outbreak of the Korean War in June 1950, President Harry Truman sent the US Seventh Fleet to help defend Taiwan and its offshore islands, successfully forestalling military invasion by the People’s Republic of China (PRC) led by the CCP. Besides military aid, resources from the economic, agricultural, industrial, social, and medical fields were also introduced to modernize the ROC and promote the ideal of Free China, in contrast to Red China behind the Iron Curtain. Not the least of these aids were cultural and educational exchanges between the United States and the ROC. In “US Educational and Cultural Exchange Programs in Taiwan (1951–1970),” Ena Chao points out that “American culture was the predominant foreign influence on Taiwan’s society

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during the period” (2001, 127). She observes, “American Studies had not prospered as expected by American officials, with the exception of American literature” (123). A historical survey of the development of foreign literary studies in Taiwan indicates that American literary studies attracted more students than English literary studies, quite contrary to the institutional position occupied by English and American literature in the United States (Shan 2004, 240–54). This phenomenon came about due mainly to American cultural diplomacy in Taiwan, which saw the American government and associated institutions invest in training English-language teachers and offering scholarships in American studies, including American literature, to students and junior faculty members. Numerous approaches were adopted so long as they facilitated understanding and, hopefully, acceptance of American culture. If offering courses on American literature at the university level was an elite institutional approach, translating American literature into Chinese was a more grassroots and far-reaching endeavor.

WHY HONG KONG? This Cold War-era translation project was carried out by the World Today Press (WTP) under the auspices of the United States Information Service (USIS) in Hong Kong. Institutions such as USIS were established to achieve goals that could not be simply attained by military or economic means. Some of the most salient goals of USIS were: (1) to promote the merits of American democracy and to expose the defects of communist regimes in an attempt to curtail the expansion of Soviet communism; (2) to propagate American value systems and to disseminate American ideology to fortify American cultural hegemony; and (3) to establish the role of the United States as the leader of the Free World and to carry out the civilizing mission toward her less developed anti-communist allies, a case not unlike the binary opposition between the East and the West as exposed by Edward W. Said in Orientalism ([1978] 1995, 40). Therefore, an institution such as USIS was not only “Ideological State Apparatus” in the Althusserian sense with respect to the United States itself (Althusser 1977, 121–76), but also “Ideological United States Apparatus” to her allies, as it were. The American administration chose Hong Kong as its base from which to gain support from the Chinese-speaking world in its cultural struggle with communism. According to National Security Council document NSC 5717 (July 17, 1957) on US Policy on Hong Kong, “[f]or many overseas Chinese, Hong Kong is the most convenient point of entry to and contact with the mainland” (United States National Security Council 1957, 7). The same document also reports that “[t]he USIS office in Hong Kong has in recent years placed major emphasis on the production of news periodicals, books, movies, radio scripts, and other anti-Communist materials directed at the overseas Chinese” (United States National Security Council 1957, 7). Its purpose was more than clear: to wage a campaign against Communist China to achieve results that could not be attained by military blockade or economic sanctions (Zhao 2006, 88). Hong Kong was chosen as the site of this Cold War encounter for the following reasons: historically, the idea of 同文同種 (belonging to the same linguistic and ethnic group) had long been embraced by the imagined community of the Chinese people; geographically, Hong Kong both was at the frontline of mainland China and had easy access to Taiwan, Southeast Asia, and Indochina; politically, it was relatively neutral under

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British governance without clinging noticeably to Left or Right, as social stability and economic prosperity were the main concern of the colonial authorities; socially, people in Hong Kong enjoyed much more freedom of speech in comparison with those under the rule of either the ROC or the PRC; materially, Hong Kong was relatively affluent and technically advanced, and thus able to produce high-quality publications; and last but not least, intellectually, Hong Kong had already attracted a lot of intellectuals, especially the so-called 南來文人 (south-bound intellectuals), with its special cultural environment and political atmosphere. As a consequence, Hong Kong had become not only the “only public sphere” and “the shelter for the intelligentsia” (Tay 1998, 14–15), but also “a battleground in the ideological war” (Tay 2000, 37) in the Sinophone world during the Cold War period. The World Today Press, together with the magazine World Today, was founded in 1952, with the support of USIS, in Hong Kong, with the aim of reaching the widest possible Chinese audience. Established to fulfill the mission of American public diplomacy, World Today was regarded as fast media aiming at information diplomacy, and the WTP as slow media aiming at cultural diplomacy (Chao 2001, 81).

THE WORLD TODAY PRESS The World Today Press was established to publish Chinese translations of American classical and contemporary texts on a variety of subjects, including literature, culture, history, politics, education, society, art, science, and technology. It operated in coordination with World Today, one of the most popular Chinese magazines in decades, to showcase different aspects of American soft power (Shan 2017, 18–25). These two cultural organizations were products of American diplomatic policy and global deployment to counter communism. Receiving abundant support from USIS, the WTP was able to systematically introduce American culture to the Sinophone world over three decades. With hundreds of high-quality translations, the WTP helped import intellectual capital and distribute it to the reading public. Its work covered a variety of subjects and successfully performed its role as an initiator in the Chinese cultural arena. Regarding the selection of texts to be translated, the WTP’s editor-in-chief Lee Ju-tung 李如桐 revealed, “We [Chinese editors] selected the books under the guidance of Americans. I would study some American book catalogues together with their descriptions and evaluated the Chinese book market. It was done in a systematical way” (Lee, pers. comm., October 22, 2004). Sometimes, a translator might come up with his own suggested texts. For instance, Joseph Shiu-ming Lau 劉紹 銘 (1934–), a Hong Kong native with a PhD in Comparative Literature from Indiana University, both recommended and translated several Jewish American novels, including works by Saul Bellow and Bernard Malamud, which constituted the first systematic introduction of Jewish American literature to Chinese readers. To demonstrate the diversity of American literature, both canonical and contemporary texts were included. As this translation enterprise was undertaken for the purpose of cultural diplomacy, texts revealing the dark side of American society were avoided. Quite understandably, African American novelist Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man was excluded, while Booker T. Washington’s autobiography Up from Slavery was included as an exemplum for assimilation and of the American Dream. Authors exposing the dark side of American society, such as Theodore Dreiser, were not included on the list.

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Given sufficient resources, USIS was able to play a patronage role and hire a number of editors for the WTP who acted as agents for its translation projects.1 The main function of these agents was to invite translators and to check and, if necessary, edit translated texts to ensure the quality of the WTP publications (Lee, Zhang, and Dong, pers. comm., October 22, 2004). With piracy being common practice at the time, few Chinese publishers ever took intellectual property rights seriously. But as a USIS-supported publisher, the WTP sought out authors or copyright holders and obtained their permission beforehand. All the copyright information was displayed on the copyright page and set the standard for honoring intellectual property rights in the Chinesespeaking world.

THE AMERICAN LITERATURE TRANSLATION SERIES In World Today Books in Print: An Annotated Bibliography published by the Taipei USIS in 1976, more than three hundred titles are listed, spanning the spectrum from literature to the humanities, social sciences, arts, and science and technology (United States Information Service 1976). A closer look shows that those works focused on American literature vastly outnumbered those in other categories and had more far-reaching effects. The Chinese translations of the American literature series could be divided into four categories: (1) literary history and criticism; (2) fiction; (3) poetry and prose; and (4) drama. It is interesting to note that fiction occupied the largest portion, for it was more attractive to the target audience, given its generic characteristics of storytelling and characterization. The next most common genres were drama, poetry, and prose. Texts on American literary history and criticism were few and far apart (Shan 2009b, 147–57). So far as creative works were concerned, canonical authors in American literary history and twentieth-century Nobel laureates in literature and contemporary writers were represented. What follows is a partial list of the writers represented. Novelists: Washington Irving, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Herman Melville, Edgar Allan Poe, Mark Twain, Henry James, Stephen Crane, Jack London, Sinclair Lewis, Edith Wharton, Sherwood Anderson, Katherine Anne Porter, John Steinbeck, Willa Cather, William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, O. Henry, Thomas Wolfe, James Thurber, Flannery O’Connor, Eudora Welty, John O’Hara, Robert Penn Warren, Saul Bellow, Bernard Malamud, Truman Capote, Joyce Carol Oates, Conrad Richter, Carson McCullers, and Majorie K. Rawlings; Playwrights: Eugene O’Neill, Tennessee Williams, Thornton Wilder, Arthur Miller, William Inge, Percy MacKaye, John Patrick, Sidney Kingsley, James A. Horne, and Lynn Riggs; Prose writers: Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, Edwin Way Teale, and Leopold Tyrmand. An impressive list, indeed. However, lacking translation, none of these literary texts would be able to transcend linguistic barriers and reach a wider readership. In “The Task of the Translator: An Introduction to the Translation of Baudelaire’s Tableaux Parisiens,” Walter Benjamin offers a

1

Issues concerning patronage and agents in translation studies will be discussed at length in one of the following sections.

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powerful metaphor comparing translation to the “afterlife” of the original text, “[f]or a translation comes later than the original, and since the important works of world literature never find their chosen translators at the time of their origin, their translation marks their stage of continued life” (1969, 71). In other words, with USIS acting as the patron and its Chinese staff as agents, the WTP translation series offered an excellent opportunity for representative works of these American authors to acquire an audience beyond the boundaries of national literature and find an afterlife in the Sinophone world, so to speak. To give birth to the “stage of continued life,” good translators were indispensable. As a consequence, many famous translators, writers, and scholars in Hong Kong and Taiwan were invited to take part in this unprecedented translingual undertaking. According to William Tay 鄭樹森 (1948–), the key person in this process was Stephen Soong 宋淇 (1919–1996), the former director of the translation section of USIS (Tay, pers. comm., October 19, 2004). As a man of letters and son of a famous dramatist and book collector, Soong was on good terms with many denizens of literary circles from his days in Shanghai (see Soong 2014). This connection enabled him to invite a number of competent bilingual authors and literary scholars from not only Hong Kong but also Taiwan to serve as translators. For instance, two of his old acquaintances in Shanghai were Lucian Wu 吳魯芹 (1918–1983)—the highest-ranking Chinese staff member of USIS in Taipei and a well-known essayist—and Hsia Tsi-an 夏濟安 (1916–1965)—a professor of English and American literature at the Department of Foreign Languages and Literature, National Taiwan University, a founder of the influential 《文學雜誌》(Literary Magazine), as well as a “Samuel Johnson” figure in the Taiwan literary circle. It might well be through their connections that many scholars of National Taiwan University and National Taiwan Normal University joined the translation project. Moreover, these connections also reached back to the United States, as Hsia’s younger brother was none other than C. T. Hsia 夏志清 (1921–2013), the famous Chinese literature critic at Columbia University who wrote the groundbreaking A History of Modern Chinese Fiction (1961) and The Classic Chinese Novel (1968). With people like Soong, and later Lee, in charge, many famous writers and scholars in Hong Kong and Taiwan were recruited. To mention just a few: creative writers such as Eileen Chang 張 愛玲 (1920–1995), Xu Xu 徐訏 (1908–1980), Yu Kwang-chung 余光中 (1928–2017), Yu Lihua 於梨華 (1929–2020), Wai-lim Yip 葉維廉 (1937–), and Ye Shan 葉珊 (1940–2020); Hong Kong translators such as Tang Xin-mei 湯新楣 (1922–?), George Kao 喬志高 (1912–2008), Yao Ke 姚 克 (1905–1991), Joseph Shiu-ming Lau, Cai Zhuo-tang 蔡濯堂 (1918–2004), Serena Jin 金聖華, Wang Jing-xi 王敬羲 (1933–2008), and even Bishop Francis Xavier Hsu Chen-Ping 徐誠斌主教 (1920–1973); Taiwan translators such as Liang Shih-ch’iu 梁實秋 (1903–1987), Hsia Tsi-an, Chu Limin 朱立文, Yen Yuan-shu 顏元叔 (1933–2012), Chen Zu-wen 陳祖文, Chen Shao-peng 陳紹鵬, Chu Yen 朱炎 (1936–2012), Morris Tien Wei-hsin 田維新 (1915–2002), Ting Chen-wan 丁貞婉 (1936–), and Chen Tsang-to 陳蒼多 (1942–). Many were famous writers, scholars, or translators in their own right. In my opinion, they could be regarded as the Dream Team in the history of translation in the ROC. Without the patronage of the WTP and the efficiency of its agents, this translation team could not have been organized, let alone accomplished the translation and publication of such an august list of representative American literary works.

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This chapter aims to evaluate, in broad strokes, the WTP’s American literature translation project without dwelling upon individual translators, their translations, or their concepts about translation.2 What follows is an analysis of the general characteristics of this translation series in light of some concepts from translation studies.

PATRONAGE, AGENT, AND SKOPOS In the present case, these theories are instrumental because they help illuminate some special features of the WTP translation series and, in so doing, scrutinize their validity. First of all, it is significant to note that the WTP translation project fits exactly into André Lefevere’s analysis of patronage, which can be exercised by individuals or groups, including publishers, magazines, and so on (Lefevere 1992, 15). Lefevere identifies three basic elements of patronage “that can be seen to interact in various combinations”: (1) the ideological, having to do with “the choice and development of both form and subject matter”; (2) the economic, offering resources so that “writers and rewriters are able to make a living”; and (3) the status, which “implies integration into a certain support group and its lifestyle” (16). There are two kinds of patronage: undifferentiated or differentiated. “Patronage is undifferentiated when its three components, the ideological, the economic, and the status components, are all dispensed by one and the same patron” and “[p] atronage is differentiated, on the other hand, when economic success is relatively independent of ideological factors and does not necessarily bring status with it, at least not in the eyes of the selfstyled literary elite” (17). Lefevere’s analysis of patronage helps us better understand the functioning of the WTP translation project. Ideologically, the choice of the texts to be translated was determined, with rare exceptions, by the WTP Chinese editors with the approval of their American superiors to meet the requirements of American cultural diplomacy in the Chinese-speaking world. It must be pointed out that these translators were anti-communist in the first place, for otherwise, they would not have left mainland China for Hong Kong or Taiwan. Economically, given the profuse resources of the WTP, translators were paid quite handsomely. For instance, the income Ye Shan, then a PhD candidate of comparative literature at UC, Berkeley, received for translating two essays from Seven Modern American Novelists: An Introduction, saved him from working at a restaurant for a whole summer vacation in the mid-1960s (Wang 1974, 218–19). As for the status associated with this project, not only did established writers, translators, and scholars consider it a privilege to be involved in the WTP translation project, but younger and lesser-known translators felt quite honored to be in the company of such a galaxy of famous men and women of letters, which served to enhance their status in the literary and cultural circle of the Sinophone world. In other words, both the material and immaterial rewards were remarkably worthy of the hard labor of translating. In the present case, these three elements came from the same patron and interacted with one another closely, matching the category of “undifferentiated patronage.”

For in-depth studies of individual translators such as Eileen Chang and Yu Kwang-chung, see Shan, “A Critical Study of Kwang-chung Yu’s Translation Theory and Criticism” (2009a, 237–67); “Eileen Chang as a Chinese Translator of American Literature” (2014, 106–25); “Yu Kwang-chung’s Translingual Practice during the Cold War Era” (2019a, 56–98); and “The Tenth Muse: An Interview with Yu Kwang-chung” (2019b, 190–237).

2

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With respect to the issue of being an “agent,” the WTP’s practice was even more complex than Juan C. Sager stipulates. Occupying “an intermediary position between a translator and an end user of a translation” (Sager 1994, 321), agents are “at the beginning and the end of the speech act of translation” (140). As mediators, these agents play such vocational roles as “abstractors, editors, revisors, translators” (111). According to Sager, “an agent, independent of writer and reader, decides on the desirability of a translation of a document” (140). In the case of the WTP translation project, we may say that in addition to functioning as facilitators between translators and their target audience, the editors as agents also played a vital role in mediating between original texts and their translators, for they exercised great autonomy in deciding which texts to be translated and which translators to be recruited. Only after the end products were submitted by translators did these agents begin to edit and/or revise their translations. And this was done in accordance with the goal of the publisher. Here Hans J. Vermeer’s skopos theory helps shed light on the execution of the WTP translation series. Defining “skopos” as “the aim or purpose of a translation,” this theory emphasizes that “[a] precise specification of aim and mode is essential for the translator.” Therefore, “every translation commission should explicitly or implicitly contain a statement of skopos in order to be carried out at all.” Whereas this statement should be “negotiated between the client (commissioner) and the translator,” the latter “as the expert in translational action” is “responsible for deciding whether, when, how, etc., a translation can be realized” (Vermeer 2000, 220). As editors/agents read Chinese translations alongside English originals, it goes without saying that fidelity was the first priority. A long-standing controversy in translation theory and practice is that of domestication/naturalization vs alienation/foreignization. The former puts stress on the naturalness and accessibility of the translated texts, while the latter, on the linguistic foreignness and peculiarity of the original texts to enrich the target culture. Since the objective of the WTP translations was to reach and, hopefully, influence as wide a target audience as possible, the principle of naturalization and domestication was adopted. This was clearly demonstrated by the agents’ practice as editors, the quality of the end products, and book reviews on such representative work as Yao Ke’s translation of Arthur Miller’s The Death of a Salesman, George Kao’s translation of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, and Hsia Tsi-an’s translation of American prose, to mention three examples from different genres. Furthermore, the concepts of translation upheld by Stephen Soong, Cai Zhuo-tang, and Yu Kwang-chung also supported this strategy, namely, to translate the texts in the same way as Chinese writers would have written in their own mother tongue, whereas translationese was condemned as a blasphemy to the beautiful Chinese language (cf. Cai 1972; Soong 1973; Yu 2002).

THE TRANSLATOR’S (IN)VISIBILITY Interestingly, this translation strategy runs counter to Lawrence Venuti’s theorization of translation and translator. As a practicing translator and translation theorist, Venuti complained about the fluency of translated texts in the Anglo-American translation tradition, for it creates the illusion of transparency and, thus, invisibility of translation. In his opinion, “Under the regime of fluent translating, the translator works to make his or her work invisible, producing the illusory effect of transparency that simultaneously masks its status as an illusion: the translated text seems natural,

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i.e., not translated” (Venuti 1995, 5). This further leads to the translator’s invisibility, as the title of his book claims. Arguing against this common practice in “the Anglo-American tradition of domestication,” he advocates a translation strategy called resistancy, “not merely because it avoids fluency, but because it challenges the target-language culture even as it enacts its own ethnocentric violence on the foreign text” (Venuti 1995, 24–5). What Venuti has in mind is the domesticating violence imposed upon a translated text that makes the translated text fluent and accessible to the Anglo-American audience at the expense of its foreignness. While we understand Venuti’s criticism of the Anglo-American cultural hegemony in terms of translation, the case of the WTP translation series seemed to be another story with a different purpose in mind. Aiming at reaching a wider Chinese reading public, domestication strategy was adopted by translators, whose products might be edited and polished by the agent/editor to ensure both fidelity and fluency. The adopted translation strategy was not to “challenge the targetlanguage culture”, but to ascertain that the end product, both as a cultural artifact and a commodity, would gain currency for not having posed any threat to the linguistic norms of the target language. Therefore, in the case of the WTP translations, this had little to do with the cultural hegemony of the target-language culture, as in the Anglo-American translation tradition. On the contrary, it aimed at facilitating greater acceptance of translated texts and the inscribed value system of US cultural imperialism, then posing as the leader of the Free World in the face of the communist camp during the Cold War period. Moreover, the so-called transparency of the translated texts of this series does not lead to the invisibility of the texts, or to the translators’ invisibility. For due to the impressive income and reputation associated with the WTP translations, quite a number of established writers, scholars, and translators joined the project with the full knowledge that their participation would be tremendously rewarding both economically and in terms of status, in addition to expressing their anti-communist political stance. On the other hand, younger translators enjoyed the additional reward of being in the company and aura, as it were, of those eminent translators. In short, instead of the translator’s invisibility, a number of famous translators brought their visibility to this translation project, and the lesser-known translators increased their visibility by engaging in translating American literary texts endorsed by the WTP. As a result, what stood out was neither the invisibility of the text, nor the translator’s, but, instead, the visibility of the text and that of the translator. The translator’s visibility was further reinforced by a special feature of the WTP translation series, namely, paratexts. Whenever possible, the translated texts were accompanied by paratexts such as prefaces, critical introductions, and translators’ notes, which provided much-needed information about the authors, translated texts, and their contexts when this kind of literary and cultural knowledge was in short supply. For instance, Anthology of American Poetry, edited by Stephen Soong, was a collection of poems by seventeen poets from Emerson to Archibald MacLeish. Besides the translators’ notes explicating the texts whenever necessary, an essay appeared before the translated texts, providing a biographical sketch, essential information, and critical evaluation about each poet. Another case in point was Eileen Chang’s translation of Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea, which was preceded by Leo Ou-fan Lee’s 李歐梵 (1939–) translation of Robert Penn Warren’s long essay on Hemingway as a critical introduction to this Nobel laureate in literature. Consequently, the end products more or less took the form of “thick translation,”

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defined by Anthony Appiah as “[a] thick description of the context of literary production” and “translation that seeks with its annotations and its accompanying glosses to locate the text in a rich cultural and linguistic context,” so that its target audience might gain “a genuinely informed respect for others” (1993, 817–18). Therefore, all these paratexts helped targeted Chinese readers better understand these American authors, translated texts, and their respective historical and cultural contexts. Needless to say, these translational and editorial apparatuses also increased the translators’ visibility. In short, the WTP’s naturalization method, together with paratexts, serves to make the translated texts more palatable and nutritious so that its target audience could swallow them more easily, so to speak. As a result, this domestication strategy would facilitate the acceptance of American culture and ideology with as little resistance as possible to better accomplish the civilizing mission of the American cultural hegemony in the Chinese-speaking world in the cultural battle against the communist camp.

CONCLUSION: LITERARY TRANSLATION AND A REALM OF ITS OWN The WTP’s abundant resources, efficient agents, well-qualified translators, representative original texts, high-quality translations, reasonable price, and effective marketing made it one of the most prominent introducers of American cultural capital into the Sinophone world. Focusing mainly on Hong Kong under the British colonial rule and Taiwan under the martial law of the ROC government, it was able to play a vital role in implementing American cultural diplomacy and playing a double role as defender and initiator—defending Hong Kong, Taiwan, and other parts of the Sinophone world from the penetration and contagion of communism, as well as initiating its target audience into the brave new world of American literature, culture, and values. In this respect, literary translations were unique in that besides being associated with particular authors and their historical and cultural backgrounds, the universal appeal to human nature could easily transcend temporal and political restrictions. Although the influence of translation was difficult to quantify, from my personal experience, my interviews with its agents and translators, as well as my conversations with scholars of my generation from different disciplines, the consensus is that the WTP, though established to enact American Cold War policy, produced excellent translations whose effects extend far beyond its demise in the 1980s, when the confrontation between the United States and the USSR subsided. The symbolic capital imported, as well as the reading experience, become not only an important part of the intellectual growth of numerous Chinese students and scholars in Taiwan and Hong Kong, but also a lively collective memory that constituted what Raymond Williams defines as “structures of feeling” (1977, 128–35). This both affirms the autonomy of translation as cultural work and confirms the observation that “high culture occupies its own realm that cannot be easily manipulated into a propaganda device” (Krabbendam and Scott-Smith 2004, 1–9). In hindsight, these literary translations, while bearing witness to American cultural diplomacy during the Cold War era, transcended the particular ideological mindset and constraints of a certain historical period and exerted greater and more lasting literary and cultural effects on the general Chinese reading public.

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REFERENCES Althusser, Louis. 1977. “Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses.” In Lenin and Philosophy and Other Essays, 121–76. London: New Left Books. Appiah, K. A. 1993. “Thick Translation.” Callaloo 16 (4): 808–19. Benjamin, Walter. 1969. “The Task of the Translator.” In Illuminations: Essays and Reflections, edited by Hannah Arendt, translated by Harry Zohn, 69–82. New York: Schocken. Cai Zhuo-tang蔡濯堂. 1972.《翻譯研究》[Translation Studies]. Taipei: Dadi. Chao Ena 趙綺娜. 2001.〈美國政府在台灣的教育與文化交流活動(一九五一至一九七○)〉[US Educational and Cultural Exchange Programs in Taiwan (1951–1970)].《歐美研究》[EurAmerica] 31 (1): 79–127. Kennan, George F. [X, pseud.]. 1947. “The Sources of Soviet Conduct.” Foreign Affairs 25 (4): 566–82. Krabbendam, Hans, and Giles Scott-Smith. 2004. “Introduction: Boundaries to Freedom.” In The Cultural Cold War in Western Europe, 1945–60, edited by Hans Krabbendam and Giles Scott-Smith, 1–9. London: Routledge. Lefevere, André. 1992. Translation, Rewriting, and the Manipulation of Literary Fame. London: Routledge. Sager, Juan C. 1994. Language Engineering and Translation: Consequences of Automation. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Said, Edward W. (1978) 1995. Orientalism: Western Conceptions of the Orient. Rpt. with a new Afterword. New York: Penguin. Shan, Te-hsing. 2004. “American Literary Studies in Taiwan.” Journal of American Studies [Korea] 36 (1): 240–54. Shan, Te-hsing. 2009a.〈左右手之外的繆思——析論余光中的譯論與譯評〉[A Critical Study of Kwang-chung Yu’s Translation Theory and Criticism]. In 《翻譯與脈絡》[Translations and Contexts], 237–67. Taipei: Bookman Books. Shan, Te-hsing. 2009b.〈附錄:今日世界譯叢——文學類〉[The World Today Press Translation Series— Literature]. In 《翻譯與脈絡》[Translations and Contexts], 147–57. Taipei: Bookman Books. Shan, Te-hsing. 2014. “Eileen Chang as a Chinese Translator of American Literature.” In Modern China and the West: Translation and Cultural Mediation, edited by Peng Hsiao-yen and Isabelle Rabut, 106–25. Leiden: Brill. Shan, Te-hsing. 2017.〈美國即世界?:《今日世界》的緣起緣滅〉[The USA as the World?─The Rise and Fall of World Today].《攝影之聲》[Voices of Photography] 20: 18–25. Shan, Te-hsing. 2019a.〈在冷戰的年代——英華煥發的譯者余光中〉[Yu Kwang-chung’s Translingual Practice during the Cold War Era]. In 《譯者余光中》[Yu Kwang-chung, the Translator], 56–98. Hangzhou: Zhejiang University Press. Shan, Te-hsing. 2019b.〈第十位繆思:余光中訪談錄〉[The Tenth Muse: An Interview with Yu Kwangchung]. In 《譯者余光中》[Yu Kwang-chung, the Translator], 190–237. Hangzhou: Zhejiang University Press. Soong, Roland 宋以朗. 2014.《宋淇傳奇:從宋春舫到張愛玲》[The Legends of Stephen C. Soong]. Hong Kong: Oxford University Press. Soong, Stephen C. 宋淇 (Lin Yiliang 林以亮, pseud.). 1973.《前言與後語》[Forewords and Postscripts]. Taipei: Dalin Bookstore. Tay, William 鄭樹森. 1998.〈香港在海峽兩岸間的文化角色〉[The Culture Role of Hong Kong between the Two Sides of the Strait].《素葉文學》[Su Yeh Literature] 64: 14–21. Tay, William 鄭樹森. 2000. “Colonialism, the Cold War Era, and Marginal Space: The Existential Condition of Five Decades of Hong Kong Literature,” translated by Michelle Yeh. In Chinese Literature in the Second Half of a Modern Century: A Critical Survey, edited by Pang-yuan Chi and David Der-wei Wang, 31–8. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. United States Information Service, ed. 1976. World Today Books in Print: An Annotated Bibliography. Taiepi: United States Information Service. United States National Security Council. 1957. “NSC 5717: US Policy on Hong Kong.” National Security Council Report, July 17, 1957. Available online: https://www.proquest.com/governmentofficial-publications/u-s-policy-on-hong-kong/docview/1679069523/se-2?accountid=13877 (accessed December 20, 2021).

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Venuti, Lawrence. 1995. The Translator’s Invisibility: A History of Translation. London: Routledge. Vermeer, Hans J. 2000. “Skopos and Commission in Translational Action,” translated by Andrew Chesterman. In The Translation Studies Reader, edited by Lawrence Venuti, 221–32. London: Routledge. Wang, Ching-hsien 王靖獻 [Yang Mu 楊牧, pseud.]. 1974.〈柏克萊——懷念陳世驤先生〉[Berkeley—In Memory of Mr. Chen Shih-hsiang]. In《傳統的與現代的》[The Traditional and the Contemporary), 218–32. Taipei: Chih-wen Press. Williams, Raymond. 1977. “Structures of Feeling.” In Marxism and Literature, 128–35. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Yu Kwang-chung 余光中. 2002.《余光中談翻譯》[Yu Kwang-chung on Translation]. Beijing: Zhongguo duiwai fanyi chuban gongsi. Zhao Xifang 趙稀方. 2006.〈五十年代的美元文化與香港小說〉[US Cultural Sponsorship and Hong Kong Novels in the 1950s].《二十一世紀》[Twenty-First Century] 98: 87–96.

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CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Value-Added Literary Labor in Chinese Literature Translation JONATHAN STALLING

A few years ago, I spent a couple of days visiting the renowned Iowa Writers’ Workshop at the University of Iowa, where a well-known Chinese poet and I sat in on a regular poetry writing workshop. The Chinese poet passed around a self-translated poem and the workshopping (a practice I call value-added literary labor) began. Most of the workshop participants suggested changes only by way of asking him to clarify the meaning of a line or word in the original poem so that they could then offer modifications to the translation. Others, however, suggested changes that clearly diverged from the original poem’s referential scope or “intent.” The poet responded to these latter suggestions by saying that while he thought that their suggestions might have improved upon the original poem, he clearly did not register the suggestion that he should consider updating the original poem. When the workshop participant then asked, “If you think it’s better than the original, why don’t you change it? After all, you’re the author, aren’t you?” The poet looked at me and smiled nervously, as if to say, “Am I?” Then we went on to discuss the next poem. Why did the poet demure at revising his poem in the workshop setting? Other poems under discussion were being workshopped to “improve” them. While he could have had a personal poetics informed by notions of writing poetry along the lines of being a shamanic medium or possessing an exo-egoic prophetic voice wherein a poet is but a conduit for another sentience to express itself (as with Jack Spicer), after further conversations it became clear to me that he was simply surprised by the idea that Americans would so routinely accept the intervention of other actors in the compositional process. Clearly translations can be workshopped since changes in wording of the target text can bring a translation “closer” to the meaning of the original, or can make a translation appear more “poetic” to a target community according to its sociolinguistic and aesthetic norms, but how can the same be said for an original poem? How can an original poem by a single poet be improved by others without it ceasing to be an original poem by a single poet? While such ideas have surfaced from time to time within the United States, for most Chinese poets, creative writing is a solo affair, and this distinction has significant implications for American and Chinese notions of literariness, as these are tightly bound to our definitions of authorship. In the United States, after a half-century of steady growth in the creative writing and literary fiction and poetry publishing industries, the notion of literariness has slowly shifted from an attribute of writerly talent or of a solo genius to one embedded within a larger, market-oriented literary system, which is to say literariness in the US system has become inextricably bound up with the larger design logic of value-added economics. In macroeconomics the term “value-added” refers to

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the additional features or economic value that a company adds to its products and services before offering them to customers. The more added value a product receives, the more a company can charge for its goods or services. The history of how the US literary system has been folded into its larger value-added economic system has not been written but can be gleaned from recent histories of the US creative writing industry (McGurl 2011; Abramson 2018). The Chinese literary system, on the other hand, has not evolved a value-added economic structure—and this divergence matters. In fact, the differences between the Chinese and US literary systems may well be one of the most important and heretofore overlooked factors shaping EnglishChinese comparative literature and translation studies. In 2018, I gave a keynote lecture in Shanghai at the International Symposium on Translated Chinese Literature and Its Reception Outside of China entitled, “The Chinese literature translation archive and ANTS (Actor-Network Translation Studies).” I discussed the methods being developed at the Chinese Literature Translation Archive (CLTA) at the University of Oklahoma, which now houses the papers and personal libraries of Arthur Waley (1889–1966), Howard Goldblatt (1939–), Wai-lim Yip 葉維廉 (1937–), Wolfgang Kubin (1945–), Brian Holton (1949–), Andrea Lingenfelter, and others. I described the work of several of the roughly two dozen scholars who have spent six to twelve months exploring the CLTA materials in the years leading up to the 2020 closure of transpacific transit. The work I observed and participated in employed a new methodology, which I have named ANTS, or actornetwork translation studies.1 Working with Ronald Schleifer, whose literary criticism and work in interdisciplinary humanities engages translation across disciplinary boundaries, we have expanded upon these early ideas to articulate a more robust conception of ANTS by relating agential power in translation networks to speech act theory, actor-network theory, and complex systems theory, as these theoretical frameworks are all implicated in the kinds of materials being archived, described, and studied at CLTA. With new source materials in hand, it becomes clear that scholars cannot limit translation studies to the comparative analysis of published source material and their translations. Thinking of translators as individual actors overlooks the many other literary actors who participate in the publication of works of literary translation, including but not limited to publishers, editors, literary agents, marketing departments, and so on. CLTA scholars use a radically expanded set of scholarly materials, including drafts, notes, correspondence, contracts, secondary materials, and other translation ephemera, to conclude that translation exists within “distinct network structures organized by what complex system theory describes as ‘degree of node’ … best understood not only in terms of linguistic, cultural, cognitive, and ideological terms, but as large-scale negotiations between distinct economies of action. The working of those negotiations, we argue, are hidden in plain sight in the translation archive” (Stalling and Schleifer 2021, 24). In this chapter, I will be digging more deeply into the notion that Chinese–English translation studies needs to better account for the distinct, and in many ways oppositional, network

ANTS plays off of actor-network theory (ANT) based on the work of Bruno Latour. ANT is the name given to Latour’s constructivist social theory that claims all social and natural phenomena exist in constantly shifting networks of relationships and cannot be understood as being separate from those relationships. ANTS investigates translation as a set of complex effects arising from interactions between a wide variety of actors operating within and often between distinct networks, but ANTS is not invested in the larger philosophical constructivist claims associated with ANT. For an updated description of ANT see Seidman (2016).

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configurations of the modern US and Chinese literary systems. Because I will be discussing the translation of Chinese literary fiction and poetry into English, I will focus on understanding the value-added literary economy that has emerged as a consistent property of the US literary system and how these economic factors impact the translation, publication, and reception of Chinese literature in translation. The US creative writing industry provides aspiring literary writers and readers with the skills they need not only to write publishable literary texts but also and more importantly to earn livelihoods within the US literary system’s “value-added literary labour economy.”2 Within this system, most capital flows take place not in book sales, but in the goods and services associated with “valueadded literary labour,” which refers to the labor committed to “improving upon” other people’s writing. As we will see, there is a direct and systematic link between “literariness” and the kinds of services provided by the value-added literary laborers in the US literary system. While the “value-added literary labour economy” provides a livelihood for most literary fiction authors and poets in the US literary system, in mainland China poets and authors of literary fiction earn a significant percentage of their income from the national, municipal, or provincial branches of the China Writers Association and other state-sponsored arts organizations. In the Chinese literary system, literary actors do not generally earn a living by providing value-added literary labor to other writers such as students or aspirational or professional writers. I hope to show that these distinct market dynamics between China and the United States influence our different concepts of “literariness,” and these differences impact Chinese–English literary translation. By employing an ANTS approach, we can gain a better understanding of exactly how Chinese literariness is renetworked via translation into the US literary system. Because literary actors in the Chinese system are not incentivized to cede authorial power to value-added literary laborers, the notion of ceding authorial power to translation networks (translators, agents, editors, and others) can be perceived as a form of extraterritoriality. This is why the Chinese poet balked at revising his poem in the Iowa workshop. Staple actors within the market-oriented US literary system, such as creative writing programs, literary agents and agencies, editors and commercial presses, have far less agential power in China than they have in the United States. While the state functions as a buffer against the commodification of literariness in the Chinese literary system, it exerts a strong exogenous pressure on content (plot, context, social critique, etc). As a result, the timing of authorial intervention (self-censoring what one writes rather than allowing others to edit or “improve” one’s work after it has been written) suggests a strong bifurcation between where authorial intent lies in the art-making process. In this chapter, then, we will be exploring translation as a negotiation between distinct and in many ways oppositional literary systems, and notions of authorship. My goal is also to show how and why translated literature is often hostile to the epistemological and aesthetic assumptions undergirding the positive assessment economy. Simply put, translators not only lack the agency to alter the fundamental structure of their source texts but also are often empowered by an obligation/opportunity to expose readers to literary works forged within distinct literary systems. To accomplish these goals, I will spend some time introducing terms and concepts drawn from complex systems theory, as it is necessary to explore these exogenous factors at the network scale. When I say “US literary system,” I am referring only to the creation, publication, and reception of so-called literary fiction and poetry, not genre fiction—young adult, fantasy, romance, detective, science fiction, and so on.

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HOW LITERARY NETWORKS ADD VALUE The “Network Turn” in the humanities is characterized by importing terms from complex (adaptive) systems theory to the study of literary or historical topics through the kind of bigdata analysis common in the digital humanities (Ahnert et al. 2021). The CLTA promotes what I call “widely engaged” or “multiscalar” reading, which is very different from both the “close reading” of literary criticism initiated by I. A. Richards in the early twentieth century and the “distant” reading of Moretti.3 By expanding reading to include the drafts, notes, correspondence, contracts, secondary materials, and other translation ephemera—reading texts “widely engaged” with particular translations—scholars based at CLTA are exploring how translations of Chinese literature emerge from distinct historical network structures organized by “degree of node” within the larger US literary system. In complex systems theory a node rests at the intersection of connections, and its “degree of node” accounts for the number of connections, or “edges,” it possesses. In ANTS findings, the distribution of these connections over the whole network complexly affects outcomes, and so the number of connections, or degree of node, is of the utmost importance: it is the measure of the force and value associated with any actor/actant within a complex system. ANTS scholars have noticed a correlation between the reception success of translations conditioned by a higher or lower aggregate degree of node, and this enables them to better understand translation not solely in terms of its linguistic and cultural factors, but as emergent properties of large-scale negotiations constantly taking place between what Ronald Schleifer and I have described as distinct economies of action (Stalling and Schleifer 2021, 24). In our chapter “Unpacking the Mo Yan Archive and ANTS,” Schleifer and I argue that the American literary network system has been utterly transformed by the pervasive effects of US consumer capitalism and how Chinese literature is translated, published, and received in the US literary system (Stalling and Schleifer 2021). We conclude that when a work produced by the modern Chinese literary system is translated into English, it moves from a system that values “quality of personality,” or literary qualities thought to be wholly attributed to a single, autonomous literary actor, to one that values “quality of system,” or qualities associated with the iterative accumulation of value-added literary labor provided by the US literary system. Therefore, Chinese literary fiction must either be “re-networked” into the US system, or else face market consequences (i.e., not find readers or achieve commercial or critical success). Quality of system thus refers to the literary values not derived from the author’s idiosyncrasies (or what Francis Newman called the author’s “peculiarities,” and what I am here referring to as “quality of personality”), but from having traveled through the value-added economic system, a journey indexed by a text’s exemplification of what Schleifer and I call “consensus literary English.” Unlike in China, where the literary economy is primarily supported by the state, most capital flow within the US literary system can be traced to the goods and services provided in the form of value-added literary labor. Simply put, the vast majority of American authors and poets do not earn their living from the active labor of writing books (i.e., from book sales, state funded grants or stipends, or even from reading honoraria that devolve from the production of a literary text), but rather from improving upon and thus adding value to the writing of others—including such work For a recent account of close reading practices see North (2017). For an introduction to distant reading practices see Moretti (2013).

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as teaching, editing, publishing, marketing, designing, and networking/influencing, in short, the labor associated with the creative writing and publishing industries as a whole.4 Generally unable to commodify the active labor of writing books, they are nevertheless able to commodify their laborcapacity to provide value-added literary labor to others. These activities, much like marketing, public relations, and explicit or implicit advertising (e.g., author interviews), constitute a larger “literary filter economy.” The history of the creative writing industry in the United States can be traced back to the later decades of the nineteenth century, when it became popular for American students not only to read and comment upon canonical literary works but also to write and critique their own and each other’s work as well. In 1936, the University of Iowa established a terminal master of fine arts (MFA) degree in creative writing, and by the 1980s such programs had started to grow exponentially. There are now over three hundred creative writing degree programs in the United States, with an annual application rate of over 20,000 new MFAs and 3,000 creative writing PhDs minted every year (see Brady 2017; see Abramson 2018 for a deeper exploration of the state of creative writing). When an MFA graduate leaves their program, they have a more fungible outcome than a book manuscript, they have a validated (credentialed and networked) ability to assess and improve literary works written by others. For most literary actors just entering the US literary system, they can increase their personal degree of node by providing other writers with editorial labor, different from, though networked with, the active labor of writing. Those who are able to leverage personal resources can directly access positive assessment training provided by others in creative writing workshops where aspiring writers are guided through the traditional stages associated with the entrepreneurial process: market research (studying earlier literature and analyzing style, theme, technique, etc.), prototyping (drafting original work), beta testing and feedback looping (writing workshops), iterating (revising and resharing), developing social networks by leveraging one’s ability to provide free value-added literary labor to others, learning how to “pitch,” to communicate the value propositions and productmarket fit of one’s work (crafting proposals for agents/publishers, formulating poetics, discovering community), and finally pivoting or altering prototypes to conform to “consensus literariness” in line with the current market feedback (trends) associated with one’s “channel.” It is important that we do not think of value-added literary labor as merely “revising” another’s writing, but rather that the ability to do so is one important step in a larger process of optimizing product-market fit through evaluative consulting, which includes but is not limited to “revising.” According to Richard Jean So’s big-data analysis, no distinguishing stylistic factors differentiate literary fiction published by those who have graduated from MFA programs from those who have not. This suggests that all literary fiction published in the United States has reached a surprising degree of consensus literariness as a prerequisite for publication. The regulation of consensus literariness is overseen by the negative assessment labor of the publishing industry (So and Piper 2016). Moreover, while most capital flow within the American literary system takes place within the value-added literary ecosystem, these goods and services would not hold value without negative assessment labor, which filters out what does not get published, reviewed, or taught—or read. This negative assessment labor is provided by low degree-of-node slush readers, employed

Whether such “assessment” labor is—or might be—commodified in relation to Marx’s notion of “surplus value” is outside the scope of this chapter.

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to filter out most submissions before it gets to the evaluative desks of agents and editors, to the high degree-of-node negative assessment labor literary agents and editors themselves. Taken as a whole, these institutional sites of review filter out most literary products, fending off the danger of surplus and increasing the need for and importance of value-added literary labor (which is perceived to increase the likelihood of success). Important as it is, however, value-added literary labor and negative assessment labor are not enough to account for the success of literary commodities in the US literary system. While consensus literariness is a precondition, and while that precondition is routinely and evenly reinforced by negative assessment labor, these labor values cannot in themselves account for the exceedingly small percentage of novels and poems published by the top publishing houses in the United States. To account for these numbers, we must take into consideration the network labor value of a literary production, which can be measured by the aggregate degree of node of the actors investing their network status into a work: Who is writing or translating the work? Who is providing the work with value-added literary labor (which writing workshops or translation programs, etc.)? Does a work have a literary agent attached? Who is its editor, and have they personally provided value-added literary labor into the work? Who or what is providing the work with its negative assessment labor? Has the work benefited from competitive grants such as NEA, Guggenheim, PEN, and so on? Did the author write the work while holding a competitive residency or faculty position? Have they received prestigious literary prizes? What literary agency represents the work (this is distinct from the publishing house that is bringing it out)? How is the work being licensed and translated across other media? In each case, the aggregate degree of node of a work’s accumulated value-added literary labor will affect its overall chances of success (finding readers). We can describe the US literary system in shorthand as a “filter economy,” and the primary way to avoid being filtered is to cede authorial power to value-added literary laborers, especially those who enjoy a greater degree of node within the literary system than the author. We can thus summarize the logic of value-chain economics as it manifests in the US literary system as follows:

FIGURE 15.1  Value-chain economics in the US literary system.

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When an English manuscript, as distinct from a translated manuscript, arrives at a large publishing house, publishers can trust that by the time it begins accruing its primary and supporting activities (incurred as overhead), the literary commodity will have already attained quality of system, which relates to the corporate business concept of “quality system” or the mechanisms used to manage and continuously maximize customer satisfaction at the lowest overall cost to the producing organization. Viewed as minor signals networked into the far larger feedback loops of consumerist capitalism, the American literary system (and literary translation, as a minor network within it) can benefit from adopting practices that follow these larger market signals. When a manuscript of a Chinese literary novel translated into English arrives at a publishing house, though, it is unlikely that it will conform to consensus literary English—not only because it is less common for translated texts to have accrued the value-added literary labor of workshops, agents, and editors, but also because translators do not typically imagine that they have the authorial agency to alter the baseline literary mechanics of their source material. In short, a translated text is, almost by definition, allergic to the value-added literary labor of others, and as such it becomes more difficult for translated texts not only to acquire consensus literariness but also and more importantly to accumulate the same degree of node as their anglophone counterparts. I argue that this has been a major obstacle for the success of translated Chinese literature in English.

TRANSLATION AS NEGOTIATIONS BETWEEN LITERARY SYSTEMS The Chinese published source materials whose translations are being studied and archived at CLTA—mostly late twentieth-century Chinese literary works—arrive in the United States from a Chinese literary system considerably different from our own. An author such as Mo Yan writes a novel and submits it to a press for publication, and after censors check the text for acceptability, it will go through only a light copyediting process before being sold to readers. No alterations are made to the literary text after it has been written to improve its “product-market fit,” since authors are not incentivized to cede authorial power to the kinds of “value-added literary laborers” we see in the US system. “Literariness” in the Chinese literary system, at least since the time of Chairman Mao’s Yan’an talks,5 has been shaped by the state-sponsored literary system’s regularly convened committees wherein members discuss literary matters as a subset of larger sociological debates. How should writers balance literary originality with the historical obligations to be a “carrier of moral values,” “resist vulgarism,” and so on? Such meetings take place at the highest national level (including at the Central Committee of the Communist Party of China [CCCPC] 中国共产党中央委员会) all the way down through provincial and municipal chapters of the China Writers Association and other similar state-sponsored organizations that provide poets, authors, and many critics with salaries, housing, and travel stipends.6 It would be Mao Zedong’s speeches delivered at “The Yan’an Forum on Literature and Art” 延安文艺座谈会, which was held in May 1942 at the city of Yan’an, were later edited and published as “Talks at the Yan’an Forum on Literature and Art” 在延安文 艺座谈会上的讲话. They can be read in Bonnie McDougall’s translation in their entirety in McDougall (1980). 6 See “A Theoretical Guidance to Vigorous Development and Prosperity of Literature and Art: Comments on the Decision of the Sixth Plenary Session of the Seventeenth CPC Central Committee and the Talk by Hu Jintao” in “Yingwen zhaiyao” (2012). 5

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an oversimplification to see these discussions as determinative of literariness in China’s literary system, but when compared to the market-infused qualities associated with literariness in the US system, we can see that the two systems are not converging—and they are unlikely to do so any time soon. Despite the large-scale collaborative intellectual and cultural productions between American and Chinese culture industries and institutions of higher education in the last decade (2010–2020), which saw the establishment in particular of US university campuses in China and many Hollywood and gaming partnerships, the dominant assumptions of the neoliberal globalization that undergirded these projects have stalled and now appear to be retreating.7 With only a small number of recently minted Chinese Creative Writing MFAs, it is clear that China will not be in a position to produce its own value-added literary labor force for at least another decade, but the rise of a market-centered “filter economy” similar to that of the United States may not be in China’s near future given the recent push to reduce market influences in the tech and culture industry more generally. For this reason and others, literary translation should be seen as a rare moment when Chinese and English literary systems interact and inform one another and thus must be understood as essential cultural labor.

CLTA ANTS SCHOLARSHIP In this section I will detail some of the work done by ANTS scholars. Yan Jia 鄢佳 (at CLTA from 2017–2018) describes Goldblatt’s early translations of Mo Yan by following the process of Mo Yan’s second book in English, The Garlic Ballads 天堂蒜薹之歌 (Yan and Du 2020). She points to the relationship between Mo Yan’s literary agent Sandra Dijkstra and the editors at Penguin, Nan Graham and Courtney Hodell, who were responsible for the editing and publishing of Goldblatt’s early Mo Yan translations. Citing passages from letters demonstrating the kinds of value-added literary labor Dijkstra, Graham, and Hodell provided as Mo Yan’s novels were renetworked to fit the US literary system, Yan argues that the revisions create a multitranslatorship, even multiauthorship of The Garlic Ballads in English.

It is difficult to know how the still nascent creative writing industry in China will fair under a stronger state presence across all Chinese cultural industries. The MFA programs that sprouted in Beijing (Beijing Normal University, Renmin University) and Shanghai headed up by A-list writers such as Mo Yan 莫言 (1955–), Yan Lianke 阎连科 (1958–), and Wang Anyi 王安忆 (1954–), and a few programs in Hong Kong and Guangzhou, are still in their infancy. Bi Feiyu 毕飞宇 (1964–), a well-known novelist and the chairman of the Jiangsu Writers Association, holds a regular “Novel Salon” at Nanjing University, where he and other writers and critics offer a public critique of a novel manuscript by younger or unpublished authors. While not a workshop in the sense that we see in the US literary system (where peers offer specific feedback aimed at helping a writer revise a manuscript), the Nanjing salons offer a rare opportunity for younger authors to receive formal criticism from more established writers. The public record of the salons also offers an interesting mix of formal critiques based on character development, plot, and language use as well as social or ideological commentary on the themes, tone, and depiction of Chinese society. While these Novel Salons focus almost entirely on critiquing a manuscript’s formal qualities, one can also get a glimpse of how workshop participants function as an extension of the state censorium, as comments and suggestions point to the need to “improve” the tone to better reflect the party’s ideological priorities. For instance, in a recent salon, Xu Xiaohua 徐晓华 (Xinghua Bi Feiyu Studio 2020), the Deputy Director of the Creative Office of the Jiangsu Writers Association, critiqued the manuscript’s negative depiction of Chinese Society and encouraged the author to make revisions: “The overall tone of the novel is negative. I wish that the author could see more positive things and reflect social issues, and at the same time, the tone of the work should really be brighter” 小说的整体调子是负面的,我希望作者能够看到一些正面的东西,反映 社会问题的同时,作品的基调还是要明亮一点. See Xinghua Bi Feiyu Studio (2020). 7

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Their comments are commonplace within the US literary publication industry but are striking as they reveal how much agential power English editors hold in relation not only to translators but also over the source texts themselves, which have already been published and have established positive critical reception within the Chinese literary system: The biggest issue came with the end of the manuscript. Nan and I both felt that it didn’t have the same power as the rest of the novel; Mo Yan seems to lay down all the threads he’s tied together so carefully, and relies on the trick of the courtroom speech and newspaper article to make a tidy conclusion. … Let the characters show us what to feel, instead of having a speech tell us.8 The value-added literary labor taking place here (“show don’t tell”) is not meant to improve upon Goldblatt’s translations; rather, they are hoping to improve upon the source text on which the translations rely. The editors sized up Mo Yan’s novel, as they have sized up hundreds of novels before him, and they found it lacking in terms of its final degree of consensus literariness. Given that in the US literary system their degree of node as editors and as a press is greater than that of the translator or author—in short, they are more powerful—they pushed Mo Yan to rewrite the ending of his novel. Mo Yan did this, and in his correspondence with Goldblatt he revealed he was grateful for their value-added literary labor, even preferring the new ending to the previously published version. Fortunately for Mo Yan, the powerhouse team of his agent and editors helped launch his career in English by increasing his degree of node as well. As Zhang Wenqian 张文倩 (visiting scholar during spring/summer 2018) argues, the translation network is a site of struggle, in which each agent invests various forms of capital according to their understanding of the logic of the field, to compete for power and resources (Zhang 2019). The methodological approaches of all three of these scholars not only challenge previous studies of Goldblatt’s translations by pointing to the interplay of actors in the larger network structure from which his published translations emerge, they demonstrate that at present Chinese–English translations will be defined by such struggles between their different literary systems.

MOVING FORWARD As we begin to think of translation not as negotiation between languages or cultures alone, but between actors networked across distinct and often opposing literary systems, we begin to see something of the distinct challenges that face Chinese literature in English translation. Yet we also learn something about how both the current capitalist US literary system and the modern Chinese state-centered system reduce the agential power of authors and translators in different ways. It may come as something of a shock when we realize that the value-added literary economy that shapes US notions of authorship is radically collaborative and collective, while in the state-patronage Chinese literary system authorship remains stridently individualistic. This is the case despite censorship, insofar as that loss of authorial power is less perceptible in the post-compositional agency of the publishing industry. As an actor in the American literary system, Mo Yan had a low degree of node May 5, 1994, letter from Courtney Hodell to Howard Goldblatt, Series 1, Box 7, Folder 2, Howard Goldblatt Collection, University of Oklahoma Libraries, Norman, Oklahoma.

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and submitted his authorial power to the value-added literary economy, yet in the Chinese literary system he could famously tell his editors “not to touch a word” 只字不改 of his 500-page《生死 疲劳》(Life and Death Are Wearing Me Out), written by hand in just a matter of weeks. And they obeyed him! And due to the fact that most translators refrain from “improving” their source texts, readers of Chinese literature in English translation are exposed to just such unedited work.9 Such performative individualism has become something of its own value proposition for Mo Yan in China, not unlike Jack Kerouac’s spontaneous composition of On the Road. The difference is that Kerouac, with his “Benzedrine-fueled writing style”—which he called “Self Ultimacy”—was seen as a rebel outlier, resisting the reader-consumer orientation of literary production. While Chinese authors’ sense of authorial autonomy may not be couched as a critique of consumerist capitalism, their hold to similar romantic notions of genius, authorial intent, and expressivism is emboldened by their greater agential power vis-à-vis editors, agents, or creative writing teachers/ workshop participants found at every level of the US literary system. Of course, what also seems clear is that Chinese poets and authors of literary fiction will also feel a need to reconcile their creativity with the pervasive commitment to the sociological function of literature prioritized by state funding agencies.10 So it is fairly clear that while authorial agency in both systems is highly constricted by the centrality of market and state pressures, the explicit nature of state censorship in China makes it difficult for Western readers to see the exogenous constraints at work within the US literary system. I hope that the Mo Yan example can show the reversal of the heuristic dichotomies of “individualism” vs “collectivism” in the case of his authorial power and reveal the spurious nature of hard and fast East/West dichotomies. Again, the multiscalar nature of ANTS forces us to question and hopefully do away with stubbornly monolithic heuristics that permeate discussions of comparative literature and poetics.

REFERENCES Abramson, Seth. 2018. The Insider’s Guide to Graduate Degrees in Creative Writing. New York: Bloomsbury Academic. Ahnert, Ruth, Sebastian E. Ahnert, Catherine Nicole Coleman, and Scott B. Weingart, eds. 2021. The Network Turn: Changing Perspectives in the Humanities. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Brady, Amy A. 2017. “MFA by the Numbers, on the Eve of AWP.” Lit Hub, February 8. Available online: https://lithub.com/mfa-by-the-numbers-on-the-eve-of-awp (accessed April 21, 2023). Inwood, Heather. 2011. “Between License and Responsibility: Reexamining the Role of the Poet in Twenty-First Century Chinese Society.” Chinese Literature Today 1 (2): 49–55. McDougall, Bonnie S., trans. 1980. Mao Zedong’s “Talks at the Yan’an Conference on Literature and Art”: A Translation of the 1943 Text with Commentary. Ann Arbor: Centre for Chinese Studies, the University of Michigan. Available online: https://library.oapen.org/bitstream/ handle/20.500.12657/41559/9780472901333.pdf?sequence=1 (accessed April 21, 2023).

In later works like Life and Death Are Wearing Me Out, Goldblatt did not work as closely with agents and editors as he had in the case of Mo Yan’s first two works, Red Sorgum, and The Garlic Ballads. 10 The role of sociological commentary in poetry lies at the heart of Chinese poetry “turf wars” not only between the official (state-networked and funded) and unofficial (less state-oriented and funded) poets, but more generally between those who espouse some form of “art for art’s sake” vs those who support “art for society’s sake.” See Inwood (2011, 49–55). 9

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McGurl, Mark. 2011. The Program Era: Postwar Fiction and the Rise of Creative Writing. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Moretti, Frank. 2013. Distant Reading. New York: Verso. North, Joseph. 2017. Literary Criticism: A Concise History. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Seidman, Steven. 2016. Contested Knowledge: Social Theory Today. Chichester: John Wiley and Sons. So, Richard Jean, and Andrew Piper. 2016. “How Has the MFA Changed the Contemporary Novel?” Atlantic, March 6. Available online: https://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2016/03/mfacreative-writing/462483/ (accessed April 21, 2023). Stalling, Jonathan, and Ronald Schleifer. 2021. “Unpacking the Mo Yan Archive: Actor-Network Translation Studies and The Chinese Literature Translation Archive.” In A Century of Chinese Literature in Translation (1919–2019), edited by Leah Gerber and Lintao Qi, 23–40. Abingdon: Routledge. Xinghua Bi Feiyu Studio. 2020. “Novel Novel Salon No.18 | “‘Good novels are cut out’.” Tencent, January 6. Available online: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/j5XVKPkm6HS1dVWU1HOw3A (accessed April 28, 2023). Yan, Jia, and Juan Du. 2020. “Multiple Authorship of Translated Literary Works: A Study of Some Chinese Novels in American Publishing Industry.” Translation Review 106 (1): 15–34. “Yingwen zhaiyao.” 2012.《汕头大学学报:人文社会科学版》[Journal of Shantou University: Humanities and Social Sciences] 28 (2): 94–6. Zhang, Wenqian. 2019. “Translation Networks and Power: An Archival Research on the English Translation of Mo Yan’s The Garlic Ballads.” New Voices in Translation Studies (20): 185–205.

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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Chinese Crime Fiction in Translation: The International Circulation of a Peripheral Macro-Genre PAOLO MAGAGNIN

INTRODUCTION This chapter explores the dynamics of the transnational circulation of contemporary Chinese crime fiction (henceforth, CF)1 in translation, by adopting a sociological perspective. As a typical form of cultural transfer, translation can be construed as a social process in which a number of heterogeneous agencies engage in complex interplay within a given translation field. More specifically, the sociology of translation addresses translation as “a social activity involving agents (such as authors, translators, editors, critics, literary agents, and government officials) and institutions (such as translation schools, literary and academic journals, publishing houses, translation prizes, and professional associations)” (Sapiro 2014, 82). Interconnectedness, collectiveness, and relationality are key conceptual tools in understanding translation production as seen from this angle. These features are inherent in the relationship between the various translational subjects involved and constitute the very precondition for the social process of translation: indeed, as Kinnunen and Koskinen stress, “agency is less a property than a relational effect of social interaction” (2010, 9). Drawing on Bourdieu’s theory of cultural action, Gouanvic underscores that a sociological approach to translation entails a “sociology of the text as a production in the process of being carried out, of the product itself and of its consumption in the social fields, the whole seen in a relational manner” (2005, 148).

Following the conventions generally adopted in English-language scholarship, here the genre—or macro-genre—of CF is understood as an umbrella label encompassing, in the broadest possible sense, a multiplicity of diverse subgenres and narratives whose plot revolves around a criminal act and possibly its investigation: detective stories, espionage fiction, murder mysteries, thrillers, noir novels, police procedurals, and so on. Likewise, when I refer to CF in the Chinese context, I include the various subgenres that both the scholarship and the market refer to through such labels as detective fiction (zhentan xiaoshuo 侦探小说 or tuili xiaoshuo 推理小说), spy story (jiandie xiaoshuo 间谍小说 or diezhan xiaoshuo 谍战小说), thriller (jingxian xiaoshuo 惊险小说), and mystery fiction (xuanyi xiaoshuo 悬疑小说).

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While Bourdieu’s theory—particularly through its concepts of habitus, field, and capital—has been widely adopted as a tool for investigating translation as a socially driven activity (Simeoni 1998; Gouanvic 2005), attempts have also been made to expand and improve his theoretical framework. For example, to overcome Bourdieu’s exclusive focus on individual human agents (chiefly the translators), which overlooks the multiple agencies, both human and nonhuman, involved in the process of translation production, some translation scholars have supplemented it with Latour’s actor-network theory (ANT) (Buzelin 2005; Kung 2015). By emphasizing how “the translation process involves a multiplicity of mediators” (Buzelin 2005, 212), the ANT framework can be useful to construe translation production as the result of complex interactive and collective relationships between the various translating agencies, each characterized by an inherent “networky” nature (216). The sociology of translation is thus called to address a set of aspects related to the transnational circulation of cultural products. Firstly, it is necessary to consider the structure of the field of international cultural exchanges, which entails the unbalanced power relations existing between nation-states and their languages. Such power relations are typically political, economic, and cultural, encompassing the relations between linguistic communities and “the symbolic capital accumulated by different countries within the relevant field of cultural production” (Casanova 1999 in Heilbron and Sapiro 2007, 95). Cultural exchanges exemplified by translation flows “should then be re-situated in a transnational field characterised by the power relations among national states, their languages, and their literatures” (Heilbron and Sapiro 2007, 95). Secondly, the constraints that influence cultural exchanges must be identified and assessed. Historically, such constraints were—and to a certain extent, still are—observable between the two extreme poles of politicization and commercialization. Indeed, even within a certain degree of independence from both the state and the market, transnational relations are increasingly based on power relations linked to the unbalanced distribution of symbolic capital—meaning, in the case of literature, linguistic, and literary capital. Moreover, the shift toward an opposition between the large-scale and small-scale circulation of cultural products is another consequence of the globalization of the book market. The driving force of large-scale circulation, best exemplified by the making and dissemination of global bestsellers, is the quest for immediate profitability. The logic behind small-scale circulation, on the other hand, is shaped by “cultural” criteria—for example, the desire for peer recognition and the stress on the literary and intellectual value of works—rather than by commercial success. Unsurprisingly, the space of small-scale production often resorts to publishing and translation subsidies (98–100). Thirdly, the sociology of translation pays attention to the nature and role of the agents involved in the intermediation process, as well as to the mechanisms of reception in the target national environment. In many cases, official organizations (such as governmental bodies and state-sponsored professional associations) play an active role in promoting cultural exports. However, the declining decision-making influence of official circles has resulted in an increasing power of publishers, who autonomously seek support from literary agents and other independent individuals and professionals: therefore, the role of authors, translators, critics, and scholars must also be taken into consideration. The structure of the space of reception entails a set of further aspects, including the appropriation and reinterpretation of translated texts based on the intellectual norms of the receiving culture (which notably entail different categorizations of literary genres), the vision of translation as a tool for legitimation and consecration (whose beneficiaries

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may be authors, translators, and publishers), and the role of translation as a tool for creating or validating collective identities (101–04). In the following sections, I will focus on the process of production of translated Chinese CF by adopting the general framework provided by Heilbron and Sapiro (2007), complemented by the approach proposed by Kung (2015), based on Bourdieu’s notion of capital and Latour’s ANT. Firstly, I will attempt to describe the general features of the international field of Chinese CF, of the translation flow of this macro-genre, and of its space(s) of reception. I will then focus on two case studies: the translation of works by contemporary authors Mai Jia 麦家 (1964–) and Xiao Bai 小白 (1968–). In doing so, I will attempt to identify the agents involved in the “subvention network” (Kung 2015, 394) behind the production of their translations, their identity in terms of symbolic capital, and the role they play in the process. I will ultimately try to describe the network of relations at play in these specific instances of cultural transfer, as well as the constraints and drives that influenced the latter.

THE INTERNATIONAL SPACE OF CONTEMPORARY CHINESE CF Having achieved a prominent status in terms of global popularity, scholarly attention, and geographic articulations, CF is now “a significant participant in the international sphere of world literature” (Nilsson, Damrosch, and D’haen 2017, 2), as well as “a powerful catalyst of global imagination,” thanks to its wide availability and capability of moving across borders and languages, and “a vehicle for cultural exchange in the broadest of senses” (Sulis 2019, 11). Moreover, being generally characterized by recognizable narrative strategies and tropes, combined with an inherent “outward internationality” (Erdmann 2009, 16), crime stories are often supposed to be received in a relatively straightforward fashion by global audiences through translation (Seago and Lei 2014). Because of this, and its being a popular, porous, and flexible genre, CF “provides a particularly rewarding corpus for the study of cultural mediation” (Anderson 2016, 221). Moreover, although CF is still generally understood as a Western form and critically construed according to Western categories (Gulddal and King 2020, 18), a twofold shift is becoming increasingly visible. On the one hand, CF is being reinterpreted “as a motley and spacious genre defined by hybridity and mobility rather than adherence to rules”; on the other hand, a change is “occurring as a result of the internationalisation of the crime fiction universe, which results in new amalgamations of established (Western) crime fiction tropes and literary traditions outside the traditional focal points of crime fiction in the UK, the US and France” (13). In the Euro-American context, despite a persisting distinction between highbrow and lowbrow literature in certain circles, and the fact that this genre is still far from having achieved an undisputed canonization, CF has become capable of generating literary respectability and of attaining an increasingly high degree of cultural prestige (Sandberg 2020). From the point of view of its commercialization and consumption, it is also one of the most popular genres in the international book market, with works of CF featuring repeatedly and conspicuously in the bestseller lists of the largest national markets (Stinson 2020). Possibly as a partial consequence of these factors, recently, we have also witnessed a boom in Euro-American scholarship on CF.

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The position of CF in China is somewhat less prominent. Crime writing tropes are found in court case literature (gong’an xiaoshuo 公案小说), a respected native model of the imperial era, and detective stories appropriating Western models also emerged at the turn of the twentieth century—the “golden age” of the Chinese detective novel.2 After having been long disregarded for ideological reasons in the Mao era, only in the late 1970s did the genre resurface in terms of both critical attention and consumption. Local models also developed in this period, as exemplified by the legal system novel (gong’an fazhi xiaoshuo 公安法制小说) and the anti-corruption novel (fanfubai xiaoshuo 反腐败小说) in the 1980s and 1990s (Kinkley 2000, 2007). However, despite the growing domestic popularity of a small number of local crime writers, Chinese bestseller lists do not usually feature domestic works of CF, whereas foreign authors and other forms of native popular fiction seem to enjoy greater commercial recognition. For instance, the July 2021 bestseller list includes books by popular Japanese crime writer Higashino Keigo 東野圭 吾 (1958–) and celebrated sci-fi author Liu Cixin 刘慈欣 (1963–) (Openbook 2021), a fact that seems to substantiate previous findings (Stinson 2020, 41). The general lack of credit suffered by the genre is reflected in the academic field. Somewhat unsurprisingly, in Chinese-language handbooks of contemporary literature, CF is either absent altogether (Fan 2010; Hong 2010) or only mentioned in passing (Chen 2013, 526). Perhaps more interestingly, even studies on contemporary popular fiction touching on CF only focus on the legal system novel (Tang 2007, 2013), dismissing other local articulations. Moreover, many Chinese scholars still prefer to focus on the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries (Tang 1999; Wei 2020). Nevertheless, a significant body of Chinese-language scholarship has emerged over the last decade that examines local developments in contemporary CF writing (Tang 2011; Xie 2012; Ren and Gao 2013; Peng 2017). In relatively recent times, Chinese CF seems to have gained greater international visibility thanks to a small but growing flow of translations. Undoubtedly, this mounting interest in the genre is a by-product of the attention that the global book market has been devoting to Chinese literature as a whole. This attention is driven not only by political and economic considerations— the rise of China as a superpower—but also, and primarily, by the expanding cultural prestige of Chinese literature, especially after Mo Yan 莫言 (1955–) was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2012. Indeed, the production and translation of Chinese literature seem to operate essentially through the accumulation of symbolic capital (Wang 2017). Since the 2000s, this has resulted in more Chinese works of literature—including CF—entering foreign book markets, albeit in a limited and generally unsystematic way. Unsurprisingly, larger markets (notably the UK, the US, and France), thanks to the centrality of their respective national languages, continue to act as key intermediaries. The biggest publishing groups continue to take the lion’s share,

Interestingly enough, court case literature was one of the first forms of Chinese detective fiction—if not the very first one—to be introduced to foreign readers in translation, thanks to Dutch sinologist and diplomat Robert Hans van Gulik (1910–1967). In 1949, van Gulik published a partial English translation of the eighteenth-century novel《狄公案》(Cases of Judge Di) under the title Celebrated Cases of Judge Dee (Dee Goong An), and later went on to write his own original stories inspired by Chinese court case fiction. Van Gulik’s creative translation and his rewritings, which attempt to preserve the key elements of the Chinese literary model while at the same time trying to conform to the narrative modes of Western detective fiction, are a unique example of transnational circulation of Chinese CF, as well as an inspiring instance of cultural hybridization (Hao 2016; Chen 2020).

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especially in the Anglosphere, essentially working in accordance with the principles of large-scale circulation. Thanks to their central position in the world system of translations, these mediators ensure both the reception of works written in languages that are peripheral to the international market (including Chinese3) and the subsequent proliferation of new translations into other peripheral languages (Heilbron and Sapiro 2007, 96), either directly from the original Chinese or from the vehicular central language. Official Chinese organizations and programs, such as Chinese Culture Translation and Studies Support Network (under the aegis of the Ministry of Culture), as well as big state-owned publishing groups and cultural enterprises, also play a major role in supporting, promoting, and funding literary translation projects outside China as a form of cultural diplomacy (Jiang 2021). One typical strategy consists in submitting selected lists of recommended works by Chinese writers—although these lists are almost invariably inaccessible to genre literature—to prominent foreign publishers so as to multiply the number of translations available with the prospect of financial support (subject to approval) by the Chinese side. It must be noted that the results of these efforts do not necessarily meet patrons’ expectations (Yao 2016). The international circulation of translated Chinese CF is largely aligned with these general trends—the main difference being the smaller volume of titles compared to non-genre literature— although a few peculiarities can be pointed out. The fact that official Chinese bodies and other professional organizations have recently started to include CF authors in their promotion programs marks a significant turning point. For example, agreements are being discussed in the Italian publishing field for governmental subsidies for the translation of He Jiahong’s 何家 弘 Hong Jun detective novel series.4 This could be an effect of the growing recognition of the commercial potential of the genre, which may in turn reflect an improved recognition of CF, and of popular fiction in general, by the officialdom. A testament to this shift is the inclusion of Mai Jia’s《暗算》(In the Dark; 2003) in a seventy-book box set celebrating the seventieth anniversary of the founding of the People’s Republic of China in 2019.5 Nevertheless, the international circulation of CF titles has often functioned outside these dynamics. Foreign publishers—in the person of their editors, series directors, and so on—are increasingly bypassing official channels and turning to literary agents, scholars (many of them literary translators themselves), and other professionals acting as consultants (Heilbron and Sapiro 2007, 101). Sometimes, translators can also become actors in the mediation process. A major resource for potential agents of mediation is also provided by online journals devoted to world literature in translation, such as Asymptote or Words Without Borders, or by independent platforms promoting the translation of contemporary Chinese literature, such as Paper Republic, operated by a collective of foreign translators and other professionals in the field.

By saying that works in Chinese remain peripheral to the international market, I suggest that, while the market for Chineselanguage works is considerably important both domestically and in comparison to other markets, the ability of such works to exert influence and attraction on central markets, hence their international visibility and status, remains limited. 4 Some of the examples presented in this section (under no pretense of universality whatsoever) come from my own decadelong experience in the Italian publishing field, as a Chinese literature consultant for a number of publishing houses and groups, and a member of the scientific committee for several book collections, as well as a scholar and a literary translator. 5 Significantly enough, the collection also includes Zhang Ping’s 张平 anti-corruption novel《抉择》(The Choice; 1997) and Liu Cixin’s《三体》(The Three-Body Problem; 2008), a testament to the improved recognition of genre literature in the Chinese literary field. 3

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If we further focus on “the structure of the space of reception” (Heilbronn and Sapiro 2007, 102), we will notice that smaller, independent publishers are also emerging as mediators actively working to strengthen their own symbolic capital—without dismissing profitability altogether—by introducing Chinese works of CF into their catalog, based on the logic of small-scale circulation of cultural products. The French translation of the five-book Hong Jun crime series by He Jiahong, published by Éditions de l’Aube between 2002 and 2013, is an exemplary case. An independent publisher having already accumulated a certain prestige by publishing French-Chinese author Gao Xingjian’s 高行健 (1940–) works before he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2000, Éditions de l’Aube was able to include his complete pentalogy in its “Aube noire” CF collection. Another example is the London-based independent publisher Head of Zeus (now part of Bloomsbury Publishing, also an independent subject) reprinting top-selling works of Chinese genre fiction in the UK—notably Liu Cixin’s sci-fi books, originally published in English by Tor Books in the US, among others—and issuing new titles of CF, including Mai Jia’s The Message (2020). By doing so, both publishers have reinforced their own position as actors with an international vision in their respective national publishing fields; at the same time, they were able to amplify the interest in certain CF authors and works, which resulted in further translations in other languages. Another crucial issue to be addressed regarding the space of reception is genre. Chinese CF is by no means a stranger to the current shift toward narrative and thematic “hybridity and mobility rather than adherence to rules” (Gulddal and King 2020, 13). However, “individual works and authors are also commonly referred to in both reviews and marketing or library materials in terms that attempt to align them with pre-existing categories” (Anderson 2016, 221). While some scholars see CF as “highly culturally specific” (Seago 2020, 91), other critics praise it—along with other forms of genre fiction—for its potential to overcome some of the long-standing obstacles that still prevent Chinese literature from being fully appreciated by foreign readers, as it is “devoid of excessive detail on Chinese culture and history,” is “already popular in Western countries,” and has “themes with universal appeal” (Yao 2016). This push toward recognizability has clear benefits when it comes to marketing new Chinese titles; nevertheless, the perception of universality often leads publishers to establish debatable associations, which in turn, can create or reinforce misunderstandings and misrepresentations. The problem of translation from a third language deserves a few final considerations. Although it is far from having been abandoned altogether, since it is still tolerated (if not encouraged) by some publishers and editors, especially in peripheral national contexts, the practice of indirect translation can have a variety of explanations: the prospect of completing a translation within a shorter time and at a lower cost than what a translation from the original language would require; the high status and cultural prestige of the language of the translation used as a new source text; the reputation and prestige of the first translator; the “seal of guarantee” associated with a translation that has already proved commercially successful in its national market; and so on. In recent times, this practice has become increasingly visible in the field of Chinese CF, the most striking example being the case of Mai Jia’s Decoded (2014a), which will be examined in the next section. A convenient strategy for publishers, indirect translation strengthens the centrality of the vehicular language—typically English—often obscuring the linguistic and cultural specificity of the original language. It can also reinforce the centrality of the vehicular market and “canonize” strategies and approaches generally adopted by dominant linguistic or national communities in the fields of translation and publishing.

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CIRCULATION TRAJECTORIES FOR CHINESE CF IN TRANSLATION The Accidental Canonization of a Spy Novel: Mai Jia The process that led Mai Jia to publish his first novel《解密》(Decoded; 2002) was a rather bumpy one. Indeed, the manuscript was rejected multiple times because of its sensitive themes and the suspicion that it disclosed national secrets (the author himself had long served in the army), before finally finding a publisher—the Beijing-based Zhongguo qingnian chubanshe 中国青年出版社, best known for its educational materials rather than its literary publications. However, Decoded quickly became a commercial sensation: following this initial success, Mai Jia published several other novels, including In the Dark (2003) and《风声》(The Message; 2009), several of which have been adapted into successful TV series and films. The key moment in the writer’s career occurred in 2008, when In the Dark was awarded the Mao Dun Literary Prize, the most prestigious Chinese award for highbrow literature. This was undoubtedly instrumental in ensuring the inclusion of In the Dark in the Collection of 70 Novels for the 70 Years of New China in 2019, a milestone that sealed Mai Jia’s official domestic consecration as a serious writer. The first step toward international recognition was the relationship that Olivia Milburn—one of the two British sinologists who would later translate Decoded and In the Dark, the other being Christopher Payne—proactively established with Mai Jia’s agent in the early 2010s. Indeed, the crucial role played by Tan Guanglei 谭光磊 (also known as Gray Tan)—the founder and president of the Taipei-based Grayhawk Agency, one of Asia’s top literary agencies, which has managed Mai Jia’s overseas copyright since 2009—in facilitating the early stage of the process has been repeatedly underscored (Teng and Zuo 2018; Yao 2020). Thanks to these joint efforts, Milburn and Payne’s translation of Decoded was published by Allen Lane (an imprint of Penguin) in the UK, and by FSG (a division of Macmillan) in the US, in March 2014. In May of the following year, Decoded was included in the illustrious “Penguin Classics” collection, thus making Mai Jia the first contemporary Chinese writer to be granted this distinction. The protagonist of the story, spanning several decades in China’s recent history, is a genius cryptographer with a tragic personal past who, after being approached by the top-secret counterespionage agency Unit 701, is assigned a codebreaking task that will eventually take a fatal toll on his sanity. The selection of the novel by the Penguin Group, one of the largest and most influential publishing companies in the world, arguably paved the way for its favorable reception in the English-speaking world—and beyond. Indeed, the general critical praise earned by Decoded, as well as its unprecedented commercial success, granted the novel a global status barely accessible to contemporary Chinese literature and played a key role in its canonization in the Anglosphere. Moreover, the publication of the English version spawned a wave of translations in over thirty other languages (Qian 2017; Wang and Sun 2020, 1–2). Following the success of Decoded, Milburn and Payne’s English translation of In the Dark, which comprises four autonomous stories again revolving around Unit 701, was published by Penguin in 2015 (Mai 2015a). In 2020, Milburn’s translation of the third book of the spy fiction trilogy, The Message, set at the time of the SinoJapanese War, was made available by the emerging publishing house Head of Zeus (Mai 2020). The success of Decoded has been attributed to a combination of factors: rich Chinese cultural connotations appealing to Western readers (Miao and Wang 2018; Wang and Sun 2020), a

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marketing strategy aimed at highlighting Mai Jia’s standing as a skilled spy fiction author, and the quality of the English translation (Wang and Sun 2020). The Decoded phenomenon sparked a significant interest in Chinese literary, academic, and publishing circles, producing an enormous body of scholarship and criticism. Scholars and professionals alike almost invariably stress its importance for Chinese literature’s general strategy of “going global” and becoming more visible internationally (Teng and Zuo 2018), although others take a more cautious stance by speaking of “pseudo-canonisation” (Qian and Zhang 2020). In 2018, Milburn was awarded the governmentsponsored Special Book Award of China for her merits as a translator of Chinese literature and a promoter of Sino-foreign cultural exchanges. From the translator’s point of view, this award marked a momentous turning point in the accumulation of symbolic power. As a recent achievement of the complex network of agents working for Mai Jia’s recognition, the writer held the very first position in a list of recommended authors in a promotional booklet for the 2020 Frankfurt Book Fair, coming before other respected writers of serious literature (Chinese Publishers 2020). The issue of the perceived genre of the novel, closely linked to its position within the literary field, is indeed noteworthy from the perspective of its international circulation. The narrative, themes, and construction of Decoded transcend the boundaries of spy fiction, as Chinese critics often point out (Bai 2014; Lee 2017). Interestingly enough, the author himself has repeatedly refused to be associated with the genre (Gao 2018).6 While Decoded holds a relatively marginal position in the domestic field (Qian 2017, 296), In the Dark enjoys a higher critical status as a work of serious rather than genre literature, consecrated by the Mao Dun Literature Prize. Conversely, in a reception space where genre literature holds a less marginal position, Decoded and In the Dark have been regularly marketed as spy thrillers, albeit high-quality ones, and Mai Jia has been presented in turn as “the Chinese Dan Brown” and as “China’s answer to John Le Carré”—the latter a blurb now prominently featured on the very cover of the English translations of both novels. After the success of Decoded, however, the translation of In the Dark seemingly failed to repeat the success of its predecessor both in terms of critical reception and of resonance (as witnessed by the limited number of subsequent translations of the latter work), a further testament to the impossibility of duplicating literary value transnationally. Some brief remarks must be made regarding the translation of Mai Jia’s books into other European languages—but this is not a unique example. It is interesting to observe that, while some translations (French, German, Danish, Russian, etc.) were made from the original by wellestablished translators of Chinese, others (the Italian, Spanish, Catalan, and Dutch ones, to name but a few) are indirect translations from the English version made by translators of Englishlanguage fiction. For example, the Spanish edition of Decoded (Mai 2014b) was published in the same year as the English one by Destino, hardly a publisher specializing in CF, in Claudia Conde’s translation. Conde is a respected and prolific translator of Anglo-American genre literature who has translated books by Dan Brown and John Le Carré, among others—a factor that probably played a significant role in her selection by the publisher. Similarly, the Italian edition published by Marsilio (Mai 2016)—a medium-sized publishing house that has acquired a certain amount of economic and symbolic capital by publishing Nordic noirs since the late 2000s—was translated by Fabio

Perhaps not incidentally, with his latest best-selling novel《人生海海》(The Sea of Life; 2019), Mai Jia has forsaken genre literature altogether, moving into the realm of unmistakably “pure” literature.

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Zucchella, also the Italian translator of almost all the chapters in Qiu Xiaolong’s Inspector Chen series, as well as of Qiu’s other nonfiction books, all published by Marsilio. Curiously enough, the title chosen for the Italian translation of Decoded—Il fatale talento del signor Rong (Mr Rong’s Fateful Talent)—closely imitates that of the German edition published the year before (Mai 2015b). From a translational point of view, these operations reflect the perception of the higher status of the English translation—linked to the symbolic capital associated with the central language, to the value of the translation, or both—by the peripheral markets of Spain and Italy. At the same time, these translations betray a tendency to downplay the linguistic and cultural specificity of the original. Secondly, from a publishing perspective, they confirm the long-standing dominance of the anglophone market—but other markets also seem to exert a certain influence—as a major reference point and benchmark for marketing choices. The Revenge of the Periphery: Xiao Bai Although some of the processes at play are in line with the dynamics already discussed above, the international dissemination of Xiao Bai’s《租借》(The Concession; 2011) followed a significantly distinct trajectory. The novel, set in 1931 in semi-colonial Shanghai, revolves around the investigation of the murder of a top government official, which soon focuses on a revolutionary cell bent on spreading terror throughout the city. The project of an Italian translation was undertaken in 2011 by Sellerio—a Palermo-based small to medium-sized but respected publisher with a significant CF collection, whose repute is largely due to Andrea Camilleri’s mystery novels—as an experiment, one of the first steps in a prospective expansion of the catalog to include more works of Chinese modern and contemporary fiction. The two editors behind the project had actively established connections with China-based literary agents and specialists involved in the website Paper Republic, but also, more importantly, with several Italian Chinese studies scholars and translators. This specific title was initially selected by recommendation from Chinese publishers and agents. Despite earning almost unanimous critical praise in the domestic field, the book was hardly a bestseller in China; however, its genre and literary value made it stand out as a suitable candidate for export (Yao 2013). A young Chinese studies scholar at the time with an expertise in translation studies but little experience in the practice of literary translation, I was assigned the task of translating the novel, which was eventually published in 2013 as Intrigo a Shanghai. The publishing of the Italian translation was instrumental in increasing Sellerio’s symbolic capital, in addition to commercial revenues, as a key actor in the dissemination of modern and contemporary East Asian literature in Italian publishing circles. The operation was followed by a steady flow of translations of works by authors of both pure and genre fiction, including Hong Kong CF writer Chan Ho-kei 陳浩基 (1975–) and Japanese mystery writer Yokomizo Seishi 横溝 正史 (1902–1981). A turning point in the project was the translation of the complete fiction by the father of modern Chinese literature, Lu Xun 魯迅 (1881–1936), a first collection by whom appeared in 2021 (Lu 2021). This is the latest step in the prospective construction of a “modern classics” collection: by undertaking this long-term project, Sellerio aims to gain prominence as a publisher with an eye to cultural mediation and benefiting from close links with the scholarly community. Indeed, all the translations were undertaken by respected Italian scholars—who, incidentally, also significantly increased their own symbolic capital through this collaboration with a much-respected publishing house.

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Intrigo a Shanghai brought Sellerio relatively good sale figures and a certain resonance in the publishing world outside Italy. Moreover, it sparked an interest in the novel and its author, resulting in a wave of translations into both central and peripheral languages. Through a substantial financial investment, US-based HarperCollins promptly acquired the rights for the English-language translation (Yao 2013). The job was assigned to Chenxin Jiang, a versatile translator from Chinese, German, and Italian, then senior editor of Asymptote. The book became available on the US market in 2015 with the title French Concession. After its publication in the US, the book was reprinted in the UK and Australia by Point Blank, an imprint of Oneworld, the following year. La Concession française (The French Concession), translated by the experienced translator of Republican-era fiction Emmanuelle Péchenart, was also marketed in France by Philippe Picquier, a highly respected publisher specializing in East and South Asian literature (Xiao 2016a). These were followed by a German edition translated from English, which closely reproduced the artwork of the US edition and imitated the Italian title (Xiao 2017). This was a unique instance of a peripheral market rapidly influencing other more central markets instead of following their lead, as is usually the case. To be sure, Chinese promoters had never stopped working to ensure more translation deals for the book in other markets. However, the process was in its very early stage, and no books by Xiao Bai in any European language were available at the time that potential publishers could use as points of reference. Therefore, these circumstances add to the exceptionality of this episode and to its significance as a pioneering operation (Magagnin 2017b, 101–02). As in Mai Jia’s case, genre was a major factor in the promotion of the book in the space of reception. The novel was saluted by many Chinese critics as a novel successfully transcending the boundaries of genre fiction and based on revered literary models (Magagnin 2017a). However, it was openly marketed by Sellerio—and by its other foreign publishers—as a groundbreaking historical noir novel, to the point that Xiao Bai’s Shanghai was compared to James Ellroy’s Los Angeles (Sellerio 2013). Its very editorial placement validated this categorization: the book was included in the series “La memoria,” along with works by Camilleri and other celebrated Italian and international CF writers. Interestingly enough, the Chinese promoters also maintained that the label “spy fiction”—a genre holding far more appeal for foreign audiences than for Chinese ones— could help ensure the successful outcome of the export operation (Yao 2013). In the wake of this international mainstream success, interest in Xiao Bai seems to have endured in the margins of large-scale circulation. An English-language translation of the non-CF novel《局 点》(Game Point; 2010), published in China, went virtually unnoticed in the West (Xiao 2014). After a few years, however, the Swedish translation of the novella《封锁》(Blockade; 2019a; original Chinese 2016b) was published—a locked-room mystery set in the Japanese-occupied Shanghai of 1941, which was awarded the prestigious Lu Xun Literary Prize in 2018. The publisher Nirstedt is a newly established, independent player in the Swedish publishing field: the translator Anna Gustafsson Chen, however, is a prolific translator and a prominent actor in Sino-foreign cultural exchanges, whose translations of Mo Yan’s works played a major role in securing the Nobel Prize in Literature for the writer. Finally, Katherine Tse’s English translation of the short mystery story《透明》(Transparency; 2019b) was included in a collection of short stories by various authors revolving around the city of Shanghai, published by Manchester-based independent publisher Comma Press (Xiao 2020). It is noteworthy, however, that Xiao Bai also prominently

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appears in the aforementioned list of authors recommended by Chinese publishers, a testament to his long-standing status as a candidate for export (Chinese Publishers 2020). Sellerio later tried to replicate the experiment by purchasing the international rights to the novel《红白黑》(Red, White, and Black; 2012) by Chinese-Canadian writer Chen He 陈河. Just like Xiao Bai’s novel, the book had only earned mild praise and economic success in China, and no translations were then available. Again, it was widely categorized as a noir novel in Italian reviews and marketing materials, despite its tenuous association with the genre (Magagnin 2017b, 102–03). After the publishing of the Italian translation (Chen 2018), agreements for a French translation were discussed with a prominent publisher. However, it is still too soon to tell whether this operation will be met with the same relative success as its forerunner.

CONCLUSION In this chapter, I have attempted to explore the state of the global circulation of contemporary Chinese CF in translation through a general description of the field of international literary exchanges, including a brief account of the constraints at play and of the features of the space of reception. To do so, I have relied on a sociological model that incorporates the concept of capital, while at the same time adopting an approach that aims to highlight the network of agents and institutions involved in the mediation process. The two case studies that I have selected for discussion epitomize two distinct developments of the CF macro-genre in translation. Although they are inevitably exemplary rather than comprehensive, I have argued that they can shed light on a set of mechanisms at play in the international circulation of CF in the last decade. The findings presented here certainly need to be supplemented by further research. To reconstruct the circulation networks for this genre in a more inclusive way, interdisciplinary studies must be undertaken through the prism of intercultural communication studies and book market studies. Moreover, further investigation—conducted with the tools of comparative literary studies, translation studies (particularly translation criticism), and reception studies—is required for a more in-depth understanding of “what happens” to Chinese literary works of CF once they enter fields governed by dominant languages, literary models, and dynamics of consumption.

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Tang Zhesheng 汤哲声, ed. 2011.《中国当代大众文化与通俗文学》[Contemporary Chinese Mass Culture and Popular Literature]. Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe. Tang Zhesheng 汤哲声. 2013.《边缘耀眼——中国现当代通俗小说讲论》[A Dazzle on the Margins: On Modern and Contemporary Chinese Popular Fiction]. Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe. Teng Mei 滕梅, and Zuo Liting 左丽婷. 2018.《中国文学对外传播的译介途径研究——以《解密》 的海外成功译介为例》[A Study of Translation and Introduction Processes in the Dissemination of Chinese Literature abroad—The Case of the Successful Overseas Translation and Introduction of Decoded].《外語與翻譯》[Foreign Languages and Translation] (2): 22–7. Wang Baorong 汪宝荣. 2017.《中国文学译作在西方传播的社会学分析模式》[A Sociological Model for the Analysis of the Dissemination of Translated Chinese Literature in the West].《天津外国语大学学报》 [Journal of Tianjin Foreign Studies University] 24 (4): 1–7. Wang, Binhua, and Yifeng Sun. 2020. “Decoding and Canonization through Translation: The Reception of Decoded in the English-speaking World.” Translation Review 107 (1): 1–17. Wei, Yan. 2020. Detecting Chinese Modernities. Rupture and Continuity in Modern Chinese Detective Fiction (1896–1949). Leiden: Brill. Xiao Bai 小白. 2010.《局点》[Game Point]. Shanghai: Shanghai wenyi chubanshe. Xiao Bai 小白. 2011.《租界》[The Concession]. Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe. Xiao Bai 小白. 2013. Intrigo a Shanghai [An Intrigue in Shanghai], translated by Paolo Magagnin. Palermo: Sellerio. Xiao Bai 小白. 2014. Game Point, translated by Xiaozhen Wu. Shanghai: Shanghai Book Traders. Xiao Bai 小白. 2015. French Concession: A Novel, translated by Chenxin Jiang. New York: HarperCollins. Xiao Bai 小白. 2016a. La Concession française [The French Concession], translated by Emmanuelle Péchenart. Arles: Philippe Picquier. Xiao Bai 小白. 2016b.《封锁》[Blockade]. In 《封锁》[Blockade], 1–143. Beijing: Zhongxin chuban jituan. Xiao Bai 小白. 2017. Die Verschwörung von Shanghai [The Shanghai Conspiracy], translated by Lutz-W. Wolff. Berlin: Insel. Xiao Bai 小白. 2019a. Avspärrningen [Blockade], translated by Anna Gustafsson Chen. Stockholm: Nirstedt/ Litteratur. Xiao Bai 小白. 2019b.《透明》[Transparency].《上海文学》[Shanghai Literature] 1: 15–17. Xiao Bai 小白. 2020. “Transparency,” translated by Katherine Tse. In The Book of Shanghai: A City in Short Fiction, edited by Jin Li and Dai Congrong, 123–29. Manchester: Comma. Xie Cai 谢彩. 2012.《中国侦探小说类型论》[A Genre-Based Discussion of the Chinese Detective Novel]. Shanghai: Shanghai daxue chubanshe. Yao Jianbin 姚建彬. 2020.《对中国文学海外传播的反思与建议》[Some Considerations and Suggestions Concerning the Dissemination of Chinese Literature abroad].《外国语文(双月刊)》[Foreign Language and Literature (Bimonthly)] 36 (4): 1–10. Yao, Minji. 2013. “Old Shanghai Thriller Lures Western Publisher.” Shanghai Daily, July 20. https://archive. shine.cn/Feature/art-and-culture/Old-Shanghai-thriller-lures-Western-publisher/shdaily.shtml/ (accessed May 2, 2023). Yao, Minji. 2016. “China Writers Suffer from Lack of Good Translations.” Shanghai Daily, December 9. Available online: https://archive.shine.cn/feature/art-and-culture/China-writers-suffer-from-lack-of-goodtranslations/shdaily.shtml (accessed May 2, 2023). Zhang Ping 张平. 1997.《抉择》[The Choice]. Beijing: Qunzhong chubanshe.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Penumbra and the Shadow: Editing Translations of Modern Chinese Literature PING ZHU

In the essay《翻译的技巧》(Translation Skills; 2016), the famous Chinese writer and translator Yang Jiang 杨绛 (1911–2016) compares a translator to an infelicitous slave serving two masters: the author and the reader (Yang 2016, 80). It may be true that in the eyes of many, the translator exists like a shadow between the luminaries of the author and the reader. When I was invited by the editors of this volume to write a chapter on translation and editing, the image that naturally came to my mind was that of a penumbra: if the translator is a shadow, then the translation editor is a shadow of the shadow, a penumbra. In Chuang Tzu’s “Discussion on Making All Things Equal” 齊物論, there is a famous fable about a conversation between a penumbra and a shadow: Penumbra said to Shadow, “A little while ago you were walking and now you’re standing still; a little while ago you were sitting and now you’re standing up. Why this lack of independent action?” Shadow said, “Do I have to wait for something before I can be like this? Does what I wait for also have to wait for something before it can be like this? Am I waiting for the scales of a snake or the wings of a cicada? How do I know why it is so? How do I know why it isn’t so?” (Chuang Tzu 1964, 44) The penumbra questions the shadow about the latter’s lack of autonomy. The shadow’s answer, however, problematizes the hierarchical relationship between the substantial body and the shadow, denying that there is an absolute entity that distinguishes the multitude of things. Inspired by Chuang Tzu’s fable, this chapter sets out to rechart the relationship between the author, reader, translator, and editor of modern Chinese literature as one that is dynamic, fluid, and interdependent. Translation editing refers to the process of making changes to a translation, deciding what will be removed, kept, and altered before that text can be shown to the intended readers. Translation editing can be done by the translator, by the editor, through the negotiation between the translator and the editor, or between the translator, the editor, and the author. The role of the translator, editor, author, and reader can be interchangeable during the editing process, and the final translation is oftentimes a product of negotiation between plural parties instead of an individual work. The

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more foreign the original language is, the deeper and more complex the negotiation during the process of translation needs to be. Reflection on the largely invisible relationship of translation and editing can help us understand the dialogic process of translation as a whole.

EDITING AS TRANSLATING Editing is an integral part of the translation process. Translation editing starts as soon as the translator has the first draft. Yang Jiang has used dianfan 点烦 (removing the redundant language) to describe the process of self-editing that is necessary for translation: “By removing the many useless words, the translated text can become lucid and fluent. This is a detailed and difficult process. On the one hand, the translator must try to refine a sentence to make it concise and relevant; on the other hand, he has to be careful not to delete the indispensable words” (Yang 2016, 83). Yang points out that Western languages and the Chinese language have radically different syntaxes, in addition, “There are more compound sentences in western languages, and sometimes the sentences can be very long. In contrast, there are more single and short sentences in Chinese” (80). Therefore, more editing work is needed when one translates between those languages. Yang Jiang has coined the word fanyidu 翻译度 (literally, “degree of translation”) to refer to the degree of necessary editing from the original language to the target language: between Western languages, fanyidu can be minimal; however, between Western languages and Chinese, fanyidu increases drastically. The most appropriate English equivalent for fanyidu would be “editability.” If “translatability” refers to the extent to which, despite obvious linguistic differences, meaning can be adequately transmitted across languages, “editability” means the creative solutions the translator must come up with when the source language appears to be untranslatable for linguistic or cultural reasons. A Chinese–English translation requires a high degree of editability. This means that linguistic fidelity is hard to achieve in Chinese–English translations: sometimes, the mimesis of meaning can run counter to the mimesis of language in those translations. Howard Goldblatt also explains in his essay “Blue Pencil Translating: Translator as Editor” that given the radically different nature of Chinese from Western languages, corresponding precision is not feasible for Chinese-to-English literary translators. The “economical, highly allusive language with a relatively small vocabulary … offers to, even demands of, the translator a great deal of creative license” (Goldblatt 2004, 24). For this reason, editing is the norm for Chinese–English translators. Citing translator William M. Hutchins’s notion of “retro-editing,” which is “an effort to bring the work more in line with an admittedly arbitrary literary standard set by a translator and the editor of the translated text,” Goldblatt argues that editing ought to qualify as translating (22). Goldblatt also points out that due to the lack of editing in Chinese publications, retro-editing should be the norm for Chinese-to-English translations. Despite Goldblatt’s commitment to fidelity to the original work, he admits that there is always an “inevitable loss” when a work is translated from Chinese to English (Goldblatt 2004, 22). This might be true if we hold the original work as the absolute gauge for the translated text. However, if editing can be viewed as translating, we can also regard the high level of editability between Chinese and Western languages as a space of creativity. As Salman Rushdie once wrote, “It is normally supposed that something always gets lost in translation; I cling, obstinately, to the

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notion that something can also be gained” (1991, 17). Precisely because a translator is given the creative license to edit the translation draft to cross-linguistic differences, a gain in translation is possible. There is no absolute hierarchy between an original work and a translated work due to the autonomy of the latter. The following example is taken from an exercise I gave to an undergraduate student at the University of Oklahoma who was doing an independent study on translation with me. The exercise consists of multiple rounds of editing of a translated text, which can show what is lost and what is gained during the whole translating process. The original text is a passage from modern Chinese writer Wang Zengqi’s 汪曾祺 (1920–1997) short story《虐貓》(Torturing Cats): 他们玩过很多猫:黑猫、白猫、狸猫、狮子玳瑁猫(身上有黄白黑三种颜色)、乌云盖雪(黑背白 肚)、铁棒打三桃(白身子,黑尾巴,脑袋顶上有三块黑)。 The original text uses folk names along with descriptions for different breeds of cats. But an English reader may be lost reading a literal translation, because they would struggle to identify what types of cats the text is referring to. [Literal translation] They have played with many cats: a black cat, a white cat, and a leopard cat, a cat that looked like a lion wearing a tortoiseshell (yellow, white, and black), a cat that looked like a canopy of dark clouds covering white snow (black back and white belly), and an “iron club beating three peaches” cat (white body, black tail, and three black spots on the head). Eugene A. Nida has used the concept of “Dynamic Equivalence” to refer to the solutions needed for adapting the translation for the recipients by coming up with “the closest natural equivalent to the source-language message” (Nida 1964, 166). The translated text would then take a different form if the dynamic equivalences of the cats’ folk names and descriptions are adopted: [Dynamic Equivalence]: They have played with many cats: a black cat, a white cat, a tabby cat, a calico cat, a tuxedo cat, and a Turkish Van cat. In this version of translation, the translator has identified all types of cats for the readers, and thus has completely domesticated the original text. However, something is lost in this version of translation: the vivid expressions in the cats’ folk names have been removed, and the foreignness of the original text is completely forsaken. Therefore, even though this version of translation is concise, fluent, and successfully transfers the information, it fails to transfer the literary flavor that characterizes the original text. Some translation editing is needed to restore what is lost while retaining what has been gained (the clarity of information for English readers). Inspired by the original text that includes descriptions as parenthetical text, the following translation includes the breeds of the cats in parentheses: [Edited translation]: They have played with many cats: a black cat, a white cat, a tabby cat, a “Tortoise Lion” cat (calico), a “Dark Clouds over Snow” cat (tuxedo), and an “Iron Club Hitting Three Peaches” cat (Turkish Van).

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The edited translation is both foreignizing and domesticating. The juxtaposition of the translated Chinese folk names for cats along with the cat breeds in English retains the novelty of a foreign culture while clearly conveying the signified to the English readers. What is in the quotation marks and what is in the parentheses form a dialogic relationship, highlighting the heterogeneity of translation. As a dialogic process, translation expands the self by incorporating the other.

THE TRANSLATOR AND THE EDITOR If an editor, who is different from the translator, is involved in the editing process, the situation would be more complex. What I learned from my nine years of experience of editing Chinese Literature Today (CLT) is that editors are negotiators or helpers for the translators, not the adjudicators of their translations. I have translated Chinese literary works into English too and thus can fully understand how a corroborative editor can be a useful companion for the translator. A translator, especially one that deals with a radically foreign language like Chinese, works like a lone fighter. She or he has to be an all-rounder, possessing language skills, translation skills, editing techniques, knowledge, creativity, cultural sensitivity, and the awareness of social responsibility at the same time. Sometimes being bilingual in English and Mandarin is not enough for translating modern Chinese literature, because there may be phrases of classical Chinese or local dialects that make the original text virtually multilingual. The disruptive history of twentieth-century China has created and buried many neologisms; the explosive contemporary internet culture has also produced a great number of ephemera of linguistic expressions. All these pose challenges to translators of modern Chinese literature. I have had CLT translators who contacted me when they needed some help in understanding a hard phrase or finding a footnote, or submitted their translations with highlighted parts that they were not sure about. It is through these moments that an editor can assist the translator by being the “penumbra translator.” Even if a translator does not call for help, I can sometimes sense their struggle from reading the translation. For example, in 2018, I commissioned a translator for Dai Jinhua’s 戴锦华 (1959–) interview titled 置之死地而后生?. The classical Chinese phrase 置之死地而后生 is a military strategy originally proposed in Sun Tzu’s 孙子 (554–496 bce)《孙子兵法》(The Art of War). The translator is well versed both in Chinese and English, and was able to identify the source of the quote in her rendering of the title. To show English readers the original source and full meaning of the phrase, however, the translated title became a cumbersome sentence at first: “Just as Sun Tzu Once Said—Place Us in a Desperate Situation, and We Will Fight and Survive?” It cannot retain the pithy style of the original. When I received the draft translation, I instantly sensed the conundrum of the translator: she wanted to bring out the context and clarity of this famous Chinese phrase yet did not find an equally compact and pithy style in her rendering. I happened to have watched a recent lecture by Dai Jinhua, in which she cited Slavoj Žižek’s 2010 book Living in the End Times to articulate similar themes she discussed in the interview. Therefore, I wrote to the translator and suggested she should use “Living in the End Times” as the English title of the interview. The translator gladly accepted the suggestion. “Living in the End Times” only expresses the first part of the classical Chinese phrase 置之死地 while leaving out the positive outcome of 后生, so it is not a faithful translation. Fortunately, it is not a misleading one, as the omitted 后生 is still preserved as a possibility of living in end times. A translator has to do

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some parallel reading of the same author’s works in preparing for a translation. In the above case, two persons’ parallel readings are better than one’s. Being a bilingual editor, I can appreciate the nuances and special tweaks in a translated text, and when I perceive potential problems, I often offer a literal translation of the text, so the translator can edit. This practice temporarily swaps the role of the translator and the editor: the editor provides the draft translation, and the translator edits it. This practice is helpful when the language of the original Chinese text is obscure. For example, the following passage is contemporary Chinese writer Dong Xi’s 东西 discussion on writing: 说不定在具体的写作过程中,像面对突发事件一样,可能还需要那种急中生智的处理能力。这 种不顾一切的写作,反而是最好的写作。如果我们每系一个扣子,首先就想到怎么解开,那写作 就会变成熟练工,不会有太多的惊喜,只会把写作滑向技术层面。只有激情澎湃、不顾一切的写 作,立刻就把自己推向死路的写作,才有可能写出好的小说。你的扣系得越紧,你写得越难,也许 你的扣就解得越漂亮。 The passage is full of metaphors and abstract ideas hard to understand and translate. The translator took the liberty of rewriting the passage in the first draft of translation. With writing, maybe we could say it’s less about explosive creativity and more about a sort of resourcefulness, scrambling to come up with the right tool for the job. I’m not sure if writing is always like that but I think the best writing could be described that way. The seasoned writer has realized that they must solve the puzzles they’ve created, untie the knots in the work. The writer has to go down the dark alley and they may meet a dead end, but that’s how a good story is crafted. The knots that you come across in your work, that’s where the beauty in the writing comes from. When I read the translation, I found it clear, fluent, and full of creative solutions, but there were several mistranslations that changed the meaning of the original text. I therefore provided a faithful translation of the same text to the translator, which, I hope, would help him revise the translation. Below is mine: Maybe writing is like dealing with a crisis, which requires you to improvise. This kind of reckless writing is the best writing. If we always think about how to untie each knot, we’d become skilled writers. We will miss out on its surprises as writing becomes too technical. The tighter your knot is, and the more difficult your writing is, the more beautiful your writing will be as you untie the knot. The translator edited my translation and improved it by expressing the same meaning in his own word choices, literary style, and creative solutions. The final translation is faithful, fluent, and elegant. Maybe the writing process is like emergency management—it requires the ability to be resourceful when faced with a crisis. I think the type of writing that forges ahead regardless of everything is actually the best writing. If we end up, each time we tie the story into a knot, trying to untie it

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again, then writing becomes more about developing that particular skill. Your writing becomes more about technical dexterity and loses the element of surprise. With recklessness and passion, you can end up leading yourself down dead ends but that’s also how you end up with interesting writing. As the knots in the story get tighter and the writing becomes more difficult, sometimes the final result can be even more beautiful, once the knots come loose. All the above are examples of collaboration between a bilingual translator and a bilingual editor. In many cases, translators of modern Chinese literature have to work with editors who do not know Chinese. In January 2021, a post appeared in the Facebook group “Literary Translation.” Many translators who joined the discussion complained about the “intrusive” and “aggressive” monolingual editing they experienced with in-house editors. The anecdotes they shared include that the editor requested to significantly reduce the length of a work, wanted to change important parts or key characters of the story, or proposed the edits as though the text originally had been written in English. Compared with the voices of many discontented translators, there were only a few who shared their positive experiences working with editors. The utmost goal of publishers is to sell books. In-house editors are hired to make sure the projected readers’ expectation is met. As Howard Goldblatt points out, because the monolingual editors cannot evaluate the translation skills or cultural contents of a work, their only criterion for evaluating a translated work is the quality of the English language (Goldblatt 2014). This may produce problems if the editor regards “standard English” as the absolute gauge for all literary works. Salman Rushdie has repudiated such illusion of a pure and Standard English: “‘Authenticity’ is the respectable child of old-fashioned exoticism. It demands that exoticism. It demands that sources, forms, style, language and symbol all derive from a supposedly homogenous and unbroken tradition” (Rushdie 1991, 67). Modern Chinese literature is not written in a pure language— Mandarin was created under heavy foreign influences in the twentieth century (Wang 1985, 460). Nor can its translation look like a work written in pure English. It is therefore the ethical duty of an editor of modern Chinese literature in translation to recognize this radical “transnational, crosslingual process of pollination” (Rushdie 1991, 69) in the work and promote it to the projected readers. This dialogic approach is constructive not only to the healthy growth of the English language but also to the shedding of hegemony in transcultural communication.

THE AUTHOR’S ROLE IN EDITING Modern and contemporary Chinese writers normally are not involved in the translating or editing process. Most of them will just release the copyright to the foreign publisher and agree to whatever the translator or editor proposes. Howard Goldblatt has talked on a few occasions about the lack of editing in Chinese publication, and he has vigorously advocated the editing process to Chinese writers: In the Chinese publishing system, editors and, for that matter, translators are not held in high regard. Maybe writers suck so much oxygen out of the air that there is little left to sustain “secondary efforts.” And maybe “face” plays a role, a sense of lost esteem by having to rely on anyone but oneself, on anything but one’s own creative juices to produce literature. In their emphasis on the undeniable fact that editors are not writers, they too often overlook the

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possibility that editors are better readers. In China you will not find a Maxwell Perkins to help produce an F. Scott Fitzgerald or Ernest Hemingway, someone whose function is “to serve as a skilled objective outsider, a critical touchstone by recourse to which a writer is enabled to sense flaws in surface or structure, to grasp and solve the artistic or technical problems involved, and thus to realize completely his own work in his own way.” (Goldblatt 2004, 24–5; also see Goldblatt 2014) An interesting contrast is that while Chinese writers expect little or no editing in publishing their own works in Chinese, most of them will tolerate heavy editing when their works are translated into foreign languages. One of the reasons of such tolerance is that most contemporary Chinese writers can only read Chinese. For example, Howard Goldblatt has shared the anecdote that Mo Yan 莫言 (1955–) handed the manuscript of《丰乳肥臀》(Big Breasts and Wide Hips) to his Chinese editor with the comment “Don’t change a word!” 一个字不改!, but gave Goldblatt the permission for freely editing the novel in the English translation: “Do what you want,” Mo said, “since I can’t read it anyway” (Goldblatt 2004, 26). The anxiety of reaching a global audience also plays a role in Chinese writers’ tolerance of creative or loose translation of their works. After Mo Yan won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2012, Chinese media and scholars attributed the success to Howard Goldblatt’s and Anna Gustafsson Chen’s “creative translations” 连译带改 of Mo Yan’s works and delved into passionate discussions on how to promote Chinese literature to readers all over the world. Many have drawn the conclusion that faithful translation is the main obstacle for the world to appreciate Chinese literature and called for creative and domesticating approaches to translating modern Chinese literature (Fan 2013). Chinese translation studies scholar Xie Tianzhen, for example, argues that translating Chinese literature into English is a counter-trend translating process from a weak culture to a strong culture, and its goal cannot be accomplished by faithfully translating the original (Xie 2017, 54). He thus approves the foreign translators’ creative translation of Chinese works. Goldblatt’s English translation of Mo Yan’s《天堂蒜薹之歌》(The Garlic Ballads) is often cited as an example of such creative translation. Goldblatt, in fact, has rejected the label “creative translation,” insisting that he always makes sure before submitting his translation “that I’ve remained as faithful as I can to such matters as tone, register, nuance, and more” (Goldblatt 2004, 22). He explained that due to the lack of editing in China, the original version of Mo Yan’s The Garlic Ballads was not in the best shape. Both Viking’s editor and Goldblatt agreed that the novel had a weak ending, Goldblatt then “recommended a new last chapter, with an idea or two, and [Mo Yan] complied immediately. Even he liked what ‘we’ had done, since the new chapter replaced the old one in subsequent Chinese editions” (25–6). What Goldblatt revealed is the dynamic and fluid relationships between the author, the translator, the editor, and the reader. In the case of The Garlic Ballads, both the translator and the editor served as critical readers while the translator also served as a shadow author, offering creative solutions to rewrite the ending of the novel. The English translation of the novel consists of both the translation and the original creative writing (with the brand-new last chapter), while the subsequent Chinese editions of the work contain both Mo Yan’s original work and the translation from the new last chapter in English. The negotiations between the author, translator, and editor have given the novel a renewed life as it embodies a dialogic relationship formed between different parties.

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While Mo Yan’s case is typical among contemporary Chinese writers, there are few Chinese writers who are bilingual or multilingual and can take more ownership of their work in translation. One such rare case is contemporary Chinese writer Xue Yiwei 薛忆沩 (1964–). Xue grew up in Changsha, Hunan Province, received his master’s in English literature from Université de Montréal, and his PhD in linguistics from Guangdong University of Foreign Studies. Xue moved to Montréal, Canada in 2002 and has lived there ever since. Fluent in Chinese and English, Xue works closely with his translator and editor to convert his novels from Chinese into English. According to Xue, he often plays the role of a reader, translator, and writer when he reviews and edits the translation of his own works: After the translator gives me the translation, I read it as if it were a new piece of someone else’s work, and only when I get to something that doesn’t flow well do I realize that it is my own work, then I would check the original and give what I think should be the correct translation (most of the time closer to the original, of course, but sometimes further away, to preserve the flow of the translation as a whole). This version with my marks is then sent back to the translator, who screens my comments (usually more than 90% are accepted) and, if necessary, embellishes the accepted changes. This process may be repeated once until I am completely satisfied with the translation. (pers. comm. 2021; translation mine) Taking his《白求恩的孩子们》(Dr. Bethune’s Children), a novel that is banned in mainland China, as an example, Xue says: “Strictly speaking, I am one of the translators, because I did a lot of rewriting during the translation process” (pers. comm. 2021; translation mine). The English translation of Dr. Bethune’s Children was published in 2017, and Xue would only release the translation permission of this novel to the next press after he rewrites the Chinese version based on the English edition. Xue’s deep engagement in translating, editing, and rewriting his work not only challenges any fixed identities of the author, translator, editor, and reader, but also paints a vivid picture of a literary work’s organic growth and transmutations as it enters transcultural circulation. It is remarkable that instead of trying to secure a faithful translation of his own work, Xue has fully utilized the dialogic process of translating and editing to reshape his writing. As Chu Dongwei writes in his introduction of Xue: “Seeing his own writings as dynamic, he has been constantly rewriting his own works […] Such a literary practice has no precedent in the century since the New Culture Movement” (Chu 2015, 1). Translation and editing are not distractions for Xue’s creative work, but rather stimulate and facilitate his constant rewriting. Being a writer, translator, and editor at the same time allows Xue Yiwei to have more bargaining power with the monolingual editor of the publisher. He shared with me some examples in which he contended with the in-house editor over one sentence or one word in the English translation of Dr. Bethune’s Children. One such example is that the Chinese version of the novel has a sentence 我家的门槛就是三八线 (our doorway will be the 38th parallel). When the in-house editor received the translation manuscript of Dr. Bethune’s Children, he deleted this sentence, which he could not understand. Supported by his translator Darryl Sterk, Xue tried to explain to the editor the historical importance and metaphorical meaning of “the 38th parallel” in the lives of common Chinese people during the second half of the twentieth century, but the editor did not budge. Later

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Xue proposed to add a silent footnote in the translation as a solution, turning the sentence into “our doorway will be the 38th parallel, a Demilitarized Zone.” However, still worrying about confusing the English readers, the editor reordered the sentence as “our doorway will be a Demilitarized Zone—the 38th parallel” in the final version. But that is not how the story ended: whenever Xue reads this passage from the English edition in public, he would revert the order of words. Another example is that the editor saw the sentence “There was a fresh cut on his forehead, that he had treated with gentian violet” and changed “gentian violet” to “iodine.” “Gentian violet” is a direct translation of 紫药水, an antiseptic dye widely used to treat fresh cuts on the skin in 1970s China. Xue spotted the unwanted change in the final proof and immediately requested the editor to change it back to “gentian violet.” The editor at first insisted in using “iodine,” arguing that people stopped using gentian violet as early as in the 1940s. Xue had to explain to the editor what China was like in the 1970s, and that “gentian violet” was the most beautiful image in his novel representing this bygone historical period; “iodine” simply could not evoke the color or aura of 1970s China. Xue even showed the editor why “iodine” was a mistranslation: gentian violet was used to stop the bleeding, whereas iodine is used for disinfection. The editor finally agreed to restore “gentian violet.” Not all monolingual editing is intrusive and aggressive, although some can be. Behind every edit, no matter if it is done by the author, translator, or editor, there is a story: sometimes it is a war, sometimes it is a lesson, sometimes it is a bridge. All these invisible stories help shape the fate of the translated work. In the above examples, the author and the translator formed a productive and strong alliance to resist the intrusive and aggressive monolingual editing and to defend the historical significance of a phrase or a word. This alliance could be formed thanks to Xue Yiwei’s versatile and fluid identity in the whole translation and editing process. At the beginning of this chapter, I used Chuang Tzu’s fable about the penumbra and the shadow to propose a more dynamic, fluid, and interdependent relationship between the author, translator, editor, and reader. It is only through such a constructive relationship that the master-slave conundrum in translation that Yang Jiang talked about can be overcome. If more Chinese writers can explore and take advantage of this dialogic process of translation like Xue does, there would be much less mistranslation and reductive translation, and more rich and complex transcultural texts that can potentially enter the future canons of world literature. If more translators and editors of modern Chinese literature incorporate the dialogic process of editing in their workflow, we can imagine a new subfield of world literature that focuses on what is gained in translation and editing.

REFERENCES Chu, Dongwei. 2015 “Xue Yiwei: The Road Not Trodden.” In Xue Yiwei and His War Stories, edited by Dongwei Chu, 1–2. Westbury, NY: IntLingo; Guangzhou: Zilin. Chuang Tzu. 1964. Chuang Tzu: Basic Writings, translated by Burton Watson. New York: Columbia University Press. Fan Liping樊丽萍. 2013.《翻译忠于原著成文学走出去绊脚石》[Faithful Translation Becomes a Stumbling Block for Chinese Literature to Go Global].《文汇报》 [Wen Wei Po], September 12. Goldblatt, Howard. 2004. “Blue Pencil Translating: Translator as Editor.” Translation Quarterly (33): 21–9. Goldblatt, Howard葛浩文. 2014.《中国文学如何走出去》[How Can Chinese Literature Go Global]. 《文学报》[Literature Press], July 3. Nida, Eugene A. 1964. Toward a Science of Translating. Leiden: Brill.

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Rushdie, Salmon. 1991. Imaginary Homelands. London: Granta Books. Wang Li王力. 1985.《欧化的语法》[Europeanised Grammar]. In 《王力文集》[Writings by Wang Li], vol. 2, 460–517. Jinan: Shandong jiaoyu chubanshe. Xie Tianzhen 谢天振. 2017.《中国文学走出去:问题与实质》[Chinese Literature Goes Global: The Question and Its Nature].《海外华文教育动态》[Overseas Chinese Education] (7): 50–5. Yang Jiang 杨绛. 2016.《翻译的技巧》[Translation Skills].《中外文化交流》[China and the World Cultural Exchange] (8): 80–5.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Chinese Fiction Book Cover Archive MARTA DOS SANTOS

INTRODUCTION Graphic design, when at its best, will enhance the experience of reading and convey some of the essence of the text. The experience of buying a book has drastically changed in the last couple of decades, but for many readers a book cover remains the first point of contact with a particular work. However, despite this clear coupling between literature and graphic design, there are few crossovers between the study of translated literature and the study of design. Except for a small number of studies, the importance of book covers appears mostly unnoticed, despite their potential to contribute to the understanding of how texts are marketed, circulated, and received in target cultures. The Chinese Fiction Book Cover Archive (CFBCA, n.d.-a) is an online, open-access database that collects the book covers of modern Chinese fiction that have been translated into one or more other languages. This database aims to become a resource that can be used by researchers wanting to fill this gap in translation studies. This chapter will begin by articulating the genesis of the CFBCA database, revealing some considerations that factored in the design and build process, and discussing the database’s utility across the disciplines of design, Chinese studies, and translation studies. After this introduction, I will briefly present some of the main trends that have started to emerge from collecting book covers. To illustrate some of these trends, I will briefly compare two editions of Chen Qiufan’s 陈楸帆 (1981–)《荒潮》(The Waste Tide), before tentatively analyzing a selection of book covers of translations of Mo Yan’s 莫言 (1955–)《丰乳肥臀》(Big Breasts and Wide Hips) and assessing their success based on the criteria devised by Mossop (2018) for a similar analysis. Lastly, this chapter will close with a conclusion that offers some suggestions for research pathways that make use of this database and draws a plan for the project’s future. I first became aware of the necessity of a resource such as the CFBCA when, out of curiosity and partly due to geographical convenience, I started searching for Portuguese translations of Chinese literature. I had first been exposed to Chinese literature via their English translations through editions from the United Kingdom or United States, and being unfamiliar with the publishing field in Portugal, I was keen to discover what was available. The difference in the design approaches struck me as significant: at first glance, the covers in Portugal seemed to emphasize the “foreignness” of the texts and be drawn from stereotypes that would be deemed insensitive in the United Kingdom or North America. I suspected these differences would be present in other regions too, and I wondered if there was a pattern to the variations.

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Similar ventures have been carried out: the website Book Cover Archive collects book covers, but its focus is aesthetics (Pieratt and Jacobsen n.d.); and the Arabic Design Archive was initially dedicated to twentieth-century book cover design (Lynx Qualey 2020), but in the meantime it has expanded to other media formats. The Open Library (2021) aims to digitalize every published work, and it proves useful when searching by author, but its inability to associate published source to target text is an obstacle that means that relationships between translations can be missed; additionally, the Open Library’s non-subject-specific ambition limits its current usefulness, partly because it fails to list crucial information such as the designer, or note other particularities that could be central to the appreciation of a book cover. By relying on contributions and having such an ambitious goal, the Open Library runs into the issue that priority will be given to what contributors will deem valuable to upload. There are no guarantees that material focusing solely on Chinese literature will become available anytime soon. With the CFBCA, there is a concerted effort to focus on this topic and make these sources available. The coupling of translated literature and book cover analysis is a field with abundant research potential, as demonstrated by Mossop (2018), Salmani and Eghtesadi (2015), Furukawa (2012), and Jiang (2021), who stands out as particularly relevant for this chapter as being the only one who addresses Chinese literature in particular. Mossop (2018), when comparing the French and English editions of Catherine Millet’s The Sexual Life of Catherine M. and Renaud Camus’s Tricks, touches on many important topics: the reception of the target text, differing cultural sensibilities, or changing attitudes toward topics such as homosexuality. Furukawa (2012) studies several US, UK, and Dutch editions of translations of Kitchen by Banana Yoshimoto, using the translation studies concepts of domestication and foreignization to analyze the book covers and noting a marked change in design approach (Furukawa 2012, 222). Jiang (2021) examines covers of several Mo Yan’s translated books as a stage where cultural imaginings of China are put on display, rather than directly referencing motifs present in the story. As Chinese literature reaches wider audiences, such analysis seems more and more pertinent and necessary, as it can illuminate notions of how China and Chinese literature are perceived abroad.

CONSIDERATIONS IN BUILDING CFBCA The scope of the collection was asserted as any literary fiction that was published after 1917, which has been translated into at least one other language, and that could fall under the wider interpretation of “Chinese literature” to include works from the People’s Republic of China (PRC), Taiwan, Hong Kong, Singapore, or other writers who are writing primarily in Chinese. I am building this project and, for the purpose of this chapter, examining these covers from the standpoint of a practicing graphic designer and design lecturer, from a Chinese studies and Chinese literature standpoint, and ultimately from the angle of a frequent book buyer. There were three dominant concerns when designing the database. First, more than merely cataloging book covers of translations, the usefulness in this resource comes from being able to immediately see different translations side by side. Organizing the translations in this way—all translations grouped together under their title and with a dedicated page—can elucidate certain

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relationships that might otherwise go missing if each translation was listed as an individual item. I believe this will prove one of the most useful aspects when perusing this database for research. Second, it seemed crucial that the place and date of publishing of a particular translation was immediately apparent. This allows not only for quick browsing but also for an immediate contextualization of the translation: a translation published in 1991 will have been subject to different design considerations, will have been produced with different technology, would have been circulated in a different cultural landscape, and perhaps even would have been aimed at a different readership than a translation published in 2021. As the database grows, this organization system and key information can facilitate a quicker understanding of the available material, its provenance and its context. Lastly, I chose to record publishing information. Besides identifying the book itself and giving further context to the work, I believe this information could lead to new findings: it might be that certain publishers opt for similar design directions, or that the book is part of a series that has a fixed design style. This information could support research into publishing practices, or into significant changes in the field. Similarly, it seemed important to record relevant information in the notes, such as the cover image for the Portuguese translation of《灵山》(Soul Mountain) written by Gao Xingjian 高行健 (1940–) featuring one of the author’s own watercolor paintings, and the text being an indirect translation, made from French. Altogether, the information provided by this database covers three of the four sites identified by Gillian Rose as key to acknowledge and explore when executing research dealing with visual materials: the site of the image itself, the site of production, and the site of circulation (2016, 24–47). The remaining site that is not covered here, the site of audiencing, concerns itself with how visuals are received and displayed. The database offers the image itself for investigation, therefore covering the site of the image; the details of who made the image, when and how comprise the site of production; and the collecting of different editions and their publishing place is a starting point for anyone wanting to focus on the site of circulation. Having access to this information enables researchers to carry out their own investigations, focusing on whatever area their research questions demand.

INITIAL TENDENCIES During the initial research phase and initial compilation of book covers for the database, some trends have tentatively started to emerge: in Western translations the origin of the text is indicated through the addition of visual elements, often employing stereotypical imagery that attempts to mark the book as unmistakably Chinese; the preceding trend is not as evident in translations to other East Asian languages; the design approach in recent editions have started to move away from these stereotypical motifs, coinciding with a cultural shift toward cultural sensibility; in the genre of science fiction, localizing the book as science fiction takes precedence over identifying the book as a translated text from China. These are very preliminary observations, and the objective of the database is that these notes can spur research projects that would ask further questions and confirm or refute these suggestions. To demonstrate some of these findings, I will first begin by discussing two editions of Chen Qiufan’s The Waste Tide, followed by an analysis of six editions of Mo Yan’s Big Breasts and Wide Hips, before concluding this chapter.

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I have found Mossop’s criteria for analyzing book covers the most useful, in assessing “particular cover elements as being ‘consistent’, ‘inconsistent’ or neutral (‘not inconsistent’) with each other or with the text” (Mossop 2018, 3). These were judged to be good criteria given the scope of this chapter, the small number of covers for analysis, and because the criteria seem to express an accurate understanding of a book cover’s objective: to reflect some essential information about the text. For each of the covers, I will be considering the general layout, typography, colors, and other visual elements employed.

FIGURE 18.1  Chen Qiufan. 2019. Designed by Stephen McNally. Marea Tóxica. Barcelona: Nova. Front cover.

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FIGURE 18.2  Chen Qiufan. 2020. Designed by Esther S. Kim and Peter Lutjen. The Waste Tide. Translated by Ken Liu. New York: Tor. Front cover.

Looking at all the translations that have been cataloged so far and browsing through a book retailer will show that translations of Chinese science fiction are visually distinct from other kinds of fiction. Until now, the CFBCA counts just a handful of translations of this genre, but their cover designs are markedly different from other fiction works. While there seems to be a pattern that spans across time and territory toward utilizing certain visual imagery that identifies a text as a literary work from China, book covers for the genre of science fiction are, on the other hand,

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solely concerned with identifying that book as part of its literary genre. The covers have a clear relationship between their visual elements and the book’s content. Jones asserts that “more than in any other fiction, in [science fiction] the imaginary setting is a major character in the story—and this fictional surface is held together by the highly foregrounded description of unreal objects, customs, kinships, fashions, that can be identified and coded by the reader” (2003, 163). As a genre, science fiction lends itself to symbolic representation, and this adoption of a recurrent set of motifs is often translated into a similarly well-defined visual vocabulary on the book covers. A quick browse through the science fiction section of any bookshop will present black as the predominant color, and the covers will illustrate many of the subthemes that Jones (2003) identifies: rockets, spaceships, space habitats, robots, cyborgs, and so on. From the data collected so far, it is evident that translated Chinese science fiction is no exception. The Spanish translation of Chen Qiufan’s The Waste Tide (Figure 18.1), features a figure climbing a hill of technological waste: this design successfully references Mimi, the main character of the story, and the waste island where the story is set. The latest edition from the United States (Figure 18.2) takes a more abstract approach with an image reminiscent of an oil spill, rendered in the bright green that is commonly associated with radioactive materials, and that also successfully evokes the story’s setting. Both these covers are consistent with the book’s textual content. In the US edition, the only element marking this book as a text written by a Chinese author is the inclusion of the character 潮, although the reduced type size and typeface choice clearly mark this element as having diminished importance in comparison to the English rendering of the book title. In the Spanish edition, there is no visual indication whatsoever that this is a work of a Chinese author. I offer these two editions of this book as an example, but other editions in other languages and other science fiction works seem to follow the same pattern. The shift in visual language that can be seen between the original Chinese edition and other East Asian translations and Western translations is almost unnoticeable in this genre: if these two book covers were presented without any text, I believe that it would have been nearly impossible to identify the provenance of the source text.

MO YAN, BIG BREASTS AND WIDE HIPS Jiang focuses on the book covers of the author Mo Yan, without limiting his study to a specific text, and the author is chosen by Jiang “due to his global popularity consecrated by the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2012” (Jiang 2021, 220). In that sense, Gao Xingjian has a similar global reach to Mo Yan, but Gao Xingjian’s artistic practice means that his literary work is often published with his own artwork on the cover, removing part of the agency for publishers and the commissioned designers to interpret the text they are designing for. Beyond doubt, that very fact would make Gao Xingjian’s covers an interesting research case study in themselves; however, since the majority of authors do not produce artwork that can be reproduced in a book cover, Gao Xingjian’s books are less representative of how covers of translated Chinese fiction are designed. Therefore, for the purposes of this chapter, Mo Yan is chosen for his significance due to his global reach, for being more representative of the field, and for the availability of translations. In this instance, focusing the case study on one single text seemed to be the logical procedure for this chapter: a cover for a book title such as《蛙》(Frog) would conjure more defined images than for a book title such

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as《生死疲劳》(Life and Death Are Wearing Me Out). With the knowledge that the designers were responding to the same text, it is possible to conduct a better analysis and comparison of the different design approaches. The chosen text was Big Breasts and Wide Hips, due to the ease in sourcing the material. The editions analyzed here hail from Italy, Spain, Poland, Portugal, and the United Kingdom. These five covers of Big Breasts and Wide Hips can be divided into three general themes: typographic, portrait, and rural China.

FIGURE 18.3  Mo Yan. 2012. Designed by Love St. Studio. Peito Grande, Ancas Largas. Translated by João Martins. Lisboa: Ulisseia. Front cover.

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Typographic The cover for the Portuguese edition (Figure 18.3), published in 2012, chooses a simple typographic approach, without adding any other elements or styling the type. The author’s name is given distinct importance by its size and in occupying the majority of the available space. The text announcing the author as a Nobel laureate takes precedence over the book title, which is the smaller text on the cover. It is a modern approach, in line with the design studio’s other book covers as evident from their website (Love Street Studio n.d.). There is nothing about this cover that refers to the nationality of the author, or that hints at the “foreign-ness” of the text. Simultaneously, there is also nothing in this cover that suggests the themes of the novel, it neither accurately represents nor misrepresents the contents of the book, therefore this cover is neutral.

FIGURE 18.4  Mo Yan. 2013. Designed by Marcos Arévalo. Grandes Pechos Amplias Caderas. Translated by Mariano Peyrou. Madrid: Kailas. Front cover.

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Portrait The Spanish and UK editions take very similar design approaches in featuring the face of an East Asian woman as a prominent element on the cover. The UK edition,1 published in 2006, features a close-up that frames only half the face and hair. Jiang describes the woman on the cover as “merely a stereotypical modern Asian-looking woman with slanted eyes” (Jiang 2021, 228). Jiang considers this cover a failure in representing the gist of the text (228), and certainly the image leans more toward a sexualized portrayal than toward the novel’s strong mother Shangguan Lüshi 上官吕氏. Without further elements added to this cover, the portrait of the woman is the only visual element giving the reader an indication of the themes present in the text, which leads Jiang to declare this cover as “deceptive” (228). The Spanish edition published in 2013 by Kailas (Figure 18.4), who have published several of Mo Yan’s books, follows a similar route. The cover shows a blurred face of a modern looking woman, superimposed on a digital drawing that vaguely resembles traditional paper cutting. Like the previous examples, it features a small notation that acknowledges the author as a Nobel Prize laureate. More surprisingly are the characters 女東 [sic], which take center-stage of the design for their large size and placement: the blurred face of the woman implies her as a background in contrast with the sharp, large characters at the front. It was, perhaps, an attempt at “Eastern Woman,” although that still would have had no place on the cover or connection to the text. It must also be questioned why the choice of oversimplified traditional characters, and whether that was a deliberate stylistic choice or an oversight. Both covers prioritize illustrating a woman, but they resort to a stereotypical and unspecific portrayal of a woman that could be any woman. Overall, the UK and Spanish editions display a concerted effort to emphasize the foreign aspect of the novel, and the visual language used is not an accurate translation of the text. However, these two covers are strikingly similar to one another. Marin-Lacarta has examined translations of Chinese fiction in Spain between 1949 and 2010, and has found that indirect translations, especially from French or English, are more common than direct translations (Marin-Lacarta 2018, 310). The information available about the translator of the Spanish edition and the languages they usually translate from leads me to strongly suspect that the Spanish edition is an indirect translation from the English, although I have not been able to confirm this. With this suspicion in mind, it is possible that the 2013 Spanish cover is an interpretation of the 2006 UK cover, rather than an interpretation of the text itself. In that aspect, the cover of the Spanish edition can be considered to be an accurate and faithful translation of the UK cover, but both covers are inconsistent with the contents of the text. Rural China A completely different approach can be found in the Italian (Figure 18.5) and Polish (Figure 18.6) editions, published in 2006 and 2012, respectively. The Italian edition was published by Einaudi, who had published several of Mo Yan’s other works. The first four Mo Yan texts published by Einaudi, which includes Big Breasts and Wide Hips, follow the same design specification: a photograph occupies the lower third of the cover, the author’s name in black at the top, and just

1

It was not possible to secure the copyright for this cover, but see CFBCA (n.d.-b).

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FIGURE 18.5  Mo Yan. 2012. Designed by Szymon Wójciak. Obfite Piersi, Pełne Biodra. Translated by Katarzyna Kulpa. Warsaw: Wydawnictwo W.A.B. Front cover.

below the book title is set in a color harmonized with the tones of the photograph. The photograph itself depicts a woman laboring in a rice field, carrying a young child on her back. There is some success in the choice of photograph: among the four book covers analyzed here that feature a photographic element, this is the only cover that alludes to the motherhood aspect of the novel. The child clinging to the mother’s back can be seen as referring to the narrator’s

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FIGURE 18.6  Mo Yan. 2006. Designed by 46xy. Grande Seno, Fianchi Larghi. Translated by Giorgio Trentin. Torino: Eunadi. Front cover.

dependence on the mother, but the cover does not accurately capture the familial dynamics or nuance of the book. Even though this cover is the closest in capturing one of the themes present in the novel, the photograph still resorts to a stereotypical image of rice paddies, more commonly associated with a rural setting in southern China. Similarly, the Polish publisher Wydawnictwo W.A.B. has also published several of Mo Yan’s books, which all follow the same design criteria as a coherent series. Emphasis is given to the author’s name, which is carefully and thoughtfully set across the top half of the cover, with an inset note inside the “O” mentioning the Nobel Prize award. The book’s title is placed below the author’s title, and a full-bleed photograph wraps the entire book. The design and the choice of photograph

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are very contemporary: the typographic treatment applied to the author’s name using Perpetua, coupled with the simple layout give the cover a modern feel. The background photograph depicts the river and mountain landscape of Guilin in the south of China and traditional bamboo rafts can be seen floating in the river. Notwithstanding its visual appeal, the photograph bears no relationship to the text or to rural life in the town of Gaomi, where the novel is set. The photograph emphasizes a perceived idea of China and locates the text in an imagined “East,” without adequately reflecting the gist of the text. Jiang also identifies an issue in the repeated representations of peasants. For Jiang, these images “reveal a process of cultural translation that is manipulated by an unvarying interpretation of rural China” (Jiang 2021, 230). Both these covers make use of the same graphic devices, and they emphasize the foreignness of the novel. The Italian cover is more successful in relating the photograph to the main theme of the novel, but both covers still locate the text in an imagined idea of the “East,” without accurately translating the main idea, and as a result they too can be considered to be inconsistent with the text. Excluding the cover for the Portuguese translation, which opts for a purely typographic treatment, the remainder of the covers analyzed here “are still predicated on a stereotypical and imagined essence of China to appeal to the sensibilities of English-language publishers and by extension their target readership” (Jiang 2021, 232). Jiang analyzed several English-language translations of Mo Yan’s works, but as demonstrated in this short analysis, when the scope is broadened to include other languages, and when the analysis is focused on translations of the same published source, the same conclusions can be drawn. Jiang finds that there are more artistic renditions being applied to this author’s book covers after being awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2012 (232), but this is not reflected in the narrow sample analyzed here. Furukawa identifies in the translations of Banana Yoshimoto’s Kitchen a middle strategy between foreignization and domestication: covers that might initially appear to be foreignizing the text by emphasizing the differences, are actually evidence of domestication in that “the design is adjusted to a Western stereotyped mould” (Furukawa 2012, 221). The same can be witnessed in the covers that feature photographs of rural China and a female figure: they emphasize the text’s foreignness, but they do so by employing images that reflect Western visions of China, rather than the text within.

CONCLUSION This chapter has presented a short analysis of five covers of Mo Yan’s Big Breasts and Wide Hips. Among those five covers, one was deemed to be neutral, and four were deemed to be inconsistent with the text. This particular author was chosen because I considered him to be significant and representative. However, at this stage, the findings of this short case study cannot be extrapolated across the vast field of Chinese literature in translation. Research that applies a different methodology—for example, following Lutz and Collins’s (1993) method for analyzing large amounts of visual material—is very necessary, and it is feasible as more data is gradually gathered on the database.

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A common concern in the studies that address this topic is indeed how this area remains mostly forgotten about (Furukawa 2012, 228; Mossop 2018, 2; Jiang 2021, 220). In creating and maintaining this database, I am hopeful that it can be used by others to pursue further research in this under-explored area of translation studies and Chinese studies. Interdisciplinary approaches seem to be the most adequate, and this project should prove itself useful to researchers regardless of whether they are approaching the topic from a design-, translation-, or China-centered perspective. For the purpose of this analysis, I deem Mo Yan to be a suitable representative of the field of Chinese literature in translation. On the other hand, of all the authors writing in Chinese and that have their work published in other languages, only two are Nobel laureates. In that aspect, Mo Yan is not representative of the field, and research that analyzes the covers of other authors is necessary, even if they have a narrower reach. Additionally, research that addresses translations to target languages beyond English are urgently needed. The Spanish translation of Big Breasts and Wide Hips can be considered a consistent interpretation of the UK cover but inconsistent with the text. A possible path of investigation is to question if in the case of indirect translations, are the book covers portraying the themes of the text, or are they reconstructing the cover of the language they are translating from? This chapter has also identified the genre of science fiction as taking a completely different design approach from other covers. The repeated use of certain themes in the genre can explain in part the consistency in design approaches even for translated literature; however, I believe this phenomenon still warrants further research, perhaps with a focus on audiences and readership, and the reception of translated science fiction abroad. On a broader note, research that looks at the changing approach to covers—something touched upon by Jiang when stating that Mo Yan’s covers become more artistic after 2012 (Jiang 2021, 232)—could be a fruitful lens to examine changing perceptions of China and the reception of Chinese literature abroad. This point is similarly observed by Mossop, who notes that “a commonplace in Translation Studies is that successive translations of literary works differ from each other because they must respond to cultural and linguistic changes and perhaps new approaches to translation. One may wonder whether changes in the book covers of translations are similarly significant” (2018, 9–10). For Chinese literature, this database is the tool to answer this question. In the future, the database will continue to slowly expand to include a selection of genres, countries, and material that better reflects the initial aims: covering literature from 1917 onwards. Moving on from this initial version, the website’s functionality will also be built upon, to facilitate searching and to improve its useability. The CFBCA makes a case toward expanding even further the field of translation studies to include book cover design as an additional consideration. In studying this new facet, designers, creative directors, and those commissioning the artwork for these covers, can be added to the wide network of participants proposed by Stalling and Schleifer that contribute to the process of translation (Stalling and Schleifer 2021, 24). By analyzing the manner in which Chinese literature is presented to foreign audiences on a foreign stage, it is possible to illuminate the broad range of ideas and perceptions that exist about China, and how these perceptions have changed and shifted across time.

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REFERENCES Chinese Fiction Book Cover Archive (CFBCA). n.d.-a. Available online: http://www.cfbca.info/ (accessed April 30, 2023). Chinese Fiction Book Cover Archive (CFBCA). n.d.-b. “Mo Yan, Big Breasts & Wide Hips.” Available online: http://www.cfbca.info/titles/14-big-breasts-wide-hips#978-0-413-77155-1 (accessed April 28, 2023). Furukawa, Hiroko. 2012. “Representations are Misrepresentations: The Case of Cover Designs of Banana Yoshimoto’s Kitchen.” TTR: Traduction, Terminologies, Redaction 25 (2): 215–33. Jiang, Mengying. 2021. “Book Cover as Intersemiotic Translation: Between Image, Text and Culture.” Asia Pacific Translation and Intercultural Studies 8 (3): 219–35. Jones, Gwyneth. 2003. “The Icons of Science Fiction.” In The Cambridge Companion to Science Fiction, edited by Edward James and Farah Mendlesohn, 163–73. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Love Street Studio. n.d. “Book Projects.” Available online: https://lovestreetstudio.com/projects/books (accessed January 20, 2022). Lutz, Catherine A., and Jane L. Collins. 1993. Reading National Geographic. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Lynx Qualey, Marcia. 2020. “Digital Archive Collects Arabic Book Covers of the 20th Century.” Al-Fanar Media, October 9. Available online: https://www.al-fanarmedia.org/2020/10/digital-archive-collectsarabic-book-covers-of-the-20th-century (accessed January 5, 2022). Marin-Lacarta, Maialen. 2018. “Mediated and Marginalised: Translations of Modern and Contemporary Chinese Literature in Spain (1949-2010).” Meta: Translators’ Journal 63 (2): 306–21. Mossop, Brian. 2018. “Judging a Translation by its Cover.” The Translator 24 (1): 1–16. Open Library. 2021. “Open Library Vision.” Last modified July 23. https://openlibrary.org/about/vision (accessed January 17, 2022). Pieratt, Ben, and Eric Jacobsen. n.d. “Book Cover Archive.” Available online: http://bookcoverarchive.com/ (accessed January 5, 2022). Rose, Gillian. 2016. Visual Methodologies: An Introduction to Researching with Visual Materials. London: Sage Publications. Salmani, Bahloul, and Zahra Eghtesadi. 2015. “An Intersemiotic Approach towards Translation of Cover Designs in Retranslated Classic Novels.” Theory and Practice in Language Studies 5 (6): 1185–191. Stalling, Jonathan, and Ronald Schleifer. 2021. “Unpacking the Mo Yan Archive: Actor-Network Translation Studies and the Chinese Literature Translation Archive.” In A Century of Chinese Literature in Translation (1919–2019): English Publication and Reception, edited by Leah Gerber and Lintao Qi, 23–40. London: Routledge.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Madmen, Marxists, and Modernists: A Century of Lu Xun in Translation DANIEL M. DOOGHAN

Lu Xun 魯迅 (1881–1936) is by far the most translated modern Chinese author. Hongjuan Xin (2021, 89–90) identifies over forty translations or editions of what the writer identified as his “creative work.”1 Yet this work constitutes only a fraction of Lu Xun’s total output. Of the rest, about half of his essays, all of his verse, and most of his scholarship have also been translated. Although some of these translations are out of print or available only in specialist publications, the now eighteen volumes of Lu Xun’s collected works in Chinese are well represented in English. However, the overarching aim in translating Lu Xun has been to represent him in English as a literary figure, at the expense of the polymathic intellectual that the Chinese sources reveal. What is more, Lu Xun as a world literary figure mutates repeatedly over the century of its existence, according to the commitments of the translators and the purposes of the translations. What follows is an account and discussion of those translations and their effects on the representation of Lu Xun in English. Lu Xun’s first appearance in English is symptomatic of the effacement he undergoes in translation. The True Story of Ah Q appeared in 1926 in Shanghai.2 Translated by George Kin Leung 梁社乾,3 the story appears as a novella in a single volume. A free adaptation of the “Preface” to Nahan (Outcry; 1923) combined with some biographical information of varying accuracy constitute an appendix. Where accurate, that information paints Lu Xun as a broad-minded educator and writer. Where inaccurate, it reveals how Lu Xun in English becomes detached from his life and work in Chinese: crudely here, because Leung links the pen name Lu Xun to Zhou Zuoren 周作人 (1885–1967), the author’s brother (Lu Hsün 1926, 93). Leung identifies Lu Xun as “this great writer of the modern school” without any commentary on his role in that school (93). The translation itself is awkward in places, with some errors, despite Lu Xun’s review.4 Lu Xun emerges as a writer of fiction—true—but not its innovator or theorist.

《吶喊》,《彷徨》,《故事新編》,《朝花夕拾》,《野草》. See Lu Xun (2017, 51). Wang Baorong (2011, 17) mentions a 1924 translation of《狂人日記》, but the text appears to be lost. 3 At the expense of consistency, contemporary transliterations have been maintained throughout for ease of bibliographic reference. 4 Lu Xun, however, did not know English. He notes in his diary both receiving the manuscript and returning it with corrections (Lu Xun 2005, 15:69–70). He comments on the translation in Jottings (2017, 43–4). The Yangs offer an abridged version of the same comment in Selected Works (Lu Xun 1985, 2:320). 1 2

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Like many early English versions of the author’s work, this translation circulated among an anglophone population in Shanghai.5 Not all of these were so anodyne in their framing of the author, though. The periodicals China Forum and People’s Tribune both printed translations of his stories, the former by George Kennedy and the latter by Lin Yi-chin.6 These venues differed dramatically in that the China Forum was a leftist journal run by an American (Isaacs 1974, xxvii) whereas The People’s Tribune was Chinese-run and affiliated with the Kuomintang (Qian 2012). Some stories also appeared in The China Press (Lu Hsin 1935, 1936a) and T’ien Hsia Monthly by different hands. T’ien Hsia sought to present in English a positive, eclectic national identity for China, drawing on works from several periods and factions (Liu 2019, 399). In 1938 it published its first Lu Xun story, which was not one of his famous vernacular pieces but “Looking back to the Past,” Feng Yu-sing’s 馮餘聲 translation of《懷舊》, which had gone uncollected until the same year after its 1913 publication in classical Chinese. Two years later Wang Chi-chen 王際真 published translations of two vernacular stories in the journal that would be collected in his Lu Xun anthology (Liu 2019, 405). Despite the differing political commitments of these journals, they consistently presented Lu Xun as a representative of China and the best in Chinese literature. The diversity of those commitments, however, indicates that no singular Lu Xun existed even among the anglophone venues of Shanghai. The first English translation outside China was a retranslation of an earlier French version. J. B. Kyn Yn Yu’s “La Vie de Ah Qui” first appeared serially in 1926. The text is abridged to the extent that the method of Ah Q’s “victories” is absent or at least understated, and the conclusion interpolates a fabricated passage that has a character “weeping over this unjust condemnation” in response to Ah Q’s execution (Kyn 1929, 124; Mills 1930, 94). Three years later the translation was anthologized with Kyn’s translations of 《孔乙己》,《故鄉》, and six stories by other authors. In 1930, Routledge brought out an English edition of Kyn’s collection: The Tragedy of Ah Qui and Other Modern Chinese Stories. Translator E. H. F. Mills rendered the French into English, apparently unaware of its Chinese context. Neither version features the story’s disquisition on Ah Q’s name that would give Ah Qui some phonetic resonance, so the French is likely a pun that the English misses: Ah Who. Mills carries over Kyn’s maudlin additions and excisions from the French that defang Lu Xun in favor of cheap pathos. The following year another relay of translations produced a dissimilar Lu Xun. A letter, from the “Left Writers’ League of China” appeared in the radical journal New Masses in June 1931. Although this letter was signed by a corporate author, Lu Xun had already appeared in New Masses in January of the same year in a photograph identifying him as the leader of the league. Moreover, Wang-chi Wong (1986, 196–97) attributes the letter to Lu Xun and Agnes Smedley, and the translation to the latter and Mao Dun 茅盾 (1896–1981). The letter concerns the February 7 execution of young writers, a topic to which Lu Xun would return later. This letter, which exists only in English,7 links Lu Xun to an international network of leftist authors.

Wang Baorong argues that its intended audience was the Chinese student of English (Wang 2011, 21n48). Lin is only credited on three of the stories, but Wang Baorong argues that all seven stories in The People’s Tribune are stylistically consistent (Wang 2011, 121n306). 7 Wong (1986, 196) identifies a similar statement published in China in the first issue of the League of Left-Wing Writers’ journal,《前哨》. 5 6

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Politically sympathetic to New Masses’ line is Edgar Snow’s 1936 collection Living China.8 Lu Xun features prominently with seven pieces, one of which is the first English translation of an essay: “Mother’s.” Another, “Kites,” comes from Lu Xun’s pioneering collection of prose poems. Snow’s introduction to the collection highlights Lu Xun’s role in the development of modern Chinese literature to that point, which a longer concluding essay by Nym Wales (Helen Foster Snow) discusses further. Lu Xun knew Snow and had been working with him on bringing out a solo anthology in English, writing a preface to it in 1933; the volume never appeared (Lu Xun 2005, 7:411–12; 2017, 52–3). What stories the author had intended for that collection are unknown, as is the extent of the overlap between them and Snow’s selections for Living China. Lu Xun played a role in the development of another troubled English collection, though this one ultimately came out—in 1974. Planned for a 1934 release, Harold Isaacs’s Straw Sandals was shelved on account of Isaacs’s falling out with his communist friends and consequently his fellow traveler publisher (Isaacs 1974, xliv). The subsequent appearance of Living China foreclosed any other opportunities for publication (xliv). Five stories by Lu Xun appear in the collection: “K’ung I-chi,” “Medicine,” “Diary of a Madman,” “Gust of Wind,” and “Remorse.” The first two are George Kennedy’s translations from China Forum; the remainder are unsigned, but Wang Baorong also attributes the rest to Kennedy (Wang Baorong 2011, 96–7).9 Isaacs is ambiguous on this point, suggesting many hands (Isaacs 1974, xliii, xliv). Lu Xun wrote a foreword to the volume that was available only in Chinese until 1974.10 What is more, Lu Xun advised Isaacs on the selections—with characteristic tartness (lx). Many do read like student efforts, but they all have consistent politics. Lu Xun got to choose, or at least shape, his company and advance an image of Chinese literature in English that was resolutely leftist. The first anthology devoted to Lu Xun in English, Wang Chi-chen’s Ah Q and Others, was published in 1941. Wang’s translations are good, and he frames the stories as both a corrective to American ideas about China and a means of presenting China as a global player (Lusin 1941, vii–x). Wang offers eleven stories drawn from《吶喊》and《徬徨》, seven of which had not yet been collected in an English book. Wang also translated two more stories for his 1944 collection Contemporary Chinese Stories, in addition to those by other prominent writers. Although Wang’s 1941 anthology consolidates in English Lu Xun’s position as the foremost representative of modern Chinese literature, a few other works appeared before the next wave of translations. In 1942, Lin Yutang 林語堂 (1895–1976) took a similar tack to Wang by making Lu Xun part of his geopolitically aspirational Chinese philosophy. He rendered attractive quotations from the author’s oeuvre as aphorisms, but without context (Lin 1942, 1083–90). Yuan Chia-hua and Robert Payne brought out a collection of translations in 1946, with a version of《風波》 serving as the lead story. Its paratexts do not entirely match its contents, suggesting plans of a grander project that did not materialize.11 A 1947 typescript publication from the University of Hawai’i contains a translation by C. H. Kwock of《鴨的喜劇》. Two years later a translation by

Lu Xun’s friend Yao Ke 姚克 (Yao Xinnong 姚辛農; 1904–1991) assisted Snow with the translation. In 1940, Kennedy contributed “The Old Home” (《故鄉》) to Chinese Student: Far Eastern Magazine (Lusin 1940b, c). 10 Posthumously in the 1937《且介亭雜文》(Lu Xun 2005, 6:21–2). However, Isaacs (1974, xlvii) implies that an English translation was in his possession. 11 It also mistakenly gives 1935 as Lu Xun’s year of death (Yuan and Payne 1946, 170). 8 9

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Joseph Kalmer of《明天》appeared in the British magazine Life and Letters. This was to be the last one-off translation before the more comprehensive translations to come. Although many of the early anthologized translations of Lu Xun are relatively easy to find secondhand or in libraries, they have been superseded by the systematic translations that followed.12 The remaining translations merit special attention because they are those the contemporary reader is most likely to encounter. As the most prolific of Lu Xun’s translators, the wife and husband team of Gladys Yang and Yang Xianyi stand out through the sheer volume of their editions. Working for Beijing’s Foreign Languages Press (FLP), they translated all of Lu Xun’s “creative” works as well as dozens of his occasional essays. Complicating an account of their translation practice is the fact that they revised their translations over the decades they were working. Furthermore, many publishers brought out different selections of their translations. The academic bent of these publishers ensured that the Yangs’ Lu Xun was a classroom staple, even as each of these collections framed the author differently. Oxford’s 1973 collection, Silent China, includes material from all genres in which Lu Xun wrote, including poetry and a short but pointed selection of his essays. Norton’s 1977 Selected Stories of Lu Hsun, itself a reprint of a 1972 FLP collection, primarily offers pieces from《吶喊》 and 《徬徨》, with only two from《故事新編》. This was reprinted as recently as 2003, with a desultory introduction by the novelist Ha Jin 哈金 (1956–). Indiana’s 1981 edition, The Complete Stories of Lu Xun, excludes the stories from《故事新編》despite its being translated by the Yangs twenty years earlier. These variations present Lu Xun in different ways to his English readers; the nature and scope of his cultural critique is in play, as is his range as a creative writer. However, the Yangs also undertook a more systematic presentation of Lu Xun with FLP beginning in 1956. By 1961, the first edition of their four-volume Selected Works was complete. The first volume contains a selection of stories, prose poems, and autobiographical essays drawn from his creative works, as well as a long biographical sketch by his friend the writer Feng Xuefeng 冯雪 峰 (1903–1976). The other three volumes offer selections from Lu Xun’s many 雜文 essays. These reveal a thinker entwined with the cultural and political events of his day, and which constitute the bulk of Lu Xun’s corpus. These are now sometimes marginalized as being inaccessible to the contemporary reader due to now esoteric references (Lu Xun 2017, 7). Nevertheless, due to their scope the Selected Works have been a standard in English for sixty years. Beyond these selections, the Yangs translated many of Lu Xun’s works in their entirety. The five creative works have gone through multiple editions. These formed the basis for most of FLP’s bilingual editions of Lu Xun’s works released in 2000 at the behest of Jon Kowallis (2012, 197–98). These are invaluable for students of Lu Xun or Chinese, though their printing quality is unfortunately lacking. The Yangs also brought out with FLP Lu Xun’s pioneering Brief History of Chinese Fiction first in 1959, going through successive editions in 1964 and 1976. Overall, the Yangs’ translations are a bit stiff and do not quite do justice to Lu Xun’s humor, but this is not to say that they lack style, as they hew closely to the original in many ways. Their Lu Xun might be a bit flat, but his ideas come through robustly and accessibly with a minimum of apparatus.13

The translations done for magazines and newspapers, however, can be difficult to find outside of restricted archives. Hongjuan Xin lists one more translation that remains elusive: “Remorse” by Chen Limin (Xin 2021, 89). 13 The directness may be by design. Hongjuan Xin attributes it to FLP’s ideological constraints as a government organ (Xin 2021, 100). Kowallis suggests, not incompatibly, that it was to promote accessibility (Kowallis 2012, 206). 12

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William Lyell’s 1990 translations aim for greater attention to Lu Xun’s complex shifts of register. Central to the author’s style, humor, and revolutionary import is the play of a vernacular Chinese against classical passages, which Lyell attempts to render into English (Lu Xun 1990, xl). The results can be awkward; the humor, though more visible than in the Yangs’ versions, does not quite land. Lyell concedes the looseness of the translation, though many of his freer moves in translation serve to make linguistic shifts visible to the English reader, even if those shifts are not analogous to those in the original. His use of archaism and dialect is clear in its intent, if blunt in its effect. However, Lyell shines in his footnotes: his explanations are generous, making the volume attractive for students and general readers. It includes all the stories from《吶喊》and《徬徨》, as well as Lu Xun’s 文言 story《懷舊》, but excludes《故事新編》and other works beyond the fiction. Given the thematic consistency between “Huaijiu” and the two volumes of short stories, the inclusion makes sense, but that same consistency diminishes Lu Xun, making him out to be just an author of short stories and downplaying his complex relationship to tradition. The most recent translation, Julia Lovell’s 2009 collection for Penguin, The Real Story of Ah Q and Other Tales of China, admirably includes all of Lu Xun’s fiction. Its presence among Penguin’s Classics marks Lu Xun as a vetted staple of world literature, and while this is certainly deserved, it makes him speak to a specific vision of world literature. Its style is the most literary with rich diction and concise phrasings, fitting into an elite, if mundane, global anglophone (Kowallis 2012, 207). This is not entirely unexpected: for the past thirty years, critics have sought to recover a modernist Lu Xun from the realist and Marxist interpretations of the past. However, this critical discourse highlights Lu Xun’s idiosyncrasy and inimitability rather than easily slotting him into a pantheon of good literature as the representative of modern China.14 Still, this volume is likely to become the standard because of its wide availability, though it again presents him as just an author of short stories. Correctives to this view are available, though many are intended for specialist audiences. Lu Xun’s verse writings have received five translations. Huang Hsin-chyu 黃新渠 translated a selection in 1979; Wu Juntao 吴钧陶, in 1981; W. J. F. Jenner, in 1982; David Y. Ch’en, in 1988; and Jon von Kowallis in 1996. Different definitions of verse shape the collections, with some including Lu Xun’s modern-style poems and others being more restrictive. Kowallis’s volume is superior with its extensive commentaries on the poems and their contexts. Beyond verse, Lu Xun and Xu Guangping’s 許廣平 collection of love letters,《兩地心》, was translated in 2000 as Letters between Two by Bonnie McDougall for FLP. Other translations from his letters and diaries appear occasionally in the critical literature.15 Finally, his essays received new attention in Harvard University Press’ 2017 collection Jottings under Lamplight.16 This edition eschews the Yangs’ chronological organization in their Selected Works in favor of a thematic presentation to better serve the nonspecialist (Lu Xun 2017, 7). The edition features translations by many current scholars of Lu Xun, though it offers fewer of the Yangs’ punchy selections in favor of those resonating with

This latter trend is exacerbated by Penguin’s title and Orientalist cover design. See Kowallis (2012, 199). Ng Mau-sang also translated three pieces from Yecao in support of a critical essay (Lu Xun 1986, 26:151–54). 16 Jottings contains most of the post-Yangs essay translations first published elsewhere, but see also Shu-ying Tsau and Donald Holoch’s translation of “On the Power of Mara Poetry” in Denton (1996); Kowallis (Lu Xun 2011, 39–62); and Pollard’s translations of “The Evolution of the Male Sex” and “Three Summer Pests” in his 2002 anthology The Chinese Essay. 14 15

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broader literary and cultural criticism. An inexplicable absence is “On ‘Hard Translation’ and the Class Character of Literature” given its importance both to Lu Xun’s translation practice and as a statement of translation theory. That piece is blunt in its politics, though, which may not fit the more reflective tenor of the collection. Nevertheless, the volume makes the critical Lu Xun more widely available in English rather than just the literary Lu Xun. Sadly, given the importance of translation to his work, Lu Xun’s many prefaces to his translations and editions of works (Lu Xun 2005, vol. 10) are unavailable in English.17 The different Lu Xuns who emerge through the selection and framing of translations come into sharper relief when examined in detail. Following Hans Vermeer’s ([1989] 2004, 236) contention that translations are “commissioned” products that bear traces of their commission, analyzing parallel translations of Lu Xun may yield insight into the motivations behind his disparate representations. Given the absence of a single text common to all translators, a comprehensive comparison cannot be undertaken, but all periods of Lu Xun translation are covered here. Further complicating this project are the questions of whether a translator is consistent across all work— the Yangs offer a test case below—and whether a representative passage is indeed that. With these caveats acknowledged, the following selections illustrate the transformative effects of different English styles on translating Lu Xun. The representative passage comes from《孔乙己》. Although not all translators offer a version of it, the story is the most translated at seven times, not counting the Yangs’ revisions. It captures the complicated relationship between tradition and modernity that animates much of Lu Xun’s work, even at the level of language. The passage concerns Kong’s response to a mocking question about why he never passed a civil service exam: 孔乙己立刻显出颓唐不安模样,脸上笼上了一层灰色,嘴里说些话;这回可是全是之乎者也之类, 一些不懂了。在这时候,众人也都哄笑起来:店内外充满了快活的空气。 (Lu Xun 2005, 1:459) Its sixty-seven characters form seven distinct descriptions: Kong’s initial reaction, the spread of pallor over his face, his attempt to articulate a response, the content of that response, the intelligibility of that response, the response of the crowd, and the change in ambience. The prose is direct without overly complex diction, though it draws out what could be a quick description into the seven movements described above. The translators complicate or condense the passage to achieve different effects, with some taking significant liberties with the text. For Kong Yiji’s first English appearance, Mills closely follows Kyn’s French (Kyn 1929, 70–1). This results in purple prose: At these words, Con y Ki seemed much distressed. He looked all round with an empty gaze, his face was covered with invisible ashes, while from his mouth poured quivering words of rhetorical characters (Che, fu, ye Che …) this time totally unintelligible. Then everyone burst out laughing, and the tavern was invaded by gaiety. (Mills 1930, 46)

17

A welcome exception: Mair and Zhang (2020).

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The passage imparts a more pathetic bent to Kong by interpolating description: the opening of the second sentence does not appear in the original, nor do “quivering” and “poured.” The violent “invasion” of the last line complicates the original’s simple 充满了. This emotionally charged presentation exacerbates Kong’s abjection, recalling the same volume’s mawkish additions to “Ah Q.” By contrast, Kennedy follows Lu Xun’s prose carefully, and shows no evidence of Straw Sandals’ stated politics. It remains crisp in English: “K’ung I-chi appeared immediately to droop uncomfortably, and his face turned ashen grey. He made some remark, but this time it was so entirely literary that no one understood a word. Again the whole crowd burst into laughter and the shop was filled with an air of merriment” (Isaacs 1974, 28). Kennedy glosses the classical particles; being more literal would give little to the reader unfamiliar with the grammar of wenyan. Kennedy preserves the seven movements and basic diction, but supplements them with conjunctions that smooth out the English at some cost to the parataxis of the original. The version from The People’s Tribune is less faithful. It condenses the last movements and adds description where none existed: “K’ung looked uneasy—and a look of despair spread over his face. He began reciting in a low voice a string of classical phrases in an affected tone, all of which was absolutely unintelligible to those assembled, but the rendering created a good deal of amusement” (Lu Hsin 1936b, 21). The “low voice” and “affected tone” of Kong’s response are inventions that give shape to his risible “rendering,” whereas the original leaves ambiguous whether Kong Yiji himself or his babble is the object of mirth of the tavern patrons. That laughter as well as the crowd and the tavern get elided in the end in favor of a generic “amusement.” This imputes a pathetic, feigned nobility to Kong as the object of ridicule and evacuates the passage of the more personal and complicated antagonism between the crowd and Kong. The question of the right relationship to tradition disappears here in favor of its critique as bluntly comical. Puzzlingly, Edgar Snow omits the fourth movement. The comedy of the scene thus lacks a source: “Instantly K’ung I-chi was dismayed, over his wrinkled face came a greyish veil, and he ground some incoherent words from his mouth, but nothing that was in the least intelligible. Again the crowd became hilarious and the atmosphere was charged with merriment” (Snow 1936, 46–7). The “incoherent words” are unspecified beyond their unintelligibility. In the absence of more information about what he says, Kong alone is comical. “Wrinkled” is an addition, and “veil” is a bit fancy; to have “ground” words is evocative though unsupported. The sixth movement’s “became hilarious” is an odd choice for the straightforward 哄笑起来, not because of the archaic usage, but because it substitutes the state of the crowd for its action. Again, this downplays the nature of the antagonism between Kong and the crowd because they are not bursting into laughter at his actions but being jolly by contrast. The Yangs’ translations, as they revised their work, offer insight into the consistency of translational practice. Their 1972 Selected Stories version differs from the 1980 edition of the Selected Works in terms of syntax, word choice, and transliteration system; however, the versions are consistent in maintaining the seven parts of the passage and their relative balance. The earlier version generally follows the original’s phrasing: “At that Kung would look disconsolate and ill at ease. His face would turn pale and his lips move, but only to utter those unintelligible classical expressions. Then everybody would laugh heartily again, and the whole tavern would be merry” (Lu Hsün 2003, 21). The two adjectives that describe his immediate reaction are here, followed by a condensation of the next four movements into a two-part sentence. This reverses the presentation of Kong’s utterance

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and its reception, while glossing the former. The inclusion of “Then” opening the sixth movement underscores the connection between Kong and the crowd’s reaction. This rendering sacrifices some of Lu Xun’s verbosity, but keeps the directness and the quality of reportage. Their later version adopts more elevated diction and condenses the passage further: “At once a grey tinge would overspread Kong Yiji’s dejected, discomfited face, and he would mumble more of those unintelligible archaisms. Then everyone there would laugh heartily again, enlivening the whole tavern” (Lu Hsün 1985, 1:54). It reverses the first two phrases, and substitutes the awkward quasi-calque “overspread” for “turn.” However, it maintains the two adjective pattern of his initial response and through it preserves the alliteration of 颓唐, though at the expense of the more direct “ill at ease” for 不安. The rest is quite close but tends toward greater concision: “mumble” for “lips move,” “archaisms” for “classical expressions,” and “enlivening” for “would be merry.” That last shortening simplifies and reverses Lu Xun’s syntax and changes the verb in the seventh movement. It is perhaps more literary, if a little more distant from Lu Xun. Lyell’s version is the longest by a significant margin. He maintains Lu Xun’s verbosity but is inconsistent in literalness: There was an immediate change in Kong’s expression. Now he looked totally crestfallen, and his face was shrouded in grey. He kept on talking—more or less to himself—but every last bit of what he said was of the lo-forsooth-verily-nay variety that nobody could understand. At that point everyone roared with laughter, and the space within the shop and the space surrounding the shop swelled with joy. (Lu Xun 1990, 45) This resections the first two phrases, placing the description of the first into the second and condensing the two adjectives into “crestfallen.” The appositive in the next phrase is an interpolation, if plausible. Lyell is the only translator to attempt to render Kong’s babble into English, following Lu Xun’s syntax for the descriptions of the speech’s content and intelligibility; however, the nature of the content is emblematic of Lyell’s goal of presenting in English the original’s jarring shifts between the vernacular and classical languages. The English archaisms are caricatures and of different grammatical categories from Kong’s particles; they also remain intelligible to contemporary readers. Kong Yiji may be laughable, but he is not a caricature. The sixth movement follows the Chinese. So does the seventh, but with some changes to balance: Lyell translates 店内外 literally but takes eleven words, whereas the remaining eight characters become three English words. The passage captures the original’s length and shifts of register but changes the emphases, and without producing especially stylish prose. Although quite literary in English, Lovell’s translation diverges from the Chinese. It is also the shortest: “This tended to hit home: his face would turn a defeated grey, as he launched into another incomprehensibly classical splutter. At which universal merriment would again prevail” (Lu Xun 2009, 34). Kong’s name and the arresting shift of 立刻 gives way to the deictic “this” and the general “tended.” Such behavior is a tendency in the story, but this presentation evacuates it of Kong’s humanity. He appears only through pronouns, and the specificity of his initial unease is lost through its condensation into “a defeated grey.” Similarly, the crowd and the tavern fade into the abstract “universal merriment,” which “prevails” over an unspecified killjoy. This is an elegant solution to the problem of rendering 店内外 but sacrifices Lu Xun’s precision and simplicity for

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concision and style. It is good as contemporary English creative writing, and it gets the gist across, but abandons the challenge of Lu Xun’s syntax and wordiness. Lu Xun here is very much a part of a cosmopolitan, anglophone world literature, but it is a very different Lu Xun from the idiosyncratic, innovative stylist. Although state-sponsored interpretations did for a time enable a monolithic Lu Xun in Chinese, the breadth of his work shows him as anything but. In translation, though, limited selections and translator intent have had a dramatic effect on the reception of the author. In several—not all— early translations he is staged as a leftist battler, but over time he becomes a more conventional writer of fiction, commensurable with any other. Ironically, this respectable authorial persona has become monolithic in English. Nevertheless, for the determined reader, a more nuanced image is available.

REFERENCES Denton, Kirk A., ed. 1996. Modern Chinese Literary Thought: Writings on Literature, 1893–1945. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Isaacs, Harold R., ed. 1974. Straw Sandals: Chinese Short Stories 1918–1933. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Kowallis, Jon Eugene von. 1996. The Lyrical Lu Xun: A Study of His Classical-Style Verse. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. Kowallis, Jon Eugene von. 2012. “On Translating Lu Xun’s Fiction.” Studia Orientalia Slovaca2 (2): 193–213. Kyn Yn Yu, J. B., ed. 1929. Anthologie des conteurs chinois modernes. Paris: Rieder. Left Writers’ League of China. 1931. “A Letter to the World.” New Masses, June. Lin Yutang, ed. 1942. The Wisdom of China and India. New York: Modern Library. Liu Yueyue. 2019. “Overseas Translation of Modern Chinese Fiction via T’ien Hsia Monthly.” Neohelicon 45: 393–409. Lu Hsin. 1935. “The Diary of a Lunatic,” translated by G. N. Ling. The China Press Weekly (Shanghai), October 13. Lu Hsin. 1936a. “A Cake of Soap,” translated by Chiang Hsueh-tseng. The China Press Weekly (Shanghai), May 10. Lu Hsin. 1936b. “The Tragedy of K’ung I-chi,” probably translated by Lin Yi-chin.] The People’s Tribune 13 (2): 119–24. Lu Hsün. 1926. The True Story of Ah Q, translated by George Kin Leung. Shanghai: Commercial Press. Lu Hsün. 1938. “Looking Back to the Past,” translated by Feng Yu-sing. T’ien Hsia Monthly 6: 148–59. Lu Hsün. 1949. “At Dawn,” translated by Joseph Kalmer. Life and Letters 60 (137): 13–19. Lu Hsün. 1979. Poems of Lu Hsun, translated by Huang Hsin-chyu. Hong Kong: Joint Publications. Lu Hsün. 1988. Complete Poems, translated by David Y. Ch’en. Tempe: Arizona State University Center for Asian Studies. Lu Hsün. 2003. Selected Stories of Lu Hsun, translated by Yang Hsien-yi and Gladys Yang. New York: W. W. Norton. Lu Xun. 1981a. The Complete Stories of Lu Xun, translated by Yang Xianyi and Gladys Yang. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Lu Xun. 1981b. Selected Poems, translated by Wu Juntao. Shanghai: Shanghai Foreign Language Education Press. Lu Xun. 1982. Selected Poems. translated by W. J. F. Jenner. Beijing: Foreign Languages Press. Lu Xun. 1985. Selected Works, 4 vols. translated by Yang Xianyi and Gladys Yang. Beijing: Foreign Languages Press. Lu Xun. 1986. “Wild Grass: Excerpts,” translated by Ng Mau-sang. Renditions 26 (Autumn), 151–54.

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Lu Xun. 1990. Diary of a Madman and Other Stories, translated by William A. Lyell. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. Lu Xun. 2005.《鲁迅全集》[Collected Works of Lu Xun], 18 vols. Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe. Lu Xun. 2009. The Real Story of Ah Q and Other Tales of China, translated by Julia Lovell. London: Penguin Books. Lu Xun. 2011. “Toward a Refutation of Malevolent Voices,” translated by Jon Eugene von Kowallis. boundary 2 38 (2): 39–62 doi: 10.1215/01903659-1301257. Lu Xun. 2017. Jottings under Lamplight, edited by Eileen Cheng and Kirk A. Denton. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Lu Xun, and Xu Guangping. 2000. Letters between Two, translated by Bonnie S. McDougall. Beijing: Foreign Languages Press. Lusin. 1940a. “Dawn,” translated by Wang Chi-chen. Chinese Student: Far Eastern Magazine 3 (3): 14–17. Lusin. 1940b. “The Old Home,” translated by George Kennedy. Chinese Student: Far Eastern Magazine 3 (5, 6, 18). Lusin. 1940c. “The Old Home—continued,” translated by George Kennedy. Chinese Student: Far Eastern Magazine 3 (6): 14–17. Lusin. 1941. Ah Q and Others: Selected Stories of Lusin, translated by Wang Chi-chen. New York: Columbia University Press. Lusin. 1947. “The Comedy of the Ducks,” translated by C. H. Kwock. Journal of Oriental Literature 1: 7–10. Mair, Victor, and Zhenjun Zhang (eds.). 2020. Anthology of Tang and Song Tales: The Tang Song chuanqi ji of Lu Xun. Singapore: World Scientific Publishing Company. Mills, E. H. F., trans. 1930. The Tragedy of Ah Qui and Other Modern Chinese Stories. London: Routledge. Pollard, David, ed. 2002. The Chinese Essay. New York: Columbia University Press. Qian Suoqiao. 2012. “Gentlemen of The Critic: English-speaking Liberal Intellectuals in Republican China.” China Heritage Quarterly 30/31. Available online: http://www.chinaheritagequarterly.org/features. php?searchterm=030_league.inc&issue=030 (accessed May 4, 2023). Snow, Edgar, ed. 1936. Living China: Modern Chinese Short Stories. New York: John Day. Vermeer, Hans J. (1989) 2004. “Skopos and Commission in Translational Action,” translated by Andrew Chesterman. In The Translation Studies Reader, 2nd edn., edited by Lawrence Venuti, 227–38. New York: Routledge. Wang Baorong. 2011. “Lu Xun’s Fiction in English Translation: The Early Years.” PhD diss., University of Hong Kong. Wang Chi-chen, ed. 1944. Contemporary Chinese Stories. New York: Columbia University Press. Wong, Wang-chi. 1986. “‘The Left League Decade’: Left-wing Literary Movement in Shanghai, 1927–1936.” PhD diss., SOAS University of London. Xin, Hongjuan. 2021. “A Descriptive Study of Lu Xun’s Short Stories in the English-speaking World—with Focus on Yang Xianyi & Gladys Yang’s Translation.” In A Century of Chinese Literature in Translation (1919–2019): English Publication and Reception, edited by Leah Gerber and Lintao Qi, 86–102. London: Routledge. Yuan, Chia-hua, and Robert Payne, eds. 1946. Contemporary Chinese Short Stories. London: Noel Carrington Transatlantic Arts.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The Translation of Migrant Worker Literature: China’s Battler Poetry MAGHIEL VAN CREVEL

Since the 1980s, up to 300 million people in China have tried to escape rural poverty and make their way into urban life by looking for work in the cities. Directly exposed to the violence of global capitalism, many of these migrant workers are faced with the hardship that comes with precarious labor. Second-class citizens in many ways, they are the foot soldiers of China’s economic rise but not necessarily its beneficiaries. And they write poetry. Not all of them by any means, but enough for their poetry to enter the public eye. Their writing reflects their hardship: think displacement, exploitation, alienation, and a fundamental lack of socioeconomic security. While the voices of the best-known poets among them are unmistakable, much of this writing is unsophisticated by conventional literary standards. Theirs is a poetry that works toward social identification and the restoration of dignity in the precarious worker as a writing and reading subject, and a poetry of testimony and advocacy. Several of its authors have said they write to change their destiny, even as they realize this goal is hard to reach. Similar to subaltern literature of other times and places, this poetry raises questions at the nexus of aesthetics and social experience. How do these questions play out when this poetry travels abroad, into other languages? What drives its translation? How is this reflected in what gets translated, with this question taken in the broadest sense? While this chapter will focus on translation into English, its relevance extends to translation into other languages.1

WHAT TO CALL IT Let’s start from the names of the genre and their English renditions. The designation of China’s migrant worker poetry is a complex and contested affair, in Chinese and English alike. In Chinese, it has been called 农民工诗歌 “peasant worker poetry” and subsumed under larger categories

As I have worked on several projects on this poetry in recent years, the present chapter borrows the occasional passage or turn of phrase from other recent work (see list of works cited, especially van Crevel 2021, forthcoming).

1

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such as 底层写作 “subaltern writing,” 草根文学 “grassroots literature,” 工人诗歌 “worker poetry,” and 新工人文学 “new worker literature.” Each of these terms has generated discussion. In the present context, suffice it to note that the one that translates as “worker poetry” conflates migrant worker poetry with state-sponsored proletarian literature of the high-socialist era, and the one that translates as “new worker literature” is intended as a term of empowerment in the postsocialist era. But the Chinese name by which the genre is most widely known, and perhaps the only name by which it is known to the general reader, is 打工诗歌, romanized as dagong shige. This expression deserves an adequate English translation. It literally means “the poetry of working for the boss,” as the most prominent component of 打工文学 dagong wenxue “the literature of working for the boss,” which also comprises fiction, nonfiction, essays, and drama by migrant workers, about the migrant worker experience. But “the poetry of working for the boss” is a mouthful. Not to mention that it could be taken to mean that working for the boss is a poetic experience, which is not what the translator would want to convey in this case. 打工 dagong “working for the boss” generally refers to low-status, precarious labor. This is typically what migrant workers find themselves compelled to do: long hours, low pay, physically demanding and sometimes dangerous work, and a fundamental lack of control over their destiny in terms of employment prospects and civil rights. At the same time, alongside the hardship that comes with uprooting oneself from the countryside to dagong in the city, the term evokes a sense of opportunity in the context of the reform era and China’s economic rise, conjuring an image of perseverance in the face of adversity. Thus, a panorama of suffering, inequality, and injustice is punctuated by stories of migrant workers whose ordeal in the city enables them to build luxurious homes in their native village, to afford better education for their children than they received themselves, and so on. In this way, as migrant workers have become visible as a social group whose cheap labor is indispensable to China’s development but whose circumstances signal profound disadvantage, dagong has come to carry connotations of agency, dignity, and solidarity as well as subalternity, denigration, and atomization. This duality, coupled with the colloquial conciseness of dagong and a desire for literalness or at least resonance whenever we can help it, moves me to propose rendering dagong shige in English as “battler poetry.” I do so after an Australian colloquialism for “ordinary” or working-class individuals who persevere through their commitments despite adversity … Typically this adversity comprises the challenges of low pay, family commitments, environmental hardships and lack of personal recognition … It is a term of respect and endearment intended to empower and recognise those who feel they exist at the bottom of society. (Wikipedia n.d.)2 In a nutshell, “battler poetry” attempts a resonant if not exactly literal translation of the source term, whereas “migrant worker poetry,” also frequently used in English, is more of an explanation. There is nothing wrong with explanations, and of course explanations are translations in their own way. And yet, depending on context, this poetry deserves to be called “battler poetry” in English

2

I first called it “battlers poetry” (e.g., van Crevel 2017a), but I have since grown convinced that the -s needs to go.

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alongside “migrant worker poetry.” This is not just because dagong shige is the most widely used term in Chinese but also because the comfortably undefinable notion of style can be especially challenging for the translator of this writing, as we will see below. In English, in addition to “migrant worker poetry” and “battler poetry,” other designations of this writing include “labor poetry,” “workers’ poetry” or “worker poetry,” and “working-class poetry.” All three fail to evoke either or both of the dual connotations of dagong. In addition, the English “workers’ poetry” reiterates the conflation of precariat and proletariat in the Chinese gongren shige, and thus of misery and jubilation. And “working-class poetry” belies the fact that Chinese state capitalism is not conducive to social class formation, especially in the lower strata of society. As of this writing, class and class struggle are politically sensitive notions in China, and they are not part of official discourse.

WHAT GETS TRANSLATED? Battler poetry is a recent topic in the study of Chinese literature, and the number of published translations to date is limited. Yet the particular nature of battler poetry enables the exploration of issues of translation that are specific to the genre. To identify these issues, this chapter raises a well-known question in translation studies along loosely functionalist lines (Nord 2013): What drives the translation of battler poetry? What is its translation meant to be and do? What motivates the translation of battler poetry, and what determines how its translation works out? And what gets translated, as a result? In asking these questions, I proceed from two established facts. First, the translation of poetry is rarely a commercially viable endeavor in itself. Second, different from classical poetry, the translation of modern poetry from Chinese remains a peripheral affair when compared with other languages. Moving on from these observations we can home in on battler poetry as distinct from the various broadly modernist poetries in Chinese that have received the most attention in scholarship and translation to date (see, for example, Manfredi and Lupke 2019).

THE AESTHETIC IMPULSE AND THE MORAL IMPULSE Focusing on mainland China in the postsocialist era, we find that the vast majority of translation is undertaken for “avant-garde” 先锋 poetry, a term that means something else than it does in the West, but is similarly associated with high literature and culture (van Crevel 2017c, pars. 72–113). Except for a few early texts published in the context of the 1978–1979 Democracy Movement (see S. G. Goodman 1981, ch. 5), what drives the translation of Chinese avantgarde poetry is by and large what I will call the aesthetic impulse, with the translator primarily addressing a literary audience of fellow scholars, students, and general readers of literature. The texts are presented to this audience for their (foreign) aesthetic value—even if this process is frequently marked by politicization, when the poem is made to tell us as much about particular (foreign) visions of Chinese politics and society as about poetry (Bruno 2012, 264–68; van Crevel 2019c, 338–44).

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When it comes to the translation of battler poetry, it is by no means the case that the aesthetic impulse and the literary audience disappear from view. For one thing, the translators may well be the same people; and—just like the literary audience—they are bound to take an interest, if only because this new genre on the block also claims the status of literature. However, because battler poetry is circumscribed and overdetermined by the social experience of its authors, it complicates the issue of aesthetic value and often triggers in its commentators a juxtaposition of aesthetic value and social significance. This juxtaposition can be of the soul-searching, self-questioning kind, but it often takes the form of a zero-sum game instead: the greater the poem’s aspirations to social significance or its ambition to effect social change, the lower its aesthetic value. In that case, to rework W. H. Auden’s dictum, it is not just that poetry makes nothing happen, but rather that poetry that does make something happen, or harbors this ambition, cannot be any good.3 But also in less rigid scenarios and for the soul-searchers (among whose number I count myself), battler poetry’s source texts and its translations will foreground the complexities of literature’s relation to reality, of the relation of word and world. At the same time, battler poetry is capable of addressing other audiences than the literary: for instance, as a way of community-building among precarious workers and as evidence invoked in the work of social scientists (e.g., Sun 2014, ch. 7) and labor activists (examples below). So there is a moral and sometimes activist and/or documentary impulse at work in battler poetry as well, triggered by the pursuit of justice and truth as much as by the pursuit of beauty, and reinforced because in China, poetry is a firmly rooted social practice that has endured from antiquity to the present. And this moral impulse extends to the translation of battler poetry. Translator and poet Eleanor Goodman’s afterword to Qin Xiaoyu’s 秦晓宇 Iron Moon: An Anthology of Chinese Migrant Worker Poetry is a case in point (Qin 2016, 199–200). Iron Moon is a groundbreaking effort in the translation of battler poetry. Presenting the work of thirty-one authors, it qualifies as a survey anthology of the genre, even if Qin’s selection reproduces the disturbing male dominance that marks most representations of contemporary mainland-Chinese poetry. The aesthetic impulse is evidently present in Goodman’s other reflections on translation, but her afterword to Iron Moon is an undiluted plea for seeing China’s battlers and hearing their voices, focusing on the world behind this poetry rather than the words in it—even though she pays painstaking attention to those words in her actual translations (see Klein 2019). As such, the afterword implicitly portrays poetry as the amplifier of a morally compelling message rather than anything like art for art’s sake. It says nothing about the poetry as poetry. Of course, my choice of words here is questionable in that it presumes a particular poetics that might be irrelevant to battler writing. One that holds, for instance, that poetry is a type of language that draws attention to itself more than to the realities it appears to signify. This highlights the need to ask at every turn whose aesthetics we are talking about as we study battler poetry—and as we study its translation. Different from her afterword to Iron Moon, Goodman has elsewhere addressed this question in great detail (Goodman 2017). This goes to show that the translator’s perspective and their positioning are not a matter of either/or any more than the source text author’s, and that they are not carved in stone for the individual that moves through the various settings and stages

3

Pace Share 2009, I go with the admittedly simplifying popular take on Auden’s dictum.

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of their writing and translating (cf. Brownlie 2013, 45). The moral impulse is not static and it does not exclude the aesthetic impulse, for the translator or their audience—quite aside from the fact that the moral impulse does not make the translator any more money than the aesthetic impulse and beggars can’t be choosers. The cynicism of this expression is propelled here by the improbable disregard for translation in a world that would be dead without it or at least very dull.

SETTINGS To ask if battler poetry is true literature or just labor activism with line breaks, then, would be to create a false dichotomy and fail to recognize the very synergy of the aesthetic impulse and the moral impulse that defines this poetry, even if their relative weight fluctuates. But even though the aesthetic impulse and the moral (activist, documentary, etc.) impulse mix and synergize, distinguishing them can shed light on the question of what gets translated. I take this question broadly. It can, for instance, speak to the selection of source texts. This may be affected by the author’s “story” and the poem’s message—as in, what does it paraphrasably “say”?—especially when the story and the message overlap (much of battler poetry is demonstrably autobiographical), and when they align with hot topics in the media: say, the tens of millions of “left-behind” children growing up without their (migrant) parents, or consumer complicity with violations of labor law in Chinese manufacturing (e.g., Zhang 2018; Rauhala 2015). But the question of what gets translated can also be about the actual translations, about the actual words presented by the translator to the target-language reader together with their paratexts, as translations and paratexts reflect translation strategies that are motivated by the nature of the genre. I have noted that many battler poems are unsophisticated by conventional literary standards in the host culture setting, where they might be called pamphletesque, clichéd, naïve, technically unaccomplished—for instance, in their frequent use of abstractions and big words such as “life,” “destiny,” “fate”—and more generally unconstrained in various ways. So if the source text is unsophisticated, does the translator sophisticate the poem in translation, and do they tell the reader? If not, do they explain and justify the poem’s lack of sophistication in a paratext, or do they unapologetically send it out there on its own? We will return to these issues below. Obviously, the audience has a major role to play here. So the selection of source texts, their manipulation in translation, and their paratextual framing will all depend to some extent on the nature of the venues where the translations appear. For battler poetry, this includes small-press literary publishing, usually with an explicitly international outlook, that counts as culturally elitist (this is not a value judgment). For example, the White Pine Press in the United States, where Iron Moon appeared, and Giramondo in Australia, which published Zheng Xiaoqiong’s 郑小琼 (1980–) In the Roar of the Machine: Selected Poems in 2022, also in Goodman’s translation. To my knowledge, In the Roar of the Machine is the first full-fledged single-author book of battler poetry in English translation, fittingly so as Zheng Xiaoqiong is the face of China’s battler poetry.4

Indonesian and Vietnamese translations of Zheng’s《女工记》(Stories of Women Workers) appeared in 2017, by Willy Japaries and Hàn Hồng Diệp, respectively. Chantal Chen-Andro published a book-length anthology of Zheng’s work in French in 2020. See MCLC Resource Center (n.d.).

4

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She left her home in rural Sichuan for the Pearl River Delta in 2001, and dedicated herself to writing at the same time as working on the assembly line for close to a decade. Zheng is the exception that proves the rule: in the late 2000s she actually succeeded in “changing her destiny,” writing her way out of subalternity and into a socioeconomically secure position as a ranking editor at《作品》 (Artworks) in Guangzhou (see Zhou 2021). One of Zheng’s signature texts is a poem called《生活》(Life; 2006, 23). Eleanor Goodman and Zhou Xiaojing have gone before in translating it into English (Qin 2016, 112; Zheng 2017).5 This is my translation: Life You all don’t know but my name is now hidden in a work ID my hands are now part of the assembly line, my body signed over to a contract, hair gone from black to grey, what’s left is the racket and the rush and the overtime and the wages … through the white-hot lamplight I see my tired shadow projected on the machine, slowly shifting, turning, bending, silent like a chunk of cast iron oh iron that speaks like a mute, covered in the trust and hopes of strangers all this iron rusting in time and trembling in reality I don’t know how to protect a voiceless life this life that’s lost its name and gender, mechanical life at the mercy of contracts where is it and how does it start, on eight iron dorm-room bunk beds moonlight shines on sorrow, in the roar of the machine there’s slyly flirting love and youth berthed on a pay slip, how can this restless mortal life comfort a frail soul, if the moonlight comes from Sichuan my youth is set alight by memories but dies out on the assembly line seven days a week what’s left is blueprints, iron, metal products, white quality labels, red rejects, and under the white-hot lamp the loneliness I still bear and the pain amid the rush, hot and endless … But in addition to literary small-press publishing, battler poetry in translation also appears on labor activism platforms and in mainstream media, as the entry point to a discourse of social justice and hence in an explicitly instrumental role (not a value judgment, take two). The most striking example is the work of Xu Lizhi 许立志 (1990–2014), the second-biggest name in battler poetry after Zheng Xiaoqiong. Xu’s fame was tragically occasioned by his suicide. Originally from rural Guangdong, he was a factory worker at the Shenzhen plant of Foxconn, a globally dominant electronics manufacturer that is infamous for the cruelty of its labor regime and the resultant “Foxconn suicides” of the early 2010s. Like many other battler authors, Xu published his poetry privately, on his blog. When he ended his life, the universal topos of the Poet’s suicide combined with China’s migrant workers’ ordeal to produce highly mediagenic subject matter and generate an explosion of publicity, leading to the posthumous publication of

Line 7 in the source text as included in Zheng’s first book (2006, 23) has 托付与期待, which I render as “trust and hopes.” Zhou and Goodman work from a source text that has 失望与忧伤, which they render as “disappointment and grief.”

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a book of Xu’s poetry with the prestigious Writers Press (Xu 2015). Outside China, Xu made the pages of labor activism platforms such as China Labour Bulletin and Libertarian Communism as well as popular and highbrow mainstream media such as Time and the London Review of Books among countless other venues (CLB 2014; Nào 2014; Sheng 2014; Rauhala 2015; on Xu, see van Crevel 2019b). One of Xu’s best-known poems is called《一颗螺丝掉在地上》(A Screw Falls to the Ground; Xu 2015, 214). It has a wide appeal, in labor-activist contexts and beyond. Time illustrated a long essay on Xu Lizhi, called “The Poet Who Died for Your Phone,” with an image of a screw in mid-air (Rauhala 2015). The poem’s appeal is explained by its brevity, a hard-hitting message of dehumanization, and a final line that runs “a human being fell to the ground” and appears to foretell the suicide of its author, who leapt to his death from a high-rise near the Foxconn plant. An English translation appeared on Libertarian Communism soon after Xu’s death (Nào 2014). This is my translation: A Screw Falls to the Ground a screw falls to the ground in this night of overtime it drops straight down, with a faint sound and it won’t attract anyone’s attention just like when some time ago in a night just like this a human being fell to the ground A third setting in which battler poetry appears in translation is that of international poetry events. The Rotterdam Poetry International Festival, for instance, featured Guo Jinniu 郭金牛 (1966–) in 2015, with English translations by Brian Holton (Guo 2015), and Zheng Xiaoqiong in 2019, with English translations by Jonathan Stalling, Zhou Xiaojing, and Eleanor Goodman (Zheng 2019), alongside Silvia Marijnissen’s Dutch translations of both authors. If small-press publishing often leans toward the aesthetic impulse, and activism platforms and mainstream media often lean toward the moral impulse, then international poetry events can be seen to partake of both (unless they are defined by the moral impulse to begin with, such as the Singapore migrant worker poetry competitions and festivals that have taken place since the mid-2010s). Poetry events with a diverse line-up will make ample room for the story of battler poetry—but equally so for the story of every other poet who makes it past the event’s gatekeepers, not just those whose work invites classification under the moral impulse. Thus, if all goes well (for which it is essential that translation be well resourced), international poetry events can actually counterbalance the powers of the prefix that makes someone not a poet but a woman poet, a Chinese poet, a battler poet. Depending on the context, the prefix can be reductionist as well as emancipatory—or, it can be primarily informative and enable the reader to decide for themselves, with plenty of room for variety and eclecticism. This point came to me during the 2019 Poetry International Festival, when I sat in an audience of over a thousand that took in Frank Báez’s “Self-Portrait” (translated by Hoyt Rogers, see Báez 2019) just as enthusiastically as it did Zheng Xiaoqiong’s “Hu Zhimin” (translated by Zhou Xiaojing, see Zheng 2019). The

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former is a hilarious, self-mocking, quasi-autobiographical parody of (male) poethood. The latter is a heart-rending poem about a rural girl who is forced into sex work in the city and dies of alcohol poisoning.

CHOICES In regard to the selection of source texts, it is safe to say that what gets translated of battler poetry are overwhelmingly texts that foreground the hardship of the migrant worker experience. This holds for aesthetically driven settings as well as morally driven ones, and it shows in the multipleauthor anthology Iron Moon as well as in scattered translations of poetry by individual authors in serial venues in print and online. Notably, even the rare optimistic poem in Iron Moon can be seen to reaffirm what is ultimately a pessimistic message, albeit indirectly. Consider, for instance, the almost unimaginable cheerfulness and generosity in Wu Xia’s 邬霞 (1981–)《吊带裙》(Sundress). In Goodman’s translation, Wu’s sweatshop labor of ironing, folding, and packaging clothes for export spawns a declaration of love for the “unknown girl” who will buy the sundress in “a fashionable store,” wear it as she walks down “a tree-shaded lane” and then “sit by a lake or on a grassy lawn/and wait for a breeze/like a flower” (Qin 2016, 165). Aside from the genderstereotypical image of the girl (beautiful and vulnerable, passively awaiting an outside actor), what stands out is the contrast with the terse author byline. It says Wu Xia, born in rural Sichuan, “began working in Shenzhen at the age of fourteen.” Child labor, roughly 2,000 kilometers away from home. But could it be otherwise? Would it be a good thing if translations of battler poetry did more to foreground the opportunities brought by migrant labor instead of the hardship? First of all, opportunity tends to lose out to hardship in the source texts too, and in Chinese-language commentary. After all, battler poetry is rarely the product of a carefree life. Then again, if this sounds like stating the obvious, we should not lose sight of the agency, dignity, and solidarity that are also connoted by dagong, and of the embodiment of these sentiments in battler literature. There is a lot of this, for instance, in writing by members of the Picun Literature Group 皮村文学 小组, based at a nongovernmental organization for labor rights on the outskirts of Beijing, whose slogans include “All battlers under heaven are family” 天下打工是一家 and “Labor is glorious” 劳动最光荣, echoing political rhetoric from both Chinese antiquity and the contemporary era (see van Crevel 2019a). But overall, it is hardly very surprising that the selection of source texts for the translation of battler poetry tends to highlight the suffering, inequality, and injustice that trigger the moral impulse to translate, especially when the translations are presented in contexts that activate the emancipatory power of the prefix. So, does the prominence of suffering in the translations suggest confirmation bias during the selection of the source texts? Or does it simply reflect the nature of the genre? As for the actual translations, far be it from me to suggest that translators of battler poetry mechanically adopt, or switch between, strategies and styles depending on the relative weight of the aesthetic impulse and the moral impulse in a given project. Hence, I differ with Lucas Klein when it comes to the “stiffness” of the Xu Lizhi translations by the Nào blogger(s) on the Libertarian Communism website (Klein 2019, 214–15; Nào 2014). In Klein’s view, this stiffness implies that “either Xu has no worthwhile poetics”—which I would say begs the question of why Nào bothered

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to translate Xu’s poetry at all—“or … his poetics must remain forever inaccessible beyond the translational border,” which in this case runs between battler poetry as an authentic expression of the battler’s experience and this poetry’s literary translation into English. But maybe the stiffness of the translations reflects something else: a lack of literary-translational expertise and/or the readiness to invest time and effort. Not a value judgment, take three. After all, said expertise is not automatically interesting or available to all, and said readiness presupposes a poetics that the blogger(s) may not subscribe to. It is conceivable, for instance, that poetry is not their usual input or output medium, they feel Xu’s poetry matters because of a message that aligns with their cause and the vexed question of paraphrasability does not enter their line of vision, and they are not tuned in when it comes to linguistic subtleties or style at large. And it is equally conceivable that for them, their experience of the text requires no conscious positioning, let alone explicit assertion. My sense of how the Nào translations work is strengthened by the way they appear on screen, where each line of the source text is followed directly by its translation. Regardless of the reader’s proficiency in Chinese and English, this exposes them to something not unlike consecutive interpreting-per-sentence rather than the organic wholeness of a poem that a high-literary translation might aim for. None of this detracts from the validity of Klein’s assessment of the Nào translations, or from the space that is open to me for agreeing with his assessment, or from the space that is open to Klein for adopting a different style in his own translations of Xu’s work (CLB 2014). On the contrary, all that is precisely the point. As long as the translators and their audience proceed from the observation that there is poetry here and hence an aesthetic of one kind or another is at work, the translator is going to do their best to speak back to the source text in ways that do it justice and the audience are going to do their best to hear it so, and there is no single right way of speaking or hearing. And yes, I assume the Nào blogger(s) and other mostly morally driven translators do in fact register the presence of an aesthetic and this does govern their word choice, even if they experience this differently from their mostly aesthetically driven counterparts, who are more likely to be poetry specialists. I would venture that for the poetry specialists, doing justice to battler poetry (world over words?) requires the same mix of considered rules and equally considered rule-breakings that is required for translating high-literary poetry which signifies nothing but itself (words over world?). It is just that the rules will be different, and so will the rule-breakings. And so for the translator who has worked on avant-garde poetry from China, expanding their scope to include battler poetry is likely to give them pause. Recalling her translation of “Sundress” and other poems by Wu Xia, Goodman writes: “These poems are as straightforward in Chinese as they are in English … So why did I find it agonising to translate them?” The answer is that she found herself “crashing into [her] own internalized value judgments about what ‘good’ poetry is.” To illustrate this, she picks a phrase uttered by author/speaker Wu Xia to address the secondperson “unknown girl” who will buy the sundress, in a fata morgana that could not be further removed from the sweatshop where Wu works and the dress is made. The phrase in question is 我爱你, which means “I love you,” possibly the most clichéd expression in the trade. Goodman notes this would likely provoke knee-jerk resistance to “what was perceived by a cultural elite as sentimentality” in a creative writing program she attended in the United States, “quite aside from what the words in question might mean and be elsewhere.” She proceeds to ask herself exactly

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that, with due attention to the social, political, and cultural context of Wu Xia’s writing. And shows convincingly why her translation ended up “not underplaying the love, or finding ways around it, but emphasizing it instead” (Goodman 2017, 118–21). As a fellow scholar/translator of both avant-garde poetry and battler poetry, I recognize Goodman’s dilemmas and her ruminations. These things highlight the importance of interrogating one’s professional socialization, of recalibrating the perspectives one has been taught to take. Aided by collaborative work with other scholars/translators working on (Chinese) subaltern cultural production (e.g., Iovene 2023), in recent years I have grappled in successive essays with the question of how to engage with battler poetry on its own terms, a deceptively simple expression whose implications extend to the theory and practice of this poetry’s translation. Which authors, and which texts? For which venues? In which words? Accompanied by what sort of paratexts? And since this is also about the translator’s experience and their identities, one might add, even when pointing at oneself: by whom? In writing about and translating Xiao Hai’s 小海 (1987–) poetry, for example, I have found myself differentiating between what we might call nontypical battler poetry and run-of-the-mill texts. (Not a value judgment, take four: that there is such a thing as run-of-the-mill battler poetry is because the genre is overdetermined by the social experience of its authors.) My first essay that features Xiao Hai (van Crevel 2019a) includes a translation of a single poem called《债》“Debts,” with an acknowledgment of its “unusual” character within his oeuvre as a whole, because formal features such as regular line and stanza length make it stand out in what is otherwise almost entirely free-verse writing. If this is privileging the nontypical there may be good reasons to do so, not least because Xiao Hai’s talent for the nontypical appears to lie at the root of his success as a battler poet. And I had another reason for spotlighting “Debts.” While my essay’s scope exceeds Xiao Hai’s poetry, I named it after the poem and used the notion of a debt to reflect on the positionality of the privileged scholar/translator: “I don’t believe in the kind of cultural identification that comes with exclusive ownership claims and disallows outsiders from engaging … But the issues [underlying subaltern cultural production] are real and the outsider owes awareness and respect” (van Crevel 2019a, 131–32 and 141, emphasis added). Yet, if the outsider aspires to a balanced, informed engagement with battler poetry, they need to make room for its full breadth and depth, at the very least by charting its “home” contours more or less comprehensively in translation and commentary alike, and this is what I work toward in more recent work on Xiao Hai (van Crevel 2023). As for the actual translation, for all the unusualness of “Debts,” I still found myself faced with the distance between stylistic conventions in the poem’s source and target settings, particularly in its use of anaphora from start to finish, with sixteen repetitions of the words “You owe” in seventeen lines of verse. Not incidentally, I believe this is representative of a penchant in battler poetry at large for a stylistic feature that may be summed up as insistent enumeration. On that note, perhaps needless to say, the observation that much battler poetry is unconstrained in various ways is not a value judgment (take five). And it takes us back to the question of whose aesthetics we are talking about. If this poetry appears less precisely wrought, less measured, and less perfectly shaped than other writing, that might just be because it was never about precision, moderation, and perfection to begin with—which should lead us to reconsider consensual definitions of poetry rather than concluding that battler poetry falls outside their scope. Not that this makes the task of the translator any easier. But that was never the idea in any case.

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REFERENCES Báez, Frank. 2019. “Frank Báez.” Poetry International. Available online: https://www.poetryinternational. com/en/poets-poems/poets/poet/102-29693_Baez (accessed April 22, 2023). Brownlie, Siobhan. 2013 (reprint of 2010 with corrections). “Committed Approaches and Activism.” In Handbook of Translation Studies, vol. 1, edited by Luc van Doorslaer and Yves Gambier, 45–8. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Bruno, Cosima. 2012. “The Public Life of Contemporary Chinese Poetry in English Translation.” Target 24 (2): 253–85. CLB. 2014. “I Speak of Blood: The Poetry of Foxconn Worker Xu Lizhi.” China Labour Bulletin, October 11. Available online: https://clb.org.hk/content/i-speak-blood-poetry-foxconn-worker-xu-lizhi (accessed April 22, 2023). Goodman, Eleanor. 2017. “Translating Migrant Worker Poetry: Whose Voices Get Heard and How?” Journal of Modern Literature in Chinese 14 (2)–15 (1): 107–27. Goodman, S. G. 1981. Beijing Street Voices: The Poetry and Politics of China’s Democracy Movement. London: Marion Boyars. Guo, Jinniu. 2015. “Guo Jinniu.” Poetry International. Available online: https://www.poetryinternational. com/en/poets-poems/poets/poet/102-26845_Guo (accessed April 22, 2023). Iovene, Paola (guest ed.). 2023. positions: asia critique 31 (2), special issue on cultures of labor. Klein, Lucas. 2019. “Mediation Is Our Authenticity: Dagong Poetry and the Shijing in Translation.” In Chinese Poetry and Translation: Rights and Wrongs, edited by Maghiel van Crevel and Lucas Klein, 201–22. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Manfredi, Paul, and Christopher Lupke, eds. 2019. Chinese Poetic Modernisms. Leiden: Brill. MCLC Resource Center. n.d. “Translations (Aut.).” Available online: https://u.osu.edu/mclc/bibliographies/ lit/translations-aut/ (accessed April 22, 2023). Nào. 2014. “The Poetry and Brief Life of a Foxconn Worker: Xu Lizhi (1990–2014).” Libertarian Communism, October 29. Available online: https://libcom.org/article/poetry-and-brief-life-foxconnworker-xu-lizhi-1990-2014 (accessed April 22, 2023). Nord, Christiane. 2013 (reprint of 2010 with corrections). “Functionalist Approaches.” In Handbook of Translation Studies, vol. 1, edited by Luc van Doorslaer and Yves Gambier, 120–28. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Qin, Xiaoyu, ed. 2016. Iron Moon: An Anthology of Chinese Migrant Worker Poetry, translated by Eleanor Goodman. Buffalo, NY: White Pine. Rauhala, Emily. 2015. “The Poet Who Died for Your Phone.” Time, June. Available online: https://time. com/chinapoet/ (accessed April 22, 2023). Sheng Yun. 2014. “Accidental Death of a Poet.” London Review of Books, November 11. Available online: https://www.lrb.co.uk/blog/2014/november/accidental-death-of-a-poet (accessed April 22, 2023). Share, Don. 2009. “Poetry Makes Nothing Happen … Or Does It?” Poetry Foundation, November 4. Available online: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/harriet-books/2009/11/poetry-makes-nothinghappen-or-does-it (accessed April 22, 2023). Sun, Wanning. 2014. Subaltern China: Rural Migrants, Media, and Cultural Practices. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. van Crevel, Maghiel. 2017a. “The Cultural Translation of Battlers Poetry (Dagong shige).” Journal of Modern Literature in Chinese 14 (2)–15 (1): 245–86. van Crevel, Maghiel. 2017b. MCLC review of Iron Moon: An Anthology of Chinese Migrant Worker Poetry, edited by Qin Xiaoyu and translated by Eleanor Goodman, and of Iron Moon, directed by Qin Xiaoyu and Wu Feiyue. MCLC reviews. Available online: https://u.osu.edu/mclc/book-reviews/vancrevel4/ (accessed April 22, 2023). van Crevel, Maghiel. 2017c. “Walk on the Wild Side: Snapshots of the Chinese Poetry Scene.” MCLC web publications. Available online: https://u.osu.edu/mclc/online-series/walk-on-the-wild-side/ (accessed April 22, 2023).

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van Crevel, Maghiel. 2019a. “Debts: Coming to Terms with Migrant Worker Poetry.” Chinese Literature Today 8 (1): 127–45. van Crevel, Maghiel. 2019b. “Misfit: Xu Lizhi and Battlers Poetry (Dagong shige).” Prism: Theory and Chinese Literature 16 (1): 85–114. van Crevel, Maghiel. 2019c. “A Noble Art, and a Tricky Business: Translation Anthologies of Chinese Poetry.” In Chinese Poetry and Translation: Rights and Wrongs, edited by Maghiel van Crevel and Lucas Klein, 331–50. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. van Crevel, Maghiel. 2021. “No One in Control: China’s Battler Poetry.” Comparative Critical Studies 18 (2–3): 165–85. van Crevel, Maghiel. 2023. “I and We in Picun: The Making of Chinese Poet Xiao Hai.” positions: asia critique 31 (2): 303–31. van Crevel, Maghiel. Forthcoming. “China’s Battler Poetry and the Hypertranslatability of Zheng Xiaoqiong.” Prism: Theory and Modern Chinese Literature. Wikipedia. n.d. s.v. “Battler (underdog).” Available online: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battler_(underdog) (accessed April 22, 2023). Xu Lizhi 许立志. 2015.《新的一天》[A New Day], edited by Qin Xiaoyu 秦晓宇. Beijing: Zuojia. Zhang, Lijia. 2018. “The Orphans of China’s Economic Miracle.” New York Times, March 27. Available online: https://www.nytimes.com/2018/03/27/opinion/china-left-behind-children.html (accessed April 22, 2023). Zheng Xiaoqiong 郑小琼. 2006.《黄麻岭》[Huangma Mountain]. Beijing: Changzheng. Zheng Xiaoqiong 郑小琼. 2017. “Life,” translated by Zhou Xiaojing. Chinese Literature Today 6 (1): 102. Zheng Xiaoqiong 郑小琼. 2019. “Zheng Xiaoqiong.” Poetry International. Available online: https://www. poetryinternational.com/en/poets-poems/poets/poet/102-24307_Zheng (accessed April 22, 2023). Zheng Xiaoqiong 郑小琼. 2022. In the Roar of the Machine: Selected Poems, translated by Eleanor Goodman. Artarmon, NSW: Giramondo. Zhou, Xiaojing. 2021. “Zheng Xiaoqiong.” In Chinese Poets since 1949, edited by Christopher Lupke and Thomas Moran, 330–36. Farmington Hills, MI: Gale.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Fairy Tales in Action: Chinese Online Fiction, English Fan Translation, and the Fan as the Author RACHEL SUET KAY CHAN

INTRODUCTION This chapter chronicles the evolution of a new collaborative and interactive publishing paradigm whose reach extends into other social spheres. This phenomenon involves Chinese online fiction, first published in installments on web platforms, being translated into English by fan-volunteers, also on web platforms, inspiring fiction written in English based on the style and structure of Chinese online fiction. The phenomenon is wide-ranging and includes the production of other cultural artifacts, such as adaptations into television dramas, movies, video games, and fansubbing for English-speaking viewers. From this, the considerable influence of online fiction in Chinese is on display, as it determines the production of fiction originally written in English on the model of the existing Chinese web novels. I will here elaborate on the history and context of such web-based publishing, offering a comparative analysis of the themes of both translated Chinese online fiction and original Englishlanguage fiction, focusing on the web-publishing platforms Wuxiaworld and Webnovel, the most prominent platforms for the publication of Chinese fiction online.

CHINESE WEB NOVELS AS COLLABORATIVE FICTION Fanfiction communities can be situated within the scope of collaborative fiction, a term that Swanson and Gordon (2008) apply to a range of works, from ancient Greek epics such as the Iliad to the fantasy tabletop roleplaying game Dungeons and Dragons. Fanfiction communities are known for their deep attachment to their source texts (McWilliams et al. 2010, 241), with engagements in close reading that have the potential to help the technology-supported community develop literacy skills. Jenkins (2007) shows how, among the various activities, members of fanfiction communities speculate, nit-pick, catalog, and collect, not to mention appropriate and transform. Attributing networked patterns of consumption and interpretation to the field of fandom studies, in a more

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recent study Jenkins (2019) also emphasizes how the collective meaning-making among media audiences constitutes a primary concern in cultural studies, in that personal, even idiosyncratic processes of meaning-making become culturally significant when those meanings are shared by a larger group. Observing online discussion forums, Jenkins argues that online “interpretive communities” (Jenkins 2018, 15) represent a distinctive space that foster a broad range of contemporary forms of literacy, recouping some of the cultural capital and use value of print (Fathallah 2020). What is expected of members are original insights and distinctive contributions, even though this works best when there is interpretive consensus (Jenkins 2018, 16). Interpretive norms in turn might include “rules of notice that prioritise certain aspects of narratives, rules of signification that determine which meanings can be ascribed, rules of configuration that shape the reader’s expectations about likely plot developments, and rules of coherence that shape the kinds of extrapolations readers make” (Rabinowitz 1985, 422). Finally, as argued by Johnston (2015) and Willis (2016), fanfiction hyperseriality, specifically, can develop in “myth,” since it intervenes not only in the narrative worlds of its source materials but also in the social world of its telling. Chinese online literature is a relatively recent publishing phenomenon, having started in 1997, though as of 2016 it is hosted on over 500 websites (Chan 2017). Tian and Adorjan (2016) conceptualize these websites as communities of commissioned production, where readers can affect writers’ output. Today, the practice of reading online fiction is highly popular among Chinese netizens (Xiang and Montgomery 2012), who consume them in their original Chinese language (Yang 2008; Feng 2013; Hockx 2015), but online novels may end up published in book form if they grow in popularity, or even be adapted into film or television productions, to be viewed online via worldwide drama platforms (Xiang and Montgomery 2012) such as Tencent Video.1 This in turn generates the interest of a wider community who may or may not be literate in Chinese, thanks to the translation activities of fans who provide subtitles in translation (fansubbing) (Yuan 2011). An English-literate community is able to view the dramatizations of Chinese online literature and develop an interest in reading the original novel, which it can do thanks to online fiction translation communities (Chan 2017). As China’s Global Times reported in 2016, “thanks to foreign translators, China’s thriving online lit scene is heading overseas” (Yin 2016). International interest in Chinese online literature is becoming more widespread, with foreign readers enjoying Chinese online literature because it features “strong, imaginative plots, and a vast range of genres,” including martial arts stories and plots infused with magic and fantasy (Yin 2016). Some of the translators interviewed stated that they wanted to show audiences “that Chinese culture has advanced.” One translator quit his fulltime job to focus exclusively on maintaining his translation website, suggesting that this practice can become a full-time vocation (Yin 2016). The cycle of these cultural productions generally operates as follows: first a Chinese-language author posts chapters of his/her novel online in installments. If the chapters are popular with readers, the author will likely continue writing and complete the novel. Eventually the completed online novel will enjoy even greater popularity, leading toward print publication and adaptations in various mediums. For example, the novel《步步惊心》(Startling by Each Step) was first posted

Tencent Video (n.d.) hosts, for example, the popular web-drama Candle in the Tomb and its sequels, adapted from the online novel《鬼吹灯》(Ghost Blows Out the Light), by 天下霸唱, pseudonym of Zhang Muye 张牧野.

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as an online series in 2005 by renowned Chinese online fiction author Tong Hua 桐华 (Jinjiang Original Network), but as the novel surged in popularity, it was published as a print novel, then adapted into the Chinese drama series Scarlet Heart (Ockoala 2011), with a Korean version, Scarlet Heart Ryeo, following (Asian Wiki n.d.). Scarlet Heart was broadcast in South Korea, New York City, Malaysia, Singapore, Canada, Japan, and Thailand; a sequel, Scarlet Heart 2, was broadcast in 2014, and a radio drama was also made in 2011, followed by a stage play in 2012 and a movie in 2015 (Wikipedia n.d.). With such exposure, more fans from around the world, including audiences not literate in Chinese, developed an interest in the original novel. In the absence of official English translations, they relied on unofficial English fan translations of the online version. There are even bilingual fans who report purchasing the Chinese print novel after having read the English translations online (Zhang 2011).

FAN TRANSLATION OF CHINESE WEB NOVELS INTO ENGLISH As observed in my 2017 study, fan translations are an important part of global fan subculture activity (Chan 2017). Fans act as agents, negotiating rules regarding the production of translations. Virtual settlements engage in the unofficial translations of popular Chinese online literature as a gamified practice. Understanding of community-building in literary fields should extend beyond print and online literary communities to include independent online literary translation communities. These communities form a “virtual settlement,” where readers and translators engage in a practice consisting of nine elements: components, environment, rule set, game mechanics, theme, information, interface, players, and contexts (Järvinen 2007). There are debates on the constitution of characters, quality of storyline, and endings. Readers, translators, and moderators engage in discussions where they argue and provide evidence about which conclusion will be stronger. There is an element of diachronicity in community-building, wherein readers look to the past, the present, and future, which echoes Anderson’s concept of an “imagined community” (Anderson 1983 quoted in Chan 2017, 52) in which members assume a shared history and connected future. Evans et al. (2017) find that English-language fanfiction sites facilitate community-building through a mentoring pattern that differs from traditional approaches, called “distributed mentoring.” Similarly, the translation site acts as an open forum, enabling readers more experienced with Chinese online literature as translated into English—or even Chinese-literate readers who prefer to read English translations—to mentor less experienced readers in developing their understanding of history or terminology (Chan 2017).

CONCEPTUAL MODEL Figure 21.1 shows the evolution of Chinese online fiction as a cultural product. The graph in Figure 21.1 visualizes the publication process explained above, from serialization to translation to fan influence, publication, adaptation, and then further translation. Adaptation, for instance, sparks interest among the general public, which then creates a need for translations into other languages. Television dramas may be broadcast on streaming websites, whose community also includes fans who provide English fansubs. Simultaneously, fans may also translate the content of

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FIGURE 21.1  Evolution of Chinese cultural soft power through online fiction.

the web novels into English. Some fans go a step further and write and publish their original fiction in English based on the format and structure of the Chinese web novels. Given the widespread influence of certain genres featuring historical figures and events, or myths, these platforms also help spread Chinese culture, as soft power vehicles for transnational audiences. To analyze and describe the structure of the web novel, I here adopt Propp’s morphology of folklore (Propp 1968). As McNeill explains, “folklore” involves the “lore,” or the expressive forms of and a shared awareness of how to behave among a certain “folk,” or group of people united by nationality, ethnicity, region, occupation, interest, or virtually anything that generates a shared cultural understanding (McNeill 2013, 4). Folklore encompasses “the expected folktales, myths, and legends, and yet also includes jump-rope rhymes, pranks, jokes, graffiti, songs, emoticons, gestures” (2). Folklore is distinguished by being transmitted orally, typically, and is therefore malleable, adaptable, and mostly anonymous (9). Folktales are a subset of folklore. Propp claims that all folktales have the same deep structural sequence of functions or meaningful actions by characters. In addition, many have argued that traditional narratives around the world all contain a limited number of basic themes, though superficially varied (Lévi-Strauss 1955, 1984). While Propp’s morphology of the folktale is used here as a theoretical device, it has received criticism by many scholars for being too formalistic and abstract, which makes it impractical as a model for the structural analysis of narrative corpora (Altenburger 2007). Altenburger, among others, attests that Propp’s assumption of a fixed, linear sequence of functions actually restricts the applicability of his model to other cultures—though in Propp’s defense, he does not claim universality for his model. In addition, according to Collingwood (2004, 260), the initial ambiguity

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regarding the word “folk” in “folklore” centers around two possible interpretations of the word; that of “folk” as populus (the entire body of a nation or community) or as plebs (the lower orders of that populus). The former implies that folklore should include all the ideas of the community at large, as distinct from its individual members, while the latter implies the ideas peculiar to its lower social strata (260). Of course, these assumptions also rest on the debatable premise that the culture of the elite consists of original works created by individual thinkers, artists, and so on, and that society is divided into an educated elite and subordinate classes, each with its own superstructure of ideas (Collingwood 2004). In retrospect, as Zipes (1988) states, it is nearly impossible to define the fairy tale as a literary genre because it has become more of a cultural institution than anything else. While such fiction may not always be viewed through the lens of highbrow culture, it is a shared imaginary, which Zipes calls “marks that leave traces of the human struggle for immortality.” Zipes pays tribute to the social function of fairy tales, concluding that the fairy tale has become totally institutionalized in our society, part of the public sphere, with its own specific code and forms through which we communicate about social and psychic phenomenon. Ultimately, in the process of internationalizing fairy tales, translation is not only a transfer of linguistic signals but also an action in the source culture leading to parallel activity in the target culture (Dollerup 1999, 291). As Dollerup observes, the strongest bond in translations exists between texts and readers, and as part of this chain, in communication between translators and readers (304).

CASE STUDY How do translators become authors and participate with readers in the creation of web novels in an online translation community? To answer this question, I chose the Chinese fiction translation websites Wuxiaworld and Webnovel as my primary sources, since they represent the two most prominent collaborative websites, each with its own discussion forum. According to its statistics, Webnovel hosts over 100,000 works by over 60,000 authors, and receives over 60 million total visitors from over 200 countries (Webnovel n.d.). It is owned by mainland Chinese company Qidian. Statistics for Wuxiaworld were not immediately available, although its site mentions that it is ranked by Alexa “as one of the top 2000 websites, and with millions of page views per day, Wuxiaworld has become a brand name in Chinese-to-English novel translation excellence” (Wuxiaworld n.d.). Both Wuxiaworld and Webnovel are also available as mobile apps, with Webnovel available in Apple Store and Google Play and Wuxiaworld available on Android. As a supplementary source of information, I also consulted NovelUpdates.com, a feed listing for translation website updates (Novel Updates Forum n.d.). The forums allow me to gauge information on user discussions regarding the creation of original English-language fiction, to search for threads where a potential author enlists other forumers, who contribute opinions on the originality of character and plot, and who compare web novels to other works. For my analysis of web novel content, I selected threads that were the most recent and which contained the most responses or were the most active. I also read completed stories on the websites, some of which started out as installments posted by authors over several years, which have since been completed and are now published by the author as full-length books.

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Wuxiaworld describes itself as a growing collective of translators making Chinese-language fiction accessible to the English-language readership. The website, owned by Wuxiaworld Limited, was founded in December 2014 by RWX, who translated《盘龙》(Coiling Dragon), among other novels. It describes itself as the current largest Chinese-to-English novel translation platform in the world, ranked in the top 2,000 websites by Alexa, garnering millions of page views per day: Many of Wuxiaworld’s translators originally cut their teeth on Wuxia classics such as novels by Louis Cha and Gulong, and have since moved on more modern Xianxia, Qihuan, and Xuanhuan novels, […]. Wuxiaworld Limited enjoys a strong, collaborative relationship with original rights holders such as 17k.com, and will be expanding into the e-publishing business. The translators of Wuxiaworld are driven by an abiding passion for Chinese fiction, and we continue to look for more opportunities to expand the reach of popular Chinese culture and fiction into the Western world. (Wuxiaworld n.d.) Regarding their scope of activity, Wuxiaworld explains that most of its content consists of translations of Chinese web novels of varying genres, mostly focused on action, as well as sci-fi, fantasy, supernatural, and horror, but also including Chinese genres such as wuxia and xianxia (Wuxiaworld n.d.). For readers’ benefit, the site also explains Chinese cultural concepts (such as Daoism), has a Chinese idiom glossary, a glossary of terms of address in martial arts fiction, and “cores” in Chinese cultivation novels. There are generally two types of cores—the type belonging to beasts and monsters, and the type belonging to cultivators (Wuxiaworld n.d.). There are also guides on learning Chinese (Mandarin and other varieties). Whereas Wuxiaworld explains its role in the translation of web novels, Webnovel stresses its creative side: Webnovel is a global online reading platform for all kinds of marvellous novels and comics. It daily updates serialised content, dedicated to micro-transactions and in-game-purchase mode, defining new trends in the online publishing industry. Webnovel also provides an ideal platform for authors to create their own stories. Webnovel has captured the heart of authors around the world and become the leading app for author monetisation. (Webnovel n.d.) Webnovel also hosts its own discussion forum. These discussions include potential authors interacting with potential readers. For example, an author who intends to start a web novel asked participants in a forum about what genre they would be interested to read. The author also introduced their intended protagonist’s biography and asked forum participants for ideas on developing the character’s personality. Some replies are very comprehensive, to the point of describing the exact psychological profile of the hero, including how they might interact with fellow humans and animals as well as potential reactions to necessities such as food. Examples from other landmark creative works are also discussed to offer inspiration (LuceLucky 2020). As the inclusion of original web novels is a relatively new phenomenon, some fans have debated the inclusion of original works of fiction in online fiction portals. In one forum thread, a

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participant noted that original fiction in English was available on the website’s forum. Another was also optimistic that in the future this might be moved to the main page, rather than being hidden in the forums. One participant remarked that the “difficulty with original novels is the ability to judge its quality.” They elaborated that this was because, “while translated novels are available in the original language and usually have been rated by many people in its original release language, original novels are a more risky investment because the quality is unknown” (starfyre7 2017). Another user brought up the issue of authors’ commitment to completing their work, noting that some authors seem to disappear right before finishing (Liron 2020). As for the website itself, it claims that “In the future, in addition to translations,” it will “open up a curated selection” of original stories, to be “hosted on the front page of the website proper” instead of in the forums section. The website clarifies that “while anyone can post their original writing here,” the special section on the website “will be a curated section,” in which the works would be evaluated for “quality, consistency, and a number of other factors,” suggesting a peerreview process (Original Stories Rules! n.d.). In addition, some participants also discussed the possibility of “reverse translations” where original English-language fictions could be translated into Chinese (Liron 2020). Some were less optimistic about the feasibility of writing original Englishlanguage online fiction, however, and advised that “original stories can hardly survive in such environment” as “there is no way to make a live through writing original novels, and pure hobby can’t persist” (Saltishy 2017; Liron 2020). There is even a page proposing and debating a Chinese name generator, or an automated mechanism for coming up with Chinese names for fiction-writing purposes. This is followed by a generator for magic and martial arts skills, cultivation ranks, and treasure names. One participant advised that these name generators might work better for Western languages than Chinese (Chinese Name Generator for Original Authors n.d.). As mentioned, I also looked at complete web novels, one of which, Overthrowing Fate by Tina Lynge (n.d.), was published in full in October 2016.2 This web novel was written by a non-Chinese author who has since self-published several web novels, after having first posted his/her story in installments on a Chinese online fiction translation website. The web novel belongs to the so-called “cultivation genre,”3 which typically features a hero of humble origins avenging the death of a family member. The setting is a fantasy version of ancient China, populated by magical creatures, objects, and powers, all common elements in martial arts and magical fiction. The characters include a victim, a hero who will avenge the victim, a minor villain, a major villain, the hero’s true and false mentors, the hero’s love interest, and secondary characters such as helpers, donors, and magical creatures. Applying Propp’s folklore framework, the main characteristics of Overthrowing Fate can be illustrated as shown in 21.1 to 21.5. Overthrowing Fate has incorporated all the main elements of Propp’s framework, thus supporting the feasibility of Propp’s model of folktale analysis. Of course, some subelements may not be present, leaving room for variation among web novels. In addition, Overthrowing Fate contains elements of Chinese cultural heritage, such as Chinese names, the Chinese herbal tradition (which

The criterion used for the selection of this web novel lies in the fact that its author has a full record of self-published complete novels. 3 This genre refers to a common trope in Chinese fiction regarding the mythology of immortals, where a human being needs to cultivate their saintliness by performing certain rituals to ascend to the immortal level. It is often correlated with wuxia, Taoist legends, and the qi energy in Chinese martial arts. 2

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TABLE 21.1  The Initial Situation Temporal-spatial determination

√

Composition of the family

√

Childlessness Prayer for the birth of a son Cause of pregnancy Form of miraculous birth Prophesies, forewarnings Well-being, prior to complication The future hero The future false hero Argument of brothers over primacy

TABLE 21.2  The Repatory Situation Interdictions Absentations Violation of an interdiction First appearance of the villain

√

Interrogation, reconnaissance

√

Delivery -betraying -response to villain The villain’s deceptions

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Preliminary misfortune in a deceptive agreement

√

Reaction of the hero

√

TABLE 21.3  The Complication Villainy

√

The conjunctive moment (mediation)

√

The seeker/hero’s entry into the tale

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Form of the hero’s consent

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Form of dispatch of the hero

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Phenomena accompanying him

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Dispatch of the hero from home

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Goal of the hero

√

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TABLE 21.4 Donors Journey from home to the donor

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Donors

√

Preparation for the transmission of a magical agent Reaction of the hero

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Provision

√

TABLE 21.5  From the Entry of the Helper to the End of the First Move The helper (magical agent)

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Delivery to the appointed place

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Forms of arrival

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Details of the setting of the object sought for

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Second appearance of the villain

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Second (first, in the case of lacks appearance of the princess/or of the object of the quest)

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Struggle with the villain

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Marking (personage/manner)

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Victory over the villain

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The false hero (of 2nd type – water-carrier, general) Liquidization of misfortune/lack

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Return

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Pursuit Rescue from pursuit

resembles traditional Chinese medicine), and Chinese social institutions such as clans and martial arts. It also conforms to Lévi-Strauss’s observation that storytelling around the world possesses a limited number of basic themes, with surface variation. The variation here is the author’s knowledge of Chinese cultural heritage, which differentiates their web novels from others of closely related themes or structure. This variation can participate in Chinese cultural soft power.

CONCLUSION Starting with a definition of collaborative fiction, I have described the role of online fan translation communities in the creation of new web novels written in English. I have explained that we can consider these web novels as a form of folklore, which positions it to transcend cultural barriers. This becomes evident when we analyze the martial arts web novels in both languages, as they all adopt the same tropes: the rite-of-passage, in which a hero journeys to complete a quest, consisting of getting revenge for a wronged family member, meeting allies and rivals along the way, overcoming

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minor challenges, which prepare them mentally and physically to face the final challenge at the end, in which they obtain their vengeance. I have also argued that the growth of Chinese online fiction and its spin-off products can boost the popularity of Chinese cultural heritage, constructing positive images of Chinese heroic deeds and presenting historical elements of widespread appeal. When packaged into a Proppian structure with characters and plots for the readers to identify with, it creates a simulacrum of the readers’ own rites of passage. The web novels often work as promotional materials in the dissemination of desirable images in the media, from the web to cinema to television, often extending to tourism, with international tourists drawn to a particular destination where they might recreate the experiences of their favorite film or television characters. Pride in Chinese cultural heritage is one of the themes in the global spread of Chinese online fiction and its side products. Zhang (2018) argues that, to understand Chinese folklore and culture, one must be aware of the new challenges posed by Chinese folklore to the current paradigms of postcolonial and postmodern ideologies. Zhang takes the examples of an increased consumption of local traditional products, such as tea over coffee, or the vogue for wearing traditional outfits, as proof of boosted pride in Chinese tradition: “Chinese people have never been more self-confident in their cultural roots over the past two centuries (regaining the sense of ‘equal’ exchange with others in this globalising age)” (Zhang 2018, 17). The relation between Chinese folklore, Chinese education, and Chinese value systems is also important. See (2015) states that folklore, particularly folk narrative, plays a number of functions in society, including entertainment, the validation of culture, and the transmission of values. He cites tales in Chinese children’s textbooks that teach values such as diligence, determination, loyalty, creativity, courage, and to some extent shrewdness, as important to economic success. This links us back to the issue of Chinese cultural soft power, defined as “an image-making project” (Voci and Luo 2017, 8), or “the ability to get what you want through attraction rather than coercion or payments” (Nye 2004, 256). Voci and Luo (2017) further state that Chinese culture is not and cannot be contained by geopolitical borders and national/nationalistic discourses, and that we should join the choir of those scholars who recognize the development of a more globally framed East Asian soft power relying on shared popular culture such as pop music and TV dramas. Among these scholars are Lee (2018), who examined the projection of “imagined” Chinese soft power through a globalized Chinese culture, noting that the Chinese TV industry acts as a soft powerhouse alongside globalizing Chinese media products, and who concludes that there are different forms of capital in Chinese TV series which are mostly exported to South Korea, Hong Kong, Taiwan, and Southeast Asia since 2012.

REFERENCES Altenburger, Roland. 2007. “Review of Zhao, Xiaohuan. (2005) Classical Chinese Supernatural Fiction: A Morphological History. Lewiston, NY: The Edwin Mellen Press.” Asian Ethnology 66 (1–2): 265–67. Anderson, B. (1983). Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. London: Verso. Asian Wiki. n.d. “Moon Lovers: Scarlet Heart Ryeo.” Available online: http://asianwiki.com/Moon_Lovers:_ Scarlet_Heart_Ryeo (accessed June 1, 2017). Chan, Rachel Suet Kay. 2017. “Game of Translations: Virtual Community Doing English Translations of Chinese Online Fiction.” Journal of Science and Technology of the Arts 9 (1): 39–55.

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Chinese Name Generator for Original Authors. n.d. Webnovel Forum. Available online: https://forum. webnovel.com/d/27263-chinese-name-generator-for-original-authors (accessed November 23, 2020). Collingwood, R. G. 2004. The Philosophy of Enchantment: Studies in Folktale, Cultural Criticism, and Anthropology. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Dollerup, Cay. 1999. Tales and Translation: The Grimm Tales from Pan-Germanic Narratives to Shared International Fairytales. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Evans, Sarah, Katie Davis, Abigail Evans, Julie Ann Campbell, David P. Randall, Kodlee Yin, and Cecilia Aragon. 2017. “More than Peer Production: Fanfiction Communities as Sites of Distributed Mentoring.” In Proceedings of the 2017 ACM Conference on Computer Supported Cooperative Work and Social Computing, 259–72. New York: Association for Computing Machinery. Fathallah, Judith. 2020. “Digital Fanfic in Negotiation: LiveJournal, Archive of Our Own, and the Affordances of Read-Write Platforms.” Convergence 26 (4): 857–73. Feng, Jin. 2013. Romancing the Internet: Producing and Consuming Chinese Web Romance. Leiden: Brill. Hockx, Michel. 2015. Internet Literature in China. New York: Columbia University Press. Jenkins, Henry. 2007. “’Was Herman Melville a Proto-Fan?’ Confessions of an Aca-Fan” [blog], September 25. Available online: http://www.henryjenkins.org/2007/09/was_herman_melville_a_protofan. html (accessed January 31, 2020). Jenkins, Henry. 2018. “Fandom, Negotiation, and Participatory Culture.” In A Companion to Media Fandom and Fan Studies, edited by Paul Booth, 11–26. Hoboken, NJ: Wiley. Jenkins, Henry. 2019. “Art Happens Not in Isolation, but in Community: The Collective Literacies of Media Fandom.” Cultural Science Journal 11 (1): 78–88. Johnston, Sarah Iles. 2015. “The Greek Mythic Storyworld.” Arethusa 48 (3): 283–311. Järvinen, Aki. 2007. “Introducing Applied Ludology: Hands-on Methods for Game Studies.” In Situated Play, Proceedings of DiGRA 2007 Conference, 134–144, Authors and Digital Games Research Association (DiGRA). Available online: http://www.digra.org/wp-content/uploads/digital-library/07313.07490.pdf (accessed August 19, 2022). Lee, Claire Seunguen. 2018. Soft Power Made in China: The Dilemmas of Online and Offline Media and Transnational Audiences. Berlin: Springer. Lévi-Strauss, Claude. 1955. “The Structural Study of Myth.” Journal of American Folklore 68 (270): 428–44. Lévi-Strauss, Claude. 1984. “Structure and Form: Reflections on a Work by Vladimir Propp,” translated by Monique Layton. In Theory and History of Folklore, by Vladimir Propp, edited by Anatoly Liberman, 167–88. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Liron. 2020. “Wuxia World and Original novels. Discussion in ‘Novel General’ Started by Liron.” Novel Updates, May 23. Available online: https://forum.novelupdates.com/threads/wuxia-world-and-originalnovels.37778/#post-1921603 (accessed November 23, 2020). LuceLucky. 2020. “What Type of MC Do You Wanna Read about? Discussion in ‘Author Discussions’ Started by LuceLucky.” Novel Updates, April 10. Available online: https://forum.novelupdates.com/ threads/what-type-of-mc-do-you-wanna-read-about.102925/#post-5528888 (accessed December 26, 2020). Lynge, Tina. n.d. Overthrowing Fate. Available online: https://tinalynge.com/overthrowing-fate/ (accessed December 26, 2020). McNeill, Lynne S. 2013. Folklore Rules: A Fun, Quick, and Useful Introduction to the Field of Academic Folklore Studies. Logan: Utah State University Press. McWilliams, Jenna, Daniel T. Hickey, Mary Beth Hines, Jennifer M. Conner, and Stephen C. Bishop. 2010. “Using Collaborative Writing Tools for Literary Analysis: Twitter, Fan Fiction and the Crucible in the Secondary English Classroom.” Journal of Media Literacy Education 2 (3): 238–45. Novel Updates Forum. n.d. Available online: https://forum.novelupdates.com/ (accessed December 26, 2020). Nye Jr., Joseph S. 2004. Soft Power: The Means to Success in World Politics. New York: New York Public Affairs Books.

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Ockoala. 2011. “Discussion and Summary of Bu Bu Jing Xin the Novel.” A Koala’s Playground, September 13. Available online: http://koalasplayground.com/2011/09/13/discussion-and-summary-of-bubu-jingxin-the-novel/ (accessed June 1, 2017). Original Stories Rules! n.d. Wuxiaworld.com. Available online: https://forum.wuxiaworld.com/discussion/5/ original-stories-rules (accessed December 28, 2020). Propp, Vladimir. 1968. Morphology of the Folktale, translated by Laurence Scott, revised and edited by Louise A. Wagner, 2nd edn. Austin: University of Texas Press. Rabinowitz, Peter J. 1985. “The Turn of the Glass Key: Popular Fiction as Reading Strategy.” Critical Inquiry 11 (3): 418–31. Saltishy. 2017. “Wuxia World and Original novels. Discussion in ‘Novel General’ started by Liron.” Novel Updates, May 23. Available online: https://forum.novelupdates.com/posts/1921633/ (accessed December 26, 2020). See, Hoon Peow. 2015. “Malaysian Chinese Stories of Hard Work: Folklore and Chinese Work Values.” International Journal of Asia-Pacific Studies 11 (2): 1–16. starfyre7. 2017. “Wuxia World and Original Novels. Discussion in ‘Novel General’ started by Liron.” Novel Updates, May 23. Available online: https://forum.novelupdates.com/posts/1921603/ (accessed December 26, 2020). Swanson, Reid, and Andrew S. Gordon. 2008. “Say Anything: A Massively Collaborative Open Domain Story Writing Companion.” In Joint International Conference on Interactive Digital Storytelling, 32–40. Berlin: Springer. Tencent Video. n.d. “WeTV.” Available online: https://wetv.vip/en (accessed April 28, 2023). Tian, Xiaoli, and Michael Adorjan. 2016. “Fandom and Coercive Empowerment: The Commissioned Production of Chinese Online Literature.” Media, Culture and Society 38 (6): 881–900. Tong Hua ju桐华居. n.d. 晉江原 (Jinjiang Original Network). Available online: http://www.jjwxc.net/ oneauthor.php?authorid=32824 (accessed June 1, 2017). Voci, Paola, and Luo Hui, eds. 2017. Screening China’s Soft Power. London: Routledge. Webnovel. n.d. About Webnovel.com. Available online: https://blog.webnovel.com (accessed December 26, 2020). Wikipedia. n.d. “Scarlet Heart - International broadcast.” Available online: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ Scarlet_Heart#International_broadcast. (accessed June 1, 2017). Willis, Ika. 2016. “Amateur Mythographies: Fan Fiction and the Myth of Myth.” Transformative Works and Cultures 21: 1–16. Wuxiaworld. n.d. “About Wuxiaworld ™.” Available online: https://www.wuxiaworld.com/page/about (accessed November 23, 2020). Xiang, Ren, and Lucy Montgomery. 2012. “Chinese Online Literature: Creative Consumers and Evolving Business Models.” Arts Marketing: An International Journal 2 (2): 118–30. Yang, Guobin. 2008. “Chinese Internet Literature and the Changing Field of Print Culture.” In From Woodblocks to the Internet: Chinese Publishing and Print Culture in Transition, circa 1800 to 2008, edited by Cynthia Brokaw and Christopher A. Reed, 333–51. Leiden: Brill. Yin Lu. 2016. “Thanks to Foreign Translators, China’s Thriving Online Lit Scene Is Heading Overseas.” Global Times, March 14. Available online: www.globaltimes.cn/content/973691.shtml (accessed November 15, 2016). Yuan, Tian. 2011. “Fansub Cyber Culture in China.” MA diss., Georgetown University. Zhang Junmian. 2011. “Top 15 richest Chinese writers - Tong Hua 桐华.” China.org.cn, December 6. Available online: http://www.china.org.cn/top10/2011-12/06/content_24040909_2.htm (accessed June 1, 2017). Zhang, Juwen. 2018. “Folklore in China: Past, Present, and Challenges.” Humanities 7 (35): 5–20. Zipes, Jack. 1988. “The Changing Function of the Fairy Tale.” The Lion and the Unicorn 12 (2): 7–31.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Online Translation of Web Novels YIN ZHANG

INTRODUCTION The rapid growth of computer technology resulted in the emergence of the global internet as the “fourth media.” From the standpoint of historical development, each new communication technology revolution creates whole new historical possibilities. Among the unparalleled possibilities of worldwide communication created by the internet, a slew of international translation websites dedicated to translating Chinese web novels have been established in recent years, quickly disseminating Chinese web fiction in Europe, North America, and Southeast Asia. According to the data reported on the website Dream of Jianghu in 2017, in three years, the number of translated Chinese web novels has risen considerably, reaching 1,130 novel projects being featured on international translation platforms, such as the websites Webnovel, Jinjiang, 17k, and Zongheng. Four of the twenty-two Chinese novels translated and published into English overseas in 2016 were originally web novels (Translation Database 2017). In response to this current trend, Chinese publishers are also expanding associated companies for the hard copy publication of web novels. For example, China Literature Ltd launched its global platform, Webnovel (n.d.) for online reading in May 2017. The website’s primary service includes translating Chinese online novels to bring them to the international book market. Thanks to platforms such as Webnovel, Chinese online literature is being disseminated transnationally and used as a low-cost means for non-Chinese readers to understand Chinese culture. Within two or three years, it has accumulated a large readership and fandom, and it has also opened a new window for the study of Chinese online literature. Who are the online novels’ translators? Who are the readers? What is the translation like? How do readers assess the translations? What is the development strategy for the future? These are the questions guiding my exploration, which focuses on three translation websites, namely, Wuxiaworld, Volare Novels, and Gravity Tales.

CHINESE AND INTERNATIONAL RESEARCH Chinese and international scholars define and connote online literature differently since China’s online literature does not have an equivalent pattern of development outside China. Outside China, online literature is primarily referred to as “electronic literature,” as defined by Hayles in Electronic Literature: “[electronic literature is] a first-generation digital object created on a computer and

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(usually) meant to be read on a computer” (2008, 3), which is the third of three common forms of online literature defined by Chinese Professor Ouyang Youquan: “hypertext and multimedia works created by using computer multimedia technology and internet interaction, as well as ‘mechanical works’ automatically generated with the help of specific computer software” (2004, 6). The wellreceived book Internet Literature in China, by sinologist Michel Hockx (2015), is the first Englishlanguage monograph on the topic. It is a comprehensive study of China’s internet literature from the late 1990s to early 2000s, and includes many important works from Taiwan and mainland China. Although Hockx talked of some of the websites and works I discuss here, he did not contemplate issues of translation. As for Hayle’s and Ouyang’s studies, they deal with a type of internet writing that is exceedingly rare and underrepresented in China. Thus, Zhang Li et al. expanded on various scholars’ definitions of online literature, including Wardrip-Fruin’s (Zhang Li et al. 2016), Koskimaa’s (2010), and Hayles’s (2008), by defining Chinese online literature as “original online literature distributed in an online environment for Internet users to read” (Zhang Li et al. 2016, 3). On this premise, in this study, I use the term “Chinese web novels” to indicate “Chinese novels that were initially published and distributed via the internet.” The focus is circumscribed on web novels from mainland China. Currently, there is no published work on the English translation and dissemination of Chinese web novels in English, and the majority of Chinese scholars have concentrated on the online dissemination of web translation and online translation criticism (Xu and Gao 2006; Bai 2007; Gong 2012; Chu and Tian 2015; Huang and Mu 2015; Li 2016). A small group of researchers debated the translation and spread of Chinese web novels: He Mingxing and Wang Danni examined and highlighted the successful dissemination of Chinese web novels in Southeast Asia between 2009 and 2013, analyzing and pointing out that the successful dissemination of Chinese web novels in Southeast Asia has significant implications for cultural exchanges among the countries of the Belt and Road Initiative (He and Wang 2015). Shao Yanjun and Ji Yunfei both consider that foreigners accept Chinese culture on the basis of its “joy” and that foreign readers value novelty in martial arts books and alternative fantasy novels (Shao and Ji 2016). According to Ji Yunfei, the “networkedness” and “Chineseness” of Chinese web novels, as well as “copyright difficulties and genre balance,” are necessary for their globalization (Ji 2016). Zhang Yi examined the difficulty faced by Chinese web novels seeking to expand internationally in terms of the time required for translation and the number and professionalism of translators. He agrees that picking high-quality novels with artistic and social merits as suggested by Chen Cun, Vice-Chairman of Shanghai Online Writers Association, is critical to the internationalization of web novels (Zhang 2017). However, these early studies do not contemplate online novels translated into English, despite the fact that English is the primary target language for Chinese web novel translation. Chinese online novels have gone through a phase of germination, enlightenment, progress, and prosperity since the internet entered China in 1994. The evolution of distinct periods reflects the demands and qualities of the time and is considered an unavoidable by-product of an era of advanced information. Encouraged by the “Internet Plus Initiative” and the “Belt and Road Initiative,” the market value of the internet culture industry is increasing daily and is gradually surpassing the value of the traditional culture market, which provides policy support and a favorable development environment for the international dissemination of Chinese web novels. The growth of the internet facilitates the globalization of literary communication, and the construction of

ONLINE TRANSLATION OF WEB NOVELS 279

an internet-based mechanism for the foreign dissemination of contemporary online novels is conducive to enriching the content of Chinese literature in the international literary market and expanding the channels for understanding Chinese culture. Therefore, understanding the current situation of the English translation of Chinese online novels can help us acquire a bigger picture of Chinese literary dissemination through translation.

ENGLISH TRANSLATION OF CHINESE WEB NOVELS Chinese web novels are now widely available on international translation websites. In 2016, a search for “Chinese web novel” and “translation” in Google Advanced Search returned 8,220 results, while a similar search on Alexa returned hundreds of similar translation websites (Google, 2017-09-29). These websites were categorized primarily into three types: resource-gathering platforms without translation teams, websites that specialize in translating a single or a few genres, and websites that translate multiple genres. The top three translation websites (Wuxiaworld, Volare Novels, and Gravity Tales) were chosen for their comprehensive Alexa ranking, taking into account their average daily PV (page views), daily individual IP (number of visitors), readership, independence and operation mode of translation project teams, diversity of genres, and frequency of updates. It became clear that each translation website has its own strengths while also maintaining similarities. The Mother-Tongue Translation Team Model Each of the three websites was created by a Chinese American. Wuxiaworld was founded on December 22, 2014, by former US diplomat Lai Jingping (RWX) and focuses on translating online xianxia novels and alternative fantasy novels. Gravity Tales was founded in January 2015 by Chinese American Kong Xuesong (GGP), and Volare Novels was founded in December 2015 by Americanborn Taiwanese Etvolare. The latter two were founded under the influence of Wuxiaworld and are both regarded as significant platforms for English translation of Chinese online novels. The original objectives of the three websites are similar: they were all inspired by a passion for promoting Chinese online literature and Chinese culture. Each site has its own translators, project teams, and business strategy, with Wuxiaworld employing seventeen translation teams, Gravity Tales using more than thirty translators, and Volare employing more than sixty translators and editors. They are mostly self-employed translators and native English speakers of Chinese ancestry or expatriates. The translators come from a variety of backgrounds and have worked in a variety of professions. They are primarily from North America and Southeast Asia. Large-scale and sophisticated translation projects necessitate the collaboration of group translations. Consequently, team translation in the form of recruiting volunteers to complete translation projects is the primary translation mode, with translators and editors selected via a proficiency test. The translation test involves having the translator translate a chapter from a novel, whereas the editing test involves having editors modify a defective manuscript within a set time limit. Each novel on the site is assigned a project manager to oversee the translation quality and progress, as GGP stated that proofreading each book regularly costs thousands of dollars. Revenue is mostly generated from reader rewards, the Patreon crowd-funding site, and advertisement shares.

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Cooperation between China and Other Countries The translated novels are selected from Chinese online literature platforms that have been authorized to translate them. Wuxiaworld has begun working with China Literature Limited, Chineseall, and 17k Novels to translate novels from Webnovel, Zongheng, 17k.com, Kanshu.com, and Chuangshi. com. Gravity Tales has partnered with 17k.com and Zongheng, and novels serialized on it are from Webnovel, Chuangshi, Zongheng, iReader, and Dajiaochongmanhua. Volare has partnered with Zongheng, 17k Novels, xiang5.com, and iReader with its ongoing projects obtained from Webnovel, Jinjiang, 17k, Zongheng, iReader, xiang5.com, Tadu, Zhulang, Readnovel, Xiaoxiang, and Yunqi Shuyuan. These are all well-known platforms in China for reading web novels, the collaboration with which implies that the Chinese online literature industry is striving to bring Chinese web novels to the international market, indicating a bright future for web novel translation by joining in the league of translating contemporary Chinese literature. Diverse Translation Genres Wuxiaworld has translated a total of thirty-eight novels, the majority of which are classified as the genre of “alternative fantasy” and xianxia. Categories of science fiction, urban, alternative history, traditional fantasy, and online game are also covered, although, they are fewer in number. Gravity Tales has translated thirty-three novels, also offering translation of game, supernatural, and military themes as well as manga. The two websites are mainly targeting a male readership. Conversely, Volare seems to be more oriented toward a more comprehensive readership, focusing on genres such as romance and time travel, which appeal to both male and female readers (Etvolare and Xiao 2017). As indicated in Table 22.1, alternative fantasy novels, modern novels, and science fiction TABLE 22.1  Number of Translated Novels on Wuxiaworld, Gravity Tales, and Volare by Genres (September 27, 2017) Site Genre Alternative Fantasy

Wuxiaworld

Gravity Tales

Volare Novels

Total

23

11

7

41

Xianxia

7

3

0

10

Wuxia

0

0

1

1

Science Fiction

2

7

2

11

Traditional Fantasy

2

0

1

3

Modern

2

5

7

14

Game

0

3

0

3

Online Game

1

2

1

4

Supernatural

0

1

2

3

Military

0

1

0

1

Alternative History

1

0

1

2

Time Travel

0

0

11

11

Romance

0

0

8

8

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novels are the most frequently translated genres, implying that these three subjects are the most popular with readers and that the number of translations is expected to rise further in the future. Representation of High Level of Literary Merits Among Online Literature I Shall Seal the Sky serialized on Wuxiaworld ranked No. 2 on the 2016 China Online Novel Ranking Semi-Annual List, published by the Chinese Writers Association. The King’s Avatar translated by Gravity Tales ranked No. 4 on the list and has long been at the top of the readers’ voting list. The other two novels on Gravity Tales, namely, Way of Choices (Mao 2014) and Forty Millenniums of Cultivation, ranked No. 1 and No. 3 “completed novels,” respectively, on the 2017 China Online Novel Ranking Semi-Annual List and the 2015 China Online Novel Ranking New Book List. Volare’s Release That Witch also ranked No. 2 on the 2017 China Online Novel Ranking List of novels “to be continued.” Battle through the Heaven (see Tiancan Tudou 2009; Wuxiaworld 2015), The Grave Robber’s Chronicles, A Record of a Mortal’s Journey to Immortality, and Way of Choices, translated and serialized by these three websites ranked No. 1, No. 2, No. 3, and No. 8, respectively, on the 2017 Hurun Original Literature IP Value List. Highlighting Translators’ Dominant Role and Adopting Incentive Measures Gravity Tales designed a system of rating based on the vote given by the readers to the novels. Each month, the translators of the top ten novels are generously compensated, which may inspire them to actively update their translations. Differently from the translators of Gravity Tales, the translators from Volare receive training and can claim ownership of their translations, and are therefore able to make independent decisions about whether or not to retain their translations and how to utilize them. After the translation is complete, the translators might continue to receive a long-term income based on the page views. Additionally, completed translations will be published as e-books, ensuring translators to be compensated appropriately. The monetary incentives can help attract more talents and boost translators’ motivation. Reader-Translator Interaction Wuxiaworld has created a section devoted to cultural-specific terminology associated with xianxia and wuxia novels. This section covers basic knowledge of Chinese Taoist culture, general terminologies, Chinese idioms, titles in wuxia and xianxia novels, and the meaning of “core” in cultivation novels. The section aims to help foreign readers to gain a better understanding of the text. For example, there are detailed English explanations of basic Taoist terms such as 八卦 (Table 22.2), 阴阳 and 四象 (Table 22.3), and the Chinese idiom 弱肉强食 (the weak are preys to the strong), which is translated into “the law of the jungle” by using a domesticated idiomatic expression, to fit into the target context. This section thus works as a bridge to facilitate communication between the

TABLE 22.2  Transliteration of “八卦” on Wuxiaworld 八卦 Bagua (Eight Trigrams)

乾

兑

离

震

巽

坎

艮

坤

Qian

Dui

Li

Zhen

Xun

Kan

Gen

Kun

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TABLE 22.3  Translations of “四象” on Wuxiaworld 四象 Sixiang (Four Phenomena)

少阴

少阳

太阴

太阳

Lesser Yin

Lesser Yang

Greater Yin

Greater Yang

English-language readers and Chinese culture. In addition, the website recognizes the importance of communication between readers and translators, having set up a forum where the readers and the translators can share their views on the texts, and where the translators typically talk of their translating experience and of the difficulties encountered in the translation process.1 Readers leave feedback, either in the comments section, or at the forum, and the translators often entertain a conversation with them.

DISSEMINATION OF CHINESE WEB NOVEL ABROAD Main Audience, Novel Genres, and Online Communication Platforms Readers of web novels are primarily from North America, Southeast Asia, and Europe, according to detailed analyses of translation websites. This is a sizable overseas market with a young readership as the target audience. Readers like web novels because of their storylines and narratives and because they are seen as a repository of Chinese culture. Furthermore, the protagonists in xianxia and alternative fantasy novels are usually heroes who come from humble origins and who achieve their status of heroes through “cultivation.” The hero’s experience is described in first person, while the storyteller introduces details and setting so as to “find a certain way of expression that is smooth and natural” (Hu Anjiang 2010). All this allows for a sense of empathy in the reader. Additionally, the website medium puts the reader into direct contact with the translation team, eliminating the intermediaries of the publisher and the government and allowing the reading of the novel on smartphone applications at any time and in any location. Mother-Tongue Translators That translation website organizers purposefully choose native English speakers as translators is in accordance with the practice of translating into the mother tongue, as encouraged by the translation industry. The translators’ identity and language proficiency are not accurately verified since most of them are selected online. Additionally, no formal contracts are signed between the websites and the translators, and thus the adoption of translation strategies or methods is determined by the translator’s “virtuous quality,” as proposed by Chesterman (1997). Occasionally, translators sever ties with websites or cease translation, resulting in being substituted in the process of translating a

For example, some translators have talked of some possible translation techniques when dealing with Taoist terminology: conform to English idiomatic expressions; be creative and make up neologisms; use Latin or non-English words; and use word compounds. There are also indications of how to edit translations, such as discarding redundant words, avoiding excessive capitalization, using the correct format when spelling Chinese names, etc.

1

ONLINE TRANSLATION OF WEB NOVELS 283

novel that may be serialized in thousands of chapters. In that case, the substituting translator will need to review all previous chapters to avoid a too obviously incoherent approach to the text. Quality Assurance A sample survey I conducted on novels from Wuxiaworld, Gravity Tales, and Volare revealed the following problems: 1. Inconsistent translations of novel titles The title of the novel《全职高手》, by Butterfly Blue, is translated on Gravity Tales as The King’s Avatar, while the official translation on Amazon is Full-Time Master-Hand. In this story, the leading character, Ye Xiu, is regarded as a textbook and a top-tier pro-player of the online game Glory. However, for some reason, he was kicked out of his team. After leaving the professional scene, he finds a job as the manager in an internet café. When Glory launched its tenth game zone, Ye Xiu, who had ten years of gaming experience once again returned to the game. Bringing with him the memories of his past and an incomplete, self-made weapon, his return along the road to the summit began. The protagonist is a top player, so the major plot of the story is based on the game competition. Moreover, he is also an internet manager, so he can be considered a professional game player. The Chinese title exactly indicates his identity and profession, as in The Full-time Master-hand. However, The King’s Avatar also conveys the ability of the protagonist in the use of “king” while “avatar” straightforwardly gives reference to an online game. The translation of Tang Jia San Shao’s novel《神印王座》, on this website, is transliterated, whereas the official translation of the book on Amazon is Throne of God’s Seal. Also the novel《武动乾坤》on Wuxiaworld is only transliterated, a solution that may alienate the English-speaking reader. 2. Inconsistent categorization of the web novel genre The novel School Beauty’s Personal Bodyguard is categorized as modern romance on Webnovel, but it is categorized as comedy, drama, harem, romance, school life, xianxia, and Chinese on Gravity Tales. On Webnovel, Epoch of Twilight is in the science fiction category, while it is in the Chinese category on Gravity Tales. Another classic xianxia novel Chaotic Lightning Cultivation is also miscategorized and is put under the category of action, adventure, fantasy, harem, martial arts, mature, romance, xianxia, and Chinese. This situation implies that there is no unified standard for the categorization of the online literary genre in China (Lan Aiguo 2008), remaining incongruent, in spite of the fact that a genre should be defined as “a recurring type or category of text, as defined by structural, thematic and/or functional criteria … to denote types of popular fiction in which a high degree of standardisation is apparent” (Duff 2000, xiii). Novel Rankings (2017) has provided relevant categories and corresponding English translations for all Chinese web novels. Literal Translation and Overall Translation Style Special techniques of martial arts movements frequently appear in web novels. The translation websites usually adopt the method of transliteration and annotation or literal translation and annotation. Sometimes there are incomplete annotation, unclear explanation, or inconsistent translation. For example, 斗之力and 斗之气旋, which refer to special techniques in Battle through

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the Heavens, are both transliterated and annotated, whereas the names of similar skills, such as 斗气 and 斗技, in the same novel are transliterated but not annotated. 大斗师 and 斗者2 refer to the ranking title of the martial arts practitioner. 斗者 receives transliteration and annotation, while 大斗师 is only transliterated without annotation. 狂狮怒罡 is literally translated as “lion wind strike,” although the accompanying annotation states the translator is “guessing the meaning here.” The translation was then changed to “furious lion’s rage.” Readers may therefore think that these are two different techniques, while in reality, it is the same technique translated in two different ways. Some other specialistic terms are translated literally, but their meanings cannot be inferred from the context and thus would benefit from annotations. Some culture-specific words in the novels receive casual translations without annotation. For example, 洗髓 in Way of Choices is translated as “purification.” The character is originally a Taoist term, first recorded in 《汉武帝 内传》 (Intimate Life of Emperor Wu of Han Dynasty) as “one year to change the qi, two years to change the blood, three years to change the essence, four years to change the pulse, five years to change the marrow, six years to change the bone, seven years to change the meridians, eight years to change the hair, and nine years to change the figure,” which expresses a Taoist ideal of exercising qi for longevity (Baidu baike n.d.). The term has received a translation in the martial arts practices as “bone marrow cleansing” (Shaolin Wahnam Institute n.d.). RWX once reported that they had to abandon the translation of Demi-Gods and Semi-Devils because the cultural background of the novel was too dense to be conveyed efficiently (RWX 2016; Shao and Ji 2016).

OVERSEAS RECEPTION OF WEB NOVELS To gather firsthand information on the reception of Chinese web novels in English translation, I conducted a survey across three websites: Wuxiaworld, Gravity Tales, and Goodreads. I randomly selected fifty users from each website and sent them a link to the questionnaire created on the Questionnaire Star website. Wuxiaworld and Gravity Tales are famous websites translating Chinese web novels, and they have open forums and sections for reader comments. Goodreads is the largest overseas social networking site for book sharing, listing a wide range of Chinese online novels with ratings and also opening sections for readers’ review, making it easier to contact target respondents. In addition to this, a total of 100 paper copies of the questionnaire were distributed to three randomly selected classes of international students at the School of International Culture of South China Normal University. The international students were chosen because of their bilingual backgrounds, which made them more likely to be exposed to this type of literature. The questionnaire link was also sent to a group of overseas respondents via international students through social media apps. A total of seventy-one anonymous questionnaires were returned from online and offline respondents. The questionnaire was designed with twenty-six questions, divided into single-choice, multiple-choice, and fill-in-the-blank questions, mainly concerning information about readers (age 斗气: a concept appearing in wuxia and Chinese fantasy novels. 斗 means “to fight” and 气 refers to a technique that can be practiced to improve body strength. 斗气 refers to a battle of 气 between the people who practice 气 which appears in the form of a magnetic field around the body. 斗者and大斗师: ranking of 斗气 level appeared in the fantasy novel《斗破 苍穹》(Battle through the Heavens). 斗技: a special kind of skill used when controlling 气. 斗之力: the power generated from practicing 气. 斗之气旋: a vortex of 气 to be cultivated by the practitioner at the preliminary phase of practicing 气. 2

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group, professional background, mother tongue, Chinese-language level), reading habits (including reading time, reading purpose, reading preferences, and reading channels), evaluation of online novel translations, and suggestions about translations, translators, and future projects. Social Categories of Respondents The majority of respondents were in the 18–25 age group with 71.83 percent (52) mainly students, followed by 18.31 percent (13) in the 25–35 age group, including students, white-collar workers and senior managers. Among them students were approximately twice the number of other professions. The respondents’ native languages cover English (14), French (5), German (4), Spanish (2), Russian (6), Arabic (1), Korean and Indonesian (15), Thai (4), Latvian (4), Kyrgyz (2), Tagalog (1), Dhivehi (1), Dutch (1), and Hindi (1). Out of the seventy-one reader-respondents, forty had spent some time in China for study or work, ranging from as little as three months to as long as three years; the other thirty-one said they had never been to China. Of those who had studied or worked in China, more than half at 57.5 percent (23) were able to communicate in Chinese on a daily basis, 15 percent (6) were fluent in spoken Chinese, and 15 percent (6) were not only fluent but could read original Chinese novels, while 5 percent (2) knew no Chinese at all, and 7.5 percent (3) could speak only a few words. Those who know Chinese well (30 percent) have had experience in learning Chinese systematically. Comparatively, among the 31 respondents who have never been to China, the corresponding percentages are 19.35 percent (6), 6.45 percent (2), 3.23 percent (1), 35.48 percent (11) and 35.48 percent (11); the proportion of those who know Chinese is significantly lower than that of those who have been to China. In terms of reading habits, 61.97 percent (44) read less than seven hours a week, 18.31 percent (13) read between eight and twenty-four hours per week, while 19.72 percent (14) read for three hours or more a day. The purpose of their reading varies widely: some do it to learn Chinese (50.7 percent), others to broaden their horizons by studying Chinese culture (12.68 percent), others for work (1.41 percent), and others still as a hobby (26.76 percent). By cross-comparative analysis, it was found that those who read for work hardly read online novels. While the majority of those who read online novels do it to learn Chinese or as a hobby. It can also be deduced that younger people with these backgrounds are the potential target readers for Chinese online web novels. Thematic Novelty as the Biggest Attraction to Foreign Readers According to the answers relating to literary genres (question twelve of the questionnaire), the three most popular fiction genres were romance (22.54 percent), martial arts (22.54 percent) and fantasy (21.13 percent). The main selection criteria included diverse themes and unusual narrative perspectives; ingenious storylines and complex plots; fresh and innovative contents, different from Western literature; the unique flavor of martial arts fiction; eroticism; and logical thinking. Etvolare, the founder of Volare, confirms: “the wild, unconventional, and innovative themes” (Etvolare and Xiao 2017) are the main reasons why Chinese online novels appeal to European and American readers. Respondents’ Opinions of the Translation Quality According to the survey, the respondents expressed different opinions on the translation quality. Of the respondents, 9.86 percent believed the translation of web novels was poor and unreadable and 25.35 percent considered it as of average quality but conveyed the basic concept. While

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29.58 percent thought it was excellent. Additionally, 22.54 percent thought the grammar was inadequate, 18.31 percent believed the sentences are not smooth and coherent. While 15.49 percent believed the translation of words was not native and unnatural; 14.08 percent regarded it as difficult to understand the sections containing cyber catchphrases and exotic Chinese culture; and 53.52 percent showed they had not encountered any of the above problems. According to a cross-analysis of the types of novels that respondents enjoyed reading and the translation issues they encountered, 15.38 percent of respondents who enjoyed classic literature believed that the translation was poor and unreadable, 38.46 percent believed the translation was of average quality but conveyed the general meaning, and 23.08 percent thought the translation was excellent. Additionally, the data reveal that translation issues were particularly prevalent in romance novels, wuxia novels, and science fiction novels. Among these, bad grammar, poor word choice, and insufficient translation of culturally loaded Chinese characters were the most prevalent issues in science fiction, but sentence incoherence was the most prevalent issue in martial arts literature. Of the respondents, 59.15 percent hoped that web novels were translated into English by English mothertongue translators—a point that is consistent with the online practice of selecting translators. When asked whether the length of web novels affected the reading experience, 53.52 percent of respondents gave negative answers, believing that what matters was the quality of the story; 25.35 percent believed that lengthy novels were difficult to read; and 21.13 percent believed that their reading experience was contingent on the quality of the updated content. Respondents also wished that the translation was more consistent and smoother, that more Chinese online novels were translated into English and other languages, and that the Chinese government would support and encourage Chinese translators to translate web novels. Some respondents believed the stories were lengthy and wished the authors would omit superfluous materials and devote more attention to the ending. Others considered that web novels should be more aggressively promoted and advertised.

CONCLUSION Research on translation websites indicates that the translation and dissemination of Chinese online novels are expected to grow. English-language translation websites seem to be operating in a good environment, with native speakers of English as translators, judicious selection of novel categories to translate, and a broader young readership. But there are also limitations such as an overly literal translation style, inconsistent translation of novel titles and genre categories, and approximate translations of Chinese cultural connotations. Readers of online novels are from North America, Southeast Asia, and Europe, implying a vast overseas market, with young readers being the main reading group. Chinese online novels (romance, martial arts, and fantasy-themed especially) are loved by foreign readers because they are different from Western genre fictions. The exotic content and diverse genre themes of the Chinese online novels have made them an alternative to more canonized literary works full of “ideological propaganda and preaching” (Geng 2012, 49), injecting new vitality into the literary market. The thematic diversity satisfies different reading tastes of the audiences, allowing readers of the translated works to enter the sociocultural context of the contemporary internet era. In the context of globalization, the distribution model of Chinese online novels has obvious implications for the traditional publishing industry and the

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distribution of literature. But this study also indicates that traditional channels of publication and translation and the web world of literary products are after all addressing different readerships.

REFERENCES Bai Dingguo柏定国. 2007.《网络传播与文学》[Internet Dissemination and Literature]. Beijing: Zhongguo wenshi chubanshe. Baidu baike 百度百科. n.d.《洗髓经》. Available online: https://baike.baidu.com/item/洗髓 经/3335?fr=aladdin (accessed October 3, 2017). Chesterman, Andrew. 1997. “Ethics of Translation.” In Translation as Intercultural Communication, edited by Mary Snell-Hornby, Zuzana Jettmarová and Klaus Kaindl, 147–89. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Chu Yangyang 褚杨杨 and Tian Cuiyun 田翠芸. 2015.《界壳理论下网络翻译批评机制构建》[Online Translation Criticism Mechanism Construction Based on Jieke Theory].《华北理工大学学报:社会科学 版》[Journal of North China University of Science and Technology (Social Science Edition)] (5): 101–04. Dream of Jianghu. 2017. “A Rough Overview of Novelupdates and Possibly Asian Novel Fan Translation and Other Things.” August 25. Available online: https://wwyxhqc.wordpress.com/2017/08/25/a-roughoverview-of-novelupdates-and-possibly-asian-novel-fan-translation-and-other-things/#more-7026 (accessed August 25, 2017). Duff, David. 2000. Modern Genre Theory. London: Longman. Durand, David, and Noah Wardrip-Fruin. 2005. “Cardplay, a New Textual Instrument.” Presented at the meeting of the Association for Literary and Linguistic Computing (ACH/ALLC), June 15–18, 2005, University of Victoria. Available online: https://citeseerx.ist.psu.edu/viewdoc/download?doi=10.1.1.92.9 624&rep=rep1&type=pdf (accessed May 2022). Etvolare, and Xiao Yingxuan 肖映萱. 2017.《从华尔街到中国网络小说翻译》[From Wall Street to Chinese Web Fiction Translation].《文艺报》[Literature and Art Journal], August 7 (2). Geng Qiang耿强. 2012.《论英译中国的对外传播与接受》[On the Transmission and Reception of Translated Chinese Literature].《天津外国语大学学报》[Journal of Tianjin Foreign Studies University] (5): 44–50. Gong Wen公文. 2012.《论网络翻译传播模式》[On the Communication Model of Net Translation].《中国 科技翻译》[Chinese Science and Technology Translators Journal] (2): 22–5. Gravity Tales. 2017. Way of Choices [EB/OL], October 1. Available online: http://gravitytales.com/Novel/ way-of-choices/ztj-chapter-0 (accessed October 1, 2017). Hayles, N. Katherine. 2008. Electronic Literature: New Horizon for the Literary. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press. He Mingxing 何明星, and Wang Danni 王丹妮. 2015.《文化接近性下的传播典型——中国网络文学在越南 的翻译与出版》[Dissemination Model under Cultural Proximity: Translation and Publishing of Chinese Web Novels in Vietnam].《中国出版》[China Publishing Journal] (12): 56–60. Hocks, Michel. 2015. Internet Literature in China. New York: Columbia University Press. Hu Anjiang 胡安江. 2010.《中国文学“走出去”之译者模式及翻译策略研究——以美国汉学家葛浩文为例 [Translator Model, Translating Strategy, and the “Going Out” Project to Promote Chinese Literature Abroad: The Case of American Sinologist Howard Goldblatt]. 《中国翻译》[Chinese Translators Journal] (6): 5–6. Huang Xiaoyan 黄肖彦 and Mu Lei 穆雷. 2015.《传播模式观照下的网络翻译批评模式研究——以 《史蒂夫·乔布斯传》为例》 [Internet-based Translation Criticism Model from the Perspective of Communication Model: A Case Study on Steve Jobs: A Biography].《外语教学理论与实践》[Foreign Language Learning Theory and Practice] (3): 80–4. Ji Yunfei吉云飞. 2016.《“征服北美,走向世界”:老外为什么爱看中国网络小说?》[“Conquering North America and Going to the World”: Why do Foreigners Love Chinese Web Novels?].《文艺理论与批评》 [Theory and Criticism of Literature and Art] (6): 112–20.

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Koskimaa, Raine. 2010. “Approaches to Digital Literature: Temporal Dynamics and Cyborg Authors.” In Reading Moving Letters: Digital Literature in Research and Teaching: A Handbook, edited by Roberto Simanowski, Jörgen Schäfer, and Peter Gendolla, 129–43. Bielefeld: Transcript. Lan Aiguo蓝爱国. 2008.《网络文学的题材类型》[Subject Matters of Web Literature].《社会科学战线》 [Social Science Front] (6): 176–81. Li Qin李琴. 2016.《新世纪外国文学网络翻译研究》[A Study on Translation of Foreign Literature via the Internet in the 21st Century].《西安外国语大学学报》[Journal of Xi’an International Studies University] (4): 118–22. Mao Ni. 2014. Way of Choices [EB/OL]. Available online: https://read.qidian.com/chapter/qZPgQgt0BR81/ ZCd37l77rnUex0RJOkJclQ2 Novel Rankings. 2017. “Qidian Categories.” September 30 (since withdrawn). http://www.novelrankings. com/qidian-ranking/categories/ (accessed September 30, 2017). Ouyang Youquan 欧阳友权. 2004.《网络文学本体纲论》[Ontology of Internet Literature].《文学评论》 [Literary Review] (6): 69–74. RWX. 2016.《翻译中国网络小说的美国人》[An American Translating Chinese Web Novels].《南方人 物周刊》[Southern People Weekly], October 27. Available online: http://static.nfapp.southcn.com/ content/201610/27/c160242.html (accessed October 27, 2016). Shao Yanjun 邵燕君and Ji Yunfei吉云飞. 2016.《美国网络小说“翻译组”与中国网络文学“走出去”——专 访Wuxiaworld创始人RWX》[American Internet Novel “Translation Group” and Chinese Internet Literature “Going Global”: Interview with RWX, Founder of Wuxiaworld].《文艺理论与批评》[Theory and Criticism of Literature and Art] (6): 105–11. Shaolin Wahnam Institute. n.d. “Bone Marrow Cleansing and Other Chi Kung Arts in Kungfu and Healing.” https://shaolin.org/general-2/chi-kung/chi-kung03.html (accessed October 30, 2017). Tiancan Tudou. 2009. Battle through the Heavens [EB/OL]. April 15. Available online: https://read.qidian. com/chapter/2R9G_ziBVg41/MyEcwtk5i8Iex0RJOkJclQ2. Translation Database. 2017. “Three Percent.” July 28. Available online: http://www.rochester.edu/College/ translation/threepercent/index.php?s=database (accessed July 28, 2017). Webnovel. n.d. “Webnovel.” Available online: www.webnovel.com (accessed April 30, 2023). Wuxiaworld. 2015. Battle through the Heaven. Available online: https://hellotranslations.wordpress.com (accessed October 1, 2017). Xu Jun 许钧 and Gao Fang 高方. 2006.《网络与文学翻译批评》[Internet and Literary Translation Criticism].《外语教学与研究》[Foreign Language Teaching and Research] (3): 216–20. Zhang Li张立, et al. 2016.《网络文学发展现状及其评价体系研究》[Research on the Development and Evaluation System of Network Literature]. Beijing: China Book Publishing House. Zhang Yi 张熠. 2017.《网络文学“出海”需要翻译和评论助推》[Online Literature ‘Going Overseas’ Needs Support of Translation and Commentary].《解放日报》[Liberation Daily], April 25 (B02).

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The Reader in the Condor Heroes SHELLY BRYANT

The vocal criticism that has been leveled at the four-volume English-language translation of Jin Yong’s 金庸 (1924–2018)《射雕英雄傳》(Legends of the Condor Heroes), publication of which began with Anna Holmwood’s 2018 translation of A Hero Born, has come mainly from the bilingual Chinese-English community, many of whom grew up watching the series on television (perhaps reading the books too, perhaps not). This has been in stark contrast to the response of the nonChinese-speaking English-language readership, which has been generally positive. The substance of the complaints from bilingual readers has mostly remained narrowly focused on questions of how specific English words line up with specific Chinese words in the original. The bulk of this already narrow focus of attention has zeroed in on Holmwood’s treatment of the names in the text. Jo-Ann Chiu (2019) calls the rendering of names in the English edition the “most hotly-debated topic in online discussions related to the work.” She states that this was a troubling point for her too, when she first read the translation, but that her discomfort was mostly alleviated by firstly a conversation with translator Nick Stember, during which she says that “Stember educated [her] on how to assess a translation” and by a subsequent conversation with Holmwood regarding the names. Public comments left on Chiu’s article continue the complaint regarding the names. It is worth noting that commenter A. Pham emphasizes his excitement over receiving the novels, “thinking [he’d] get to read a well-done novel about the show [he] grew up watching in the 90s” (not an English version of novels he’d read?), and commenter C. Low states clearly that s/he has “never read Jin Yong’s novels.” Both commenters express extreme disapproval of Holmwood’s choice of English names for characters in the novels, and Pham states overtly that the problem must have been that no “Chinese native” was consulted on the project—apparently ignoring the original article’s explicit statement that Gigi Chang was part of the translation team and had just completed the second novel at the time of writing. This sort of complaint was echoed by Singaporean poet Joshua Ip at the Singapore Writers Festival in 2018. The Straits Times coverage of the event, which likewise notes Chang’s involvement in the translation, cites Ip as calling the treatment of names “exoticising.” The article ends by stating: Holmwood defended her decisions, saying that names such as Lotus Huang or Ironheart Yang were more evocative for an English audience and could better convey wordplay or characteristics.

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She also noted that during the period the books are set in, they would not have been speaking Mandarin. “The idea of hanyu pinyin as a neutral, easy option didn’t feel right.” (Ho 2018a) I was at the event mentioned in The Straits Times article—in fact, I was the moderator. The paper’s characterization of the exchange during the event is fair, but with the limited space available for such an article, it inevitably leaves out a good deal of context, which essentially short changes Holmwood’s response to the question of names. In fact, Ip’s objection had already been addressed quite extensively in the session before he raised it, and it rather belabored the point for it to be raised yet again. In fact, knowing that the issue had generated some dissatisfaction among Singaporean readers, it was one of the first questions I asked during the session, and Holmwood addressed it quite thoroughly at that point. I also noted at that time that Holmwood had included an explanation for the rationale behind some of her choices in the appendix to the book. She explained clearly during the event that her own general rule is to use hanyu pinyin names, but several factors made her opt for a different direction in this instance. Because the reasons for her decisions in key instances are explained in her appendix to the first book, they do not need to be rehashed in detail here. However, there was another observation that came up during the Q&A portion of the event that is worth adding to the discussion. The point raised by a member of the audience (whose name I was not able to find out) was that the way the names have been rendered by Holmwood aligns with the names used in superhero films and comic books that are so popular in English-language pop culture today. When he asked if Holmwood had intentionally tapped into this trope from English-language superhero fiction, she said it had not crossed her mind, since she does not watch or read much superhero fiction, but now that it had been brought to her attention, she could see the connection and was pleased that it worked so well on this level. After all, the intended readership of her work has a large overlap with the audiences targeted by superhero fiction. The ongoing objection to Holmwood’s rendering of names is perhaps unsurprising (if tiresome), considering that it can be difficult to pinpoint a precise, consistent approach to the translation of names throughout the work. Holmwood does not flinch from addressing these criticisms and even anticipated them before the translation was published. As the criticism of this particular aspect of the translation dragged on after the work’s publication, despite the explanation offered in the book and the repeated coverage of the topic in reviews and interviews, Holmwood just as persistently continued to address the concerns and explain her rationale. Perhaps more perceptively, she has observed in the course of this dialogue with readers and critics that the “untranslatable” label this series had earned early on is in fact far from the real situation. As she notes, “[a]t its core, it is very translatable—there are lots of themes and elements that are more attractive to a Western audience than contemporary Chinese literature” (Ho 2018b). Holmwood’s argument that Legends of the Condor Heroes is particularly amenable to translation and that it has much to offer a contemporary English-language readership is worth further exploration. Most noteworthy is the claim that the novels probe into many issues that are of central concern to the discourse of English-language readers today but are perhaps less thoroughly explored in much of contemporary writing from China. At the heart of the story of the Condor Heroes, we find questions of identity, gender, power struggles (and who narrates them), the exploitation of land and people, and the rise and fall of superpowers, as well as how to deal with the aftermath

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of such a fall. All of these concerns are of great interest in English-language social and political discussion today. Throughout Legends of the Condor Heroes, Guo Jing 郭靖 is a perfect example of someone who is searching to understand his own identity, as it has been formed from numerous seemingly irreconcilable influences. Is he Chinese? Han? A southerner? A Mongolian? A barbarian? A northerner? And what does it mean to be any of these things? Guo Jing’s problem is that he can essentially answer “yes” to every one of those questions. He is simultaneously Chinese, Han, southerner, Mongolian, barbarian, and northerner. He is a hybrid being—a virtual playground of intersectionality. He embodies the postmodern dilemma of fragmented identity, and Legends of the Condor Heroes can quite convincingly be read as his search for a cohesive self from among the various influences that are at play in his life. He tries on various roles—more often thrust upon him rather than something he seeks out for himself—“identifying as” (to use contemporary lingo) Chinese/Han/Mongolian/northerner/southerner/barbarian/etc., as fits the situation. His birth, his upbringing, and his multifaceted training in martial arts have all come together in a strange fashion in his person, and much of his story revolves around his efforts to find himself amidst the various influences that have shaped him. His hybridity is a source of angst for him throughout the series, causing him grief at several major turning points in the story. For instance, when Jin forces approach the Mongols to name the Khan an officer of the Jin army, Wanyan Hongxi 完顏洪熙 and Wanyan Honglie 完顏洪烈 show up with great fanfare and bravado, only to insult the Mongolians with a swaggering toss of a few gold coins to the tribes’ children. It is six-year-old Guo Jing who rejects the coins, returning the insult to the prince. However, it is overtly stated that the thought going through his mind as he rejects the gift in defiance of Jin haughtiness is not at all related to the insult just given to the Mongolians. Instead, we read that, “Guo Jing had grown up on stories of Jin scorn, and of how they had invaded his motherland China, corrupted its officials and killed its greatest general, Yue Fei” (Jin Yong 2018, 126). It was the awareness of the insult to the Han people of China that prompted Guo Jing to (seemingly) defend Mongolian honor at this stage. This is typical of the dual (or more) awareness that drives much of Guo Jing’s action throughout the series, though it is often repeated that he is “a slow developer” (107), “very slow indeed” (151), and does “not appear to be too sharp” (146), with “no natural understanding of kungfu” (151). Ultimately, though, it is his hybridity that makes Guo Jing into a martial arts master, as the various aspects of his identity each contribute unique features to his skill and training, which finally aligns with his innate goodness to form an unrivalled martial arts, all of the tributaries at last coming together in a single rushing current to form a mighty river. It is the dream of contemporary folk— ordinary people can become extraordinary by embracing the various threads of their identity, many of which have, at times, felt thrust upon us. Best of all, one need not even be very smart or naturally gifted for this to happen. The main thrust of what makes Guo Jing’s struggles so poignant is the historical moment in which he lived. For all that it has to do with his own family’s history, and for all that it is deeply personal to him, Guo Jing’s struggle is the struggle of his nation and his people. It is not only about how a Han Chinese from the south being brought up by Mongol barbarians in the north should conduct himself, but how a Chinese nation brought to its knees by foreign invasion should conduct itself under enemy occupation. The entire story is set at the fall of the Song dynasty to the invading Mongol rulers who formed the Yuan dynasty. Guo Jing’s identity crisis is the Chinese nation’s identity crisis. After all, being invaded quite naturally raises questions of who we are and where

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our loyalties lie. These themes are quite appropriately explored in the person of Guo Jing and in the historical context of the fall of the Song and the rise of the Yuan dynasty. Of equal importance, though, is the time the story was written to. The telling of Guo Jing’s story—and the story of the Mongol overthrow of the Song dynasty—was addressed to a time when similar anxieties were plaguing the Chinese psyche, both on the mainland and in overseas Chinese communities. It was written after a century of “humiliation,” the end of a painful civil war, and now to the New China—but a New China that was divided. Chinese society in this milieu was frantically exploring the discourse of “Chineseness,” a dialogue and debate that had begun about half a century earlier and was built on the question of China’s relationship with the foreign powers that had invaded it. Legends of the Condor Heroes is part and parcel of this discourse, pitched at a popular level. First published in serial form in the Ming Pao 明報 newspaper, the identity crisis of Guo Jing and China from centuries earlier provided the perfect mirror for the anxieties Chinese society was facing at that time. The question of whether Jin Yong himself was “Chinese enough” to tell this story became an issue of contention for him for many years. David Hull writes in his review of A Hero Born: Added to this tension of place and identity in the novel is a dustup […] between Jin Yong and Wang Shuo that began in 1999. Wang Shuo attacked Jin Yong’s works as poorly written and clichéd; he also tied them to a traditional Chinese literature that is out of touch with progressive society and culture (Hamm 253). This seems to be an attempt to tie Jin Yong’s works to the pre-revolutionary fiction that critics decried as decadent and malignant and possibly responsible for the decline of the Chinese people. Wang Shuo goes further to suggest that Jin Yong, born in Zhejiang and based in Hong Kong, is not authentic in his Chineseness, and this is the reason for relying on cliché and traditional tropes. The commentary echoes the text itself in displaying the contestation among those who claim to or are claimed to represent Chineseness. Can an author of the periphery represent or create the identity of the center? (Hull 2018) Another issue of great interest to contemporary readers that features prominently in Legends of the Condor Heroes is gender and power dynamics. Like much martial arts fiction, Legends of the Condor Heroes relies heavily on very specific gender-based expectations, and it leans quite heavily into gender stereotypes. The treatment of gender proved to be one of the more difficult aspects I encountered when co-translating the fourth book, A Heart Divided, with Gigi Chang. In my discussions with Chang, we both acknowledged some discomfort with the way women were presented in Jin Yong’s work. Having worked on the previous volumes in the series, Chang had already navigated many of the issues I found myself struggling with, and she was much more comfortable making bold decisions to present the characters in a less offensive way to an audience more in tune with feminist sensibilities than I was in the early stages of the project. Some of the tips she gave me were of great help in sorting through the issues as I continued to work on the translation. Chang pointed me to the work she had done on translating Cyclone Mei 梅超風 in the second volume in the series, noting how tragic the character is and the horrific treatment she receives in the story precisely because she is a powerful woman in a male-dominated world. In a podcast with NüVoices, Chang says that Cyclone Mei is such an appealing character for her in part because the character’s backstory was one of the first things Chang worked on when translating the second

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book, and partly because the backstory is so complete, especially compared to those of the other characters in the story. Chang notes that an important fact about Cyclone Mei’s story is that it is narrated by Mei directly in a first-person telling of her past, unlike what we have for most other characters, and for no other female characters. As Chang rightly observes, this creates a very different experience for the reader than might be available simply from viewing the television adaptation of Legends of the Condor Heroes, and it makes Mei a much more compelling character on the page than she is on the screen (NüVoices 2021). The major gender-related obstacle I encountered in my own work on the fourth book involved the character of Lotus 黃蓉. Throughout the text, she oscillates between wanting to be with Guo Jing and apparently not wanting to be with him, or simply disappearing and leaving Guo Jing on his own. Much of the early part of the sections I translated dealt with Lotus’s absence and Guo Jing’s ongoing search for her. When I first translated the events and dialogue in a way that quite closely mirrored the original, the effect of the English text was to make it a story of Guo Jing faithfully pursuing the love of his life while she toyed with his emotions, giving him just enough encouragement to keep up the chase, then disappearing in such a way as to make him want her even more. This rendering had something of the feel of a faithful paramour being made a fool of by a coy, fickle woman who was decidedly more worldly wise than him. It was all wrong, despite the fact that the translation was perfectly accurate in tone and on the linguistic level. The issue was quite clear. The problem was not at all about how to render the words or events. The problem was the connotations the words and events held in the different cultural contexts of English-speaking and Chinese-speaking cultures. The vacillation that makes Lotus look fickle and coy in English is an overt indicator of her loyalty in Chinese. Her love is proven by the fact that she cannot stand to be apart from Guo Jing, but forces herself to do so because she believes it is better for him. To an English-speaking audience, the thought of leaving someone because you love them is not commonplace, but it is standard fare in Chinese culture, particularly in martial arts fiction. Leaving the person one loves for their own welfare is perhaps the truest mark of a hero. In Englishlanguage fiction, the concept of “standing by your man” no matter the cost to yourself (or him) is generally valued much more highly. The end result of this cultural difference, in reference to the representations of Lotus in the fourth volume of Legends of the Condor Heroes, is to make her appear fickle and manipulative, toying with the emotions of our gullible hero. In Chinese, the effect is that she is manipulative, yes, but only manipulates Guo Jing for his own good. Her vacillations are not fickleness, but—quite the opposite—proof of her loyalty. I have long taken it as a central tenet of my translation practice that the goal of translation is to create the effect of the text on the reader, not simply the words and events that create that effect in the original. In fact, I have always been willing to sacrifice certain details on the level of words or events if it helps achieve the appropriate effect in English. As Deborah Smith has stated, “I would only permit myself an infidelity for the sake of a greater fidelity” (Fan 2018). The challenge with translating Lotus was that the events and words also had something important to say—sometimes being integral to plot development, sometimes providing essential information—even as the effect they naturally engendered in Chinese was creating what was basically an opposite effect in English. It was difficult to achieve just the right balance. In the end, I relied heavily on the decisions that had been made for the character before I was part of the process, mainly because we needed to make sure the rendering of her was consistent across the work that Chang, Holmwood, and I had done on the translation. It was a decision made out of practicality, seeing as I had joined the team only

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for the fourth book, and all the key decisions had been made before I was involved at all. But I will admit that it was something of a relief to be freed from the burden of deciding what to do with this very complex topic, largely because I could not quite find comfortable footing for how not only Lotus, but all the women in Legends of the Condor Heroes are represented. In a genre such as martial arts fiction, which relies so heavily on particular tropes and stereotypes, each character will have a specific trait that is exaggerated beyond what can happen in real life, almost reducing each character to that trait. This is particularly true for women in Legends of the Condor Heroes. Cyclone Mei is the jilted woman whose bitterness virtually turns her into a witch with incredible powers. Mercy Mu 穆念慈 is the frail, fainting damsel who is always in peril, at the mercy of men who always overpower her, or waiting for a kind man to rescue her. Lotus is the clever girl who is always nimble, both in body and mind, and always loyal. Each female character is an idealized definition of femininity, and each stands by her man, even though it costs her everything—self-sacrifice being the trait central to any expression of idealized womanhood in Chinese culture. Each of the women in the text is presented as being highly desirable, which puts her always in danger from the men around her, and the ability to stand on her own in the face of that danger is what sets both Lotus and Cyclone Mei apart the most. What is crucial to understand in all these idealized depictions is that it is womanhood viewed strictly from the perspective of the male gaze. Femininity in Legends of the Condor Heroes is defined as suiting male tastes. This tendency to present idealized female characters that have been shaped by and for the male gaze might not be immediately recognizable to readers of the English-language version, but it is certainly a point that would attract some discussion and analysis in literary circles in the West, if it were more immediately accessible. This thought lingered in my mind throughout the translation process, and it was this more than anything that made me feel so uncertain about translating the women in Legends of the Condor Heroes. Given the differences between the treatment of feminism in English-language and Chinese-language contexts, it is perhaps not surprising that this issue has not been covered in great depth in Chinese literary circles, just as I have often found in my translation of contemporary Chinese writing a somewhat uneven treatment of feminist concerns, if they are raised at all. Also of great interest among the recurring themes in Legends of the Condor Heroes is the question of political power struggles and how a victorious power should treat those who have been defeated. A related question in this search for some conclusions about the way a victor should behave is the notion of who narrates the power struggle and how even greater power is conferred in the act of narration. This is a particularly complex issue in Legends of the Condor Heroes. On the most overt level, these questions are central to Guo Jing’s struggle as he matures and comes to a place of power in his own right. Indeed, part of what makes Guo Jing such an appealing protagonist is the process of his struggle to come to terms with the corrupting influence of power. In the fourth volume of Legends of the Condor Heroes, when faced with one loss after another, Guo Jing spends time in the wilderness, rethinking everything that has been handed down to him from various influences throughout the course of his life. We read, “Overwhelmed by the bereavements he had suffered, Guo Jing began to question and doubt all that he had known, believed and lived for” (Jin Yong 2021, 480). Over the next five pages of the narrative, in the course of his brooding, he questions the goodness of leaders in the form of Wanyan Honglie, Shah Muhammad Khwarazm 摩訶末, and Genghis Khan 成吉思汗; the notion of brotherhood in his relationships with Yang Kang 楊 康 and Tolui 拖雷; the point of learning kung fu at all; the morality of fighting and killing; the teaching of his mother and his shifus 師傅; the wisdom of sticking to one’s oaths; the benefits of

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living according to the principles of “righteous loyalty”; the notion of compassion and mercy; the virtue of loyalty to one’s nation and people; and the whole moral code of the wulin 武林, around which he has built his entire life up to that point (480–84). This line of questioning ultimately leads Guo Jing to discover himself, which allows him to display the true character of a hero. Legends of the Condor Heroes ends not long after this scene with a final challenge in which Guo Jing feels compelled to raise similar questions to Genghis Khan, who had evoked such tempestuous emotions in him since he was a boy, both the deepest gratitude and the most profound grief and remorse. Ultimately, it is Guo Jing’s vision that defines what it is to be heroic, and that vision remains just beyond the grasp of the Great Khan even as he lies dying (576–78), perhaps once and for all setting “Chineseness” in contrast to “the barbaric.” On a more nuanced level, the question of power is raised inherently by the relationships among the various nations that are at war in the text, and also by how the telling of this tale shifts the power balance in an entirely different direction from that seen in the stories depicted. In the fictional world of the Condor Heroes, the real-world historical power struggle between the Mongols, the Song court, and Jin forces is depicted. The fall of the Song was a dramatic collapse from a high point of development and culture in Han Chinese history—a fall that led many Chinese scholars to feel great humiliation and despair. The Tang dynasty is still often referenced as one of the highest peaks in China’s cultural landscape, and the fall of the Song was the plunge from that height. It is significant that this fall came at the hands of foreign “barbarian” invaders. It cannot be overemphasized that this particular moment in history and all it represented resonated especially well with the generation Jing Yong was speaking to through the stories of the Condor Heroes—a generation that felt it had likewise fallen from great heights (largely due to the decadence of their own leaders) and suffered humiliation at the hands of foreign invaders. The fact that it is Jin Yong, a Han Chinese, telling this history is a point that should not be overlooked (regardless of debates over his own degree of “Chineseness”). Indeed, his representation of that fall and what it signifies is essentially the same as the view that has always been held by conservative Chinese scholars who remained loyal to their own ethnic roots, even at the time when the Mongol Yuan dynasty was at full force as the reigning power in China. The tragic fall of a supposedly more civilized society to a brutish nation is an old story in China. However, let us not forget that this fall is ultimately framed in such a way as to fit neatly into the narrative of Chinese history, which ultimately always falls back under Han governance. The Song fell to the Yuan, but the story was then reconstructed by the Ming. And although the Ming fell once again to a foreign power, which eventually led to the final demise of China’s dynastic existence, this retelling is a reminder that the relating of China’s history will always come back to the Han perspective, and that the narrative will always allow for certain shifts in the tale to make it more palatable to Han sensibilities, presenting the Han Chinese nationality in a more favorable light. Jin Yong is in fact relatively magnanimous in his portrayal of “the barbarians,” particularly Genghis Khan. But then, he can afford to be gracious, considering that he holds all of the power now. It is, after all, the Han perspective of the writing of this narrative that turns the foreigners into barbarians in the first place. Whose story is history? In many ways, this is the key question asked by Legends of the Condor Heroes. In this retelling of a period in which Mongol victory is already certain in the minds of the original readers of the series, the story is ultimately in the hands of a Han author who, in the process of narrating, makes barbarians of the Mongols. The clear message for the original readers of the serialization in the Ming Pao newspaper in the 1950s is that the Chinese story is

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for the (Han) Chinese to tell, not foreign barbarians, no matter how noble, and regardless of how powerful they may prove to be. At the same time, this view seems to have some resonance with contemporary English-language readers. In English-language media today, the West is nearly always in the position of Hero, aligned with Guo Jing in the world of the novels, while the feared “invader”—a rising force from a foreign land waiting to swoop in as a formerly powerful nation declines—is Guo Jing’s own people, the Han Chinese. There is a complex dynamic at play here, with a very nuanced struggle to see which of the vying powers will eventually win the right to tell the tale. This rise and fall of a superpower and the aftermath of such a fall—and who gets to tell it—are the questions at the forefront of the story of the Condor Heroes. The exploitation of the land in Legends of the Condor Heroes is likewise presented in such a way as to invite attention from English-language readers, particularly as the abuse the land suffers is a result of nothing more than a mad power grab. This is most evident in the scenes after Guo Jing leaves Samarkand, having given up the chance to free himself from his betrothal to Khojin 華箏 in exchange for the lives of the people of the city. While the desolate landscapes are mainly there to reflect Guo Jing’s sorrow over having lost Lotus, much attention is given to this desolation reflecting the reason he lost Lotus—the cruelty of war generally and the brutality of Genghis Khan and the Mongol forces more specifically, connecting the exploitation of the people to the misuse and abuse of the land. Genghis Khan’s wanton disregard for life is portrayed in such an exaggerated way as to seem almost to be a parody of tyranny. It is recorded, When the Mongolians entered Samarkand, they ordered its people to leave the city. At first, the locals thought they were being sent outside the walls to help the conquerors flush out any soldiers lurking among them, but the Mongols began to confiscate all items that could be used as weapons, then to single out all the skilled craftsmen and select the good-looking women and girls from the masses gathered, binding their hands with ropes. The Samarkandians at last understood the disaster that was about to befall them. Some resisted and were cut down by sabres or run through with spears. Then, a dozen battalions roared and charged into the crowd, hacking and slashing with their blades. A massacre most brutal and savage. Men, women, children, the elderly—no one was spared. Trembling white-haired ancients, infants who had never left their mother’s embrace, all butchered without a second thought. By the time Genghis Khan arrived with his generals, thousands had been slaughtered. Mutilated bodies carpeted the ground in all directions. The iron-shod hooves of the Mongolian horses thundered indiscriminately, treading them into the blood-soaked earth. “Excellent! Kill them all!” Genghis Khan roared in good humour. “Show them the might of Genghis Khan.” (Jin Yong 2021, 427) The violence of this scene is echoed in the desolation of the landscape surrounding the city. As Guo Jing leaves, he observes that “[d]uring the siege and the assault on the city, hundreds of houses on both sides of the city walls had been torched, and now the earth was littered with countless bodies, staining the snowy plains red with blood” (Jin Yong 2021, 427). This juxtaposition of the oppression of people and land is echoed in the poems that Qiu Chuji 丘處機 later recites for Genghis Khan (432–34), and then again in the deserted village to which Viper Ouyang 歐陽鋒

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takes him. Upon entering the village, he notes that it is “choked with frozen corpses. Guo Jing could tell from their horrific wounds that they were victims of the Mongolian invasion” (445). The exploitative impact that battles for power have on the environment is again noted while the two men stay on in the deserted village: “A month flew by. Half the livestock in the village had ended up in the stomachs of Viper Ouyang and Guo Jing, as the pair continued to co-exist in a delicate balance, sparring every day” (448). As the resources around them are consumed with hardly a second thought, the two men’s power increases, with Guo Jing “practic[ing] kungfu as never before and learn[ing] new techniques,” and Viper Ouyang “glean[ing] much insight into the Nine Yin Manual” (448). As they deplete the life of the land around them, they accrue more power for themselves. This theme, which can be traced in more subtle ways throughout the series, is presented in its most overt form in this section of the fourth book. While environmental concerns have certainly become more prominent both in the public consciousness and in literary criticism in the decades since Legends of the Condor Heroes was first written, there is no doubt that the series does explicitly explore the notion of how one person’s quest for power inevitably has an exploitative aspect, draining that power from both the people and the land around him. It is a text ripe for study from an eco-critical perspective. In this area, it can sit alongside the best explorations of environmental issues and the ecological drain inevitably attached to all grabs for power that contemporary Chinese literature has to offer. It is somewhat dismaying to me that questions of identity, gender, power struggles, and the environment have not received more attention from bilingual readers of the English version of Legends of the Condor Heroes. For the most part, these readers have seemed decidedly unconcerned with questions of whether these and similar issues have been communicated effectively in translation, especially those that were of such central concern to the discourse in Chinese circles in Jing Yong’s day. Sadly, most bilingual readers, who should have been in tune with these types of concepts in the original, have instead been content to squabble over whether the names have been rendered in a way that will capture the thrill of watching these stories on television in their youth. There are, of course, important exceptions, including the David Hull review, which focuses mainly on the politics of the era within the books and their relation to the questions of “Chineseness” that were so prevalent when Legends of the Condor Heroes was being written and published. He pays some attention to the question of the names as well, noting that Holmwood’s approach would certainly be “a polarizing choice” (Hull 2018), but his focus is more on examining the decisions made and seeking to understand them in context. In the end, this leads him to the conclusion that [t]his is a translation explicitly designed to bring one of the most beloved and influential stories in the Chinese reading world to the widest possible English reading audience. While those who are looking for a rigorous, technical, and academic translation of The Condor Heroes will perhaps be disappointed, Holmwood has successfully presented a delicate balance of the “tooforeign” Chineseness of the jianghu world with a welcoming prose that leads to the same thrilling engagement the reader has with the original. Jin Yong and his fiction are critically important to so many areas of culture, and I hope this translation will serve as an accessible entry point for those who are not specialists. (Hull 2018)

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Similarly, a comment from a Chinese reader using the screen name hsf187 comments on Reddit: Some people complain about some names being translations yet others being transliterations. That it [sic] a little annoying, because it felt jarring when reading it in English. I would prefer it [sic] all names were translations (entirely possible to great effect even if the protagonist’s name is a bit more challenging). The translation flows beautifully and has that exotic feel to it, I think it works well in general. (Reddit 2018) Significantly, hsf187 mentions in her or his comments the questions explored by the series and how this exploration is managed, stating, All of Jin Yong’s protagonists deal with Serious issues with a capital S; identity politics, the nature of justice, and what is a just/good state, these are Jin Yong’s pet questions. However, while these themes are sort of there, readers and characters and seemingly even the author forget about them when the plot is just rolling along. Persistent moral dilemmas flash randomly, and characters have to make some damn Serious decisions in the spur of the moment. I mean it’s super tense and dramatic, but for me, there is always a part of me that’s somewhat annoyed. (Reddit 2018) Both of these commentaries affirm the idea that focusing on the major issues explored in Legends of the Condor Heroes ultimately takes away the irritation that readers of the original might otherwise feel when encountering the names as they are presented in English. It seems to me that obsessing over names misses the point entirely—firstly the point of translation (it is not, after all, being translated for those who can read the original), but more significantly, the point of the novels. These books hold potential for a profound, soul-searching reading experience that can capture the imagination of an entire generation, packaged in a fast-paced, entertaining narrative. The soul-searching reading experience is not diluted because the translator opts to use the name Lotus instead of Huang Rong, regardless of one’s preferences for one over the other. It can, though, be entirely derailed by a failure to capture the essence of the girl, whichever name you call her. Surely the latter is the question that should be asked, rather than focusing so narrowly on the choice of names. The charge of “untranslatability” was leveled at Legends of the Condor Heroes long before Holmwood even had a contract in place to undertake the work. Have she and those of us who have later joined her in the endeavor proven that charge baseless? That remains to be seen, perhaps only to be known when we see if the books gain a following among English-language readers that matches the success of the original.

REFERENCES Chiu, Jo-Ann. 2019. “Did the Servant Really Have Snot? Reviewing the English Translation of Legends of the Condor Heroes.” Rice Paper, February 12. Available online: https://ricepapermagazine.ca/2019/02/ did-the-servant-really-have-snot-reviewing-the-english-translation-of-legends-of-the-condor-heroes-by-joann-chiu/ (accessed August 27, 2021).

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Fan, Jiayang. 2018. “Han Kang and the Complexity of Translation.” New Yorker, January 8. Available online: https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2018/01/15/han-kang-and-the-complexity-of-translation (accessed August 21, 2021). Ho, Olivia. 2018a. “Cry, then Translate Louis Cha’s Wuxia Scenes.” Straits Times, November 12. Available online: https://www.straitstimes.com/lifestyle/cry-then-translate-louis-chas-wuxia-scenes (accessed November 18, 2021). Ho, Olivia. 2018b. “Singapore Writers Festival: Jin Yong’s English Translator Anna Holmwood on Translating a Legend.” Straits Times, November 11. Available online: https://www.straitstimes.com/ lifestyle/arts/singapore-writers-festival-jin-yongs-english-translator-anna-holmwood-on-translating (accessed November 18, 2021). Hull, David. 2018. “Review of Legends of the Condor Heroes I: A Hero Born.” Modern Chinese Literature and Culture, August. Available online: https://u.osu.edu/mclc/book-reviews/hull/ (accessed October 16, 2021). Jin Yong. 2018. Legends of the Condor Heroes I: A Hero Born, translated by Anna Holmwood. London: MacLehose Press. Jin Yong. 2021. Legends of the Condor Heroes IV: A Heart Divided, translated by Gigi Chang and Shelly Bryant. London: MacLehose Press. NüVoices. 2021. “Translating Jin Yong’s Legends of the Condor Heroes with Gigi Chang and Shelly Bryant, Part 2.” NüVoices Podcast #67, November 17. Available online: https://bit.ly/3L91Z0P (accessed December 20, 2021). Reddit. 2018. “I just Finished ‘A Hero Born: Legends of Condor Heroes’ by Jin Yong, ‘The LOTR of Chinese Literature’. Has Anyone Else Read It?” Reddit, May 25. Available online: https://www. reddit.com/r/books/comments/8lvazy/i_just_finished_a_hero_born_legends_of_the_condor/ (accessed December 20, 2021).

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PART THREE

Living in Translation

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CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Sinophone Routes: Translation, Self-Translation, and Deterritorialization NICOLETTA PESARO

This chapter delves into a complicated yet fascinating entanglement of factors, which affect literary writing and literary translation in the case of exiled, diasporic, or simply migrant writers. Chinese literatures, rather than Chinese literature, during the last century have been characterized by a striking element of mobility, not only in terms of space and borders but also in terms of languages and cultures. Indeed, the yearning for modernity and the tumultuous historical events that unfolded in China and around China in the course of the twentieth century made a number of Chinese intellectuals embrace the condition of the traveler, migrant, or refugee. In these intellectuals’ works, produced both in their homeland—China—before their departure and in their new host land, traces of the “trauma” of dislocation, together with apparent problems of psychological and cultural identity, emerge from the language strategies they adopt. As often occurs among migrant writers, choosing or rejecting translation is a meaningful expression of the different effects of—and reactions to—dislocation and deterritorialization. When speaking of Chinese writers in exile, Bai Xianyong 白先勇 (1937–), himself a migrant, evokes the traditional figure of the “wandering Chinese”: those intellectuals who, “when severe social and political dislocations occurred,” in order “to maintain their integrity often chose to retreat from society either as a gesture of protest or simply for the practical reason of survival” (Bai 1976, 205). He then provides an insightful survey of Taiwanese writers in exile, emphasizing how political pressure and these authors’ nostalgia for their homeland made some of their works exude a profound sense of unease, reflecting the tragic “fragmentation of a personality set against the background of the turbulent history of contemporary China” (210). He also evokes the “sense of desperation among the Chinese who live precarious lives abroad” (212). On the one hand, all three cases of migrant writers I present in this chapter express, to some extent, both a fragmented personality and a sense of desperation implicit in their experience, which generate an interesting variety of reactions to their being separated from the linguistic and cultural context they were born in. On the other hand, these authors display a tense relationship with their host society, something strangers often experience, as much as with their own home country. Migration and translation are connected by a strong definition or construction of personal identity.

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Both phenomena are related to language, culture, and identity. The power and crucialness of translation derive from the fact that it occurs chiefly (yet not exclusively) in the realm of languages. But, of course, language also has a nonverbal dimension or, in other words, an extratextual existence that can in turn be analyzed through a translational approach. The idea of translation as a cognitive system was clearly defined by George Steiner ([1975] 1998), who promoted a positive concept of translation as a tool for knowledge, mediation, and understanding. Translation scholars such as Maria Tymoczko, Paul Bandia, and Michael Cronin have underlined the power of translation in defining and redefining the position of migrants as both individuals and a community with respect to power—no matter which kind of system they are confronted with, whether imperialistic or postcolonial, or what kind of language, society, and market they live in. Undoubtedly, the crossing and overlapping of the two concepts of migration and translation have become a research tool: Loredana Polezzi reminds us that “[m]apping the locations and voices, the places and the agents of translation in connection with migration is an important part of understanding the politics of our societies” (2012, 354). She underlines the political role translation plays in the complicated network of phenomena and practices involved in migration: “translation as a consciously political act can foreground the complexity, the mutability, and perhaps even the intimacy inscribed within social communication by the presence not just of language as such, but of human languages in all their plurality” (354). Regarding the link that connects migration processes and translation practices, Gayatri Spivak emphasizes the ethic value of translation, arguing that translation is often a reparative act and a subject-constituting process: “Translation is the making of the subject in reparation.” It is not a technical activity that is controlled by the translator, nor is it only a matter of establishing well-tailored linguistic equivalences. Rather it is understood as a subject-constituting process which constantly shuttles between interior and exterior, between self and other, between individual and collective, between the psyche and the social or political. “Translation” in this sense is ambivalent in that the process of subject constitution is both violent in its negativity towards and rejection of the external world, as well as affirmative in its work of reparation. (Bala 2014, 183) As I have argued in another article commenting on Spivak’s theory of translation, there is a “violent element in [translation], a forced shift of meanings, which is comparable to the forced movement of human beings in migration” (Pesaro 2019, 109). According to Cronin (2006, 45), who draws upon Rushdie’s famous definition (Rushdie 1991), the migrant is by nature a “translated being”—in the sense that they are transported, transferred from one territory to another—or, to borrow Zygmunt Bauman’s (1998) expression, a “global nomad.” Sanford Budick (1996) uses the word “crisis” and presents the need to imagine a new alterity: if we are unable to imagine the Other, the very idea of translation collapses. A migrant writer is a living subject/object of translation. Budick highlights the concept of “double alterity” entailed in translation: the self of the author and of the migrant is already split, it is “other” with respect to them as much as other people: for “there is as much difference between us and ourselves as between us and others” (Montaigne cited in Budick 1996, 20). This crisis of alterity entails a split consciousness, a sense of multiplicity and complexity that can well explain migrants’ and exiled

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writers’ condition. It is useful here to refer to Polezzi’s article again, as she draws an important parallel between translation and self-translation in migrants’ experience: [T]he connection between migration, translation and political action, suggesting the need to understand how these relate to a biopolitics of language. This is perhaps the key reason why the nexus between migration and translation is so disquieting and yet so central today: because it goes to the heart of the relationship between individuals, groups and the power exercised over our lives. (Polezzi 2012, 346) In fact, the variety of translation strategies adopted by migrant writers is wider than what the two categories—accommodation and assimilation—theorized by Cronin (2006, 52) imply: for both in a strictly textual sense and in a translational sense when applying translation studies to migrants’ behavior and identity, one can detect a range of different reactions and linguistic practices. In some cases, translation provides the migrant with the only way to be accessible to the intended audience, at the risk of giving away their identity. In certain other cases, it is self-translation that tends to dominate the linguistic-cultural transactions performed by migrant writers as a means for them to impose their own politics of identity. This places the author in a position that Bandia defines as a “borderland” (2014, 278). Finally, a very radical yet meaningful reaction to the dislocation of the writer is the resistance to translation and the choice of assimilation—a practice that elsewhere I have called the “death of the mother tongue” (Pesaro 2019). I will attempt to apply and confirm these theories on migration and translation, translated beings and identity transaction, by analyzing some concrete examples taken from Sinophone literature. Indeed, the so-called “Sinophone studies” focus on the existence and interaction of the complex literary and political dynamics underpinning Chinese writers’ diaspora. I will explore three cases that represent three different interpretations of the paradigm of migration as a form of translation; each of these three writers adopts a different translation strategy, which has important implications for the representation of their identity. They react in three different ways to the need—typical of the migrant—to construct a new identity when finding themselves dislocated or “translated” into another context. Interestingly, these different reactions and strategies can be deduced symbolically from the way in which the three authors fashion themselves in the receiving culture. Zhang Ailing 张爱玲 (1920–1995) was a young cult writer in 1940s Shanghai; since 1952 (when she left China for the United States), she signed her works with “Eileen Chang.” She wrote in Chinese and English when living in China and after her migration. Besides, she also rewrote and retranslated her main works, continuously shifting from one language to another. Ma Jian 马健 (1953–) is a dissident writer who has been living in London since the early 1990s. He keeps signing his works with his Chinese name, putting the last name before the given name according to the Chinese practice. He exclusively writes in Chinese and uses English only for practical communication in his host country. Therefore, owing to the censorship system in mainland China, he needs to be translated to be read at all (Pesaro 2018). Li Yiyun 李翊云 (1971–) migrated to the United States about twenty years ago to pursue her studies (medicine) and eventually became an acclaimed writer in her host country. She keeps writing

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exclusively in English—her acquired language—and signs her books with the Western name order, thus putting her given name “Yiyun” before her family name “Li,” in contrast with the Chinese custom. The translation methods or writing strategies adopted by these three writers can be defined as follows: Ma Jian’s works circulate through interlinguistic translations; Zhang Ailing/Eileen Chang often resorted to self-translation; Yiyun Li, refusing to be translated or to self-translate her own works, has opted for a form of deliberate linguistic deterritorialization, “which denies both time and space as a rejection of her own past and homeland” (Pesaro 2019, 112).

METHOD OF ANALYSIS To scrutinize these three writers’ most significant practices in terms of the negotiation and expression of identity, I have tried to detect traces of “Chineseness” embedded in their ways of writing; secondly, I have tried to assess the effects of their linguistic strategies (translation, selftranslation, and deterritorialization) as they emerge when their works are translated into a third language, namely, Italian. Without entering into the controversial and never-ending debate on “Chineseness,” it is worth stressing the role that culture-specific elements play in the processes of both translation and identity construction. “‘Chineseness’ is a category whose meanings are not fixed and pre-given, but constantly renegotiated and rearticulated, both inside and outside China” (Ang 2001, 25). By taking some representative works by the three writers as its object, my analysis will focus on a range of culture-specific elements, namely, expressions and situations that cause a reaction of surprise and bewilderment in the reader of the target text, as they are difficult or impossible to accommodate within his or her own cultural experience. These elements, also referred to as “rich points” (Agar 2006), serve as a sort of “unit of measure” for culture or “cultureme,” a wide category that provides translation scholars with a useful grid of linguistic typologies and forms deeply embedded in the source culture. For example, the term “cultureme” encompasses the following items: idioms; toponyms, and proper names; appellatives; realia; poems and songs; political terms and slogans; and sometimes even physical and psychological descriptions. I consider the concept of “cultureme” particularly useful in its specific meaning of linguistic tool and “bearer of cultural information.” It plays an important role when a linguistic transaction occurs and also in the (intentional or unintentional) representation of identity. According to Lucía Molina Martínez (2006, 78–9), culturemes do not exist outside their context unless a linguistic or cultural transfer between two cultural systems is taking place.1 Agar states that: “culture becomes visible only when an outsider encounters it, and what becomes visible depends on the [language and culture] of the outsider” (2006, 10). Georgiana Lungu-Badea emphasizes “the importance of detecting this unit bearer of cultural information in order to ensure a proper understanding of its informative content, as well as the importance of reformulating it in an adequate way during the cultural transfer” (2009, 17).2 She also observes that “[c]ertain culturemes can be effaced during

”Los culturemas no existen fuera de contexto, sino que surgen en el seno de una transferencia cultural entre dos culturas concretas.” 2 “[l]’importance du repérage de cette unité porteuse d’information culturelle pour la compréhension correcte de son contenu informatif et l’importance de sa réexpression (traduction) adéquate lors du transfert culturel.” 1

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translation, while other phenomena can acquire the status of cultureme. It follows that the translator can modify their status as culturemes and choose to recreate or to delete it in the target text” (26).3 According to the writer’s (or translator’s) intentions, a cultureme can fulfill an aesthetic function, by completing and embellishing the text; an argumentative function, by expressing the author’s opinion on a certain issue; or a cognitive-hermeneutic function, by perpetuating the collective memory of archetypical situations (Luque Nadal 2009, 109–10). In the texts analyzed, I have detected a variety of translation changes that were introduced when dealing with culturemes: omission or addition, neutralization, exaggeration or reduction, and explanation. The way the writer or the translator deals with these elements can help us assess the translational relations between the source and the target text, and between the two interacting cultural systems and identities. With respect to this, Bandia reminds us that: “As translated beings, immigrants display the kind of paradoxes or dichotomies that often form the basis of any ethics of translation: as they adapt to their new reality, they strive either to create the illusion that they are native to the target culture or to retain traces of the source culture” (2014, 275). While Zhang Ailing, in her condition of self-exile, experimented with self-translation and with the rewriting of her own culture, Ma Jian and Yiyun Li have placed themselves at two opposite poles when it comes to their writing choices: Ma consciously indulges in a form of “surrender” to translation, whereas Li manages her voluntary dislocation through a resistance to translation.

MA JIAN AND HIS “SURRENDER” TO TRANSLATION As a demonstration of his uncertain literary identity, London-based Chinese writer Ma Jian has been variously labeled by critics and scholars: Shuyu Kong (2014) defines his attitude since his earliest works as a form of “intellectual nomadism” and a tendency toward “deterritorialisation.” Ma Jian has been described as an “international writer with Chinese characteristics,” an “English avantgarde writer,” and a “Chinese writer with international characteristics” (Damgaard 2012, 177). More generally, he is considered “a Chinese diasporic writer” (Zhai 2014) or, referring to his peculiar relationship with his readers, a “Sinophone writer with a western audience” (Pesaro 2018). This variety of perspectives is not surprising when we consider that “immigrants always remain migrants or ‘(double-) exiles’ at some level, by choice or by default, since they continue to belong to at least two worlds or cultures, usually in problematic or conflicting ways” (Bandia 2014, 275). By examining Ma Jian’s career and personal experiences, we can state that his “relationship with his writing language and with translation is the result of a peculiar overlapping of identities and ideological issues” and that “[p]roducing works in a non-native tongue, [via his wife’s translations] he seem[s] to bypass the act of translation, subsuming it as a problematic within a larger project of cultural or self-representation” (Pesaro 2018; with quotation from Apter 2006, 99). In his agenda, the political and the literary are constantly negotiated to express both his radical anti-government

“Certains culturèmes peuvent s’effacer lors de la traduction, alors que d’autres phénomènes peuvent acquérir le statut de culturème […]. Il s’ensuit que le traducteur peut modifier le statut du culturème et qu’il peut choisir de le recréer ou de le gommer dans le texte cible.”

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ideas and his deep affection and concern for Chinese culture and language. From his travelogue on Tibet《浪迹中国》(Red Dust; 2001) down to his latest novel《中国梦》(China Dream; 2018), he has had no choice but to let his official translator, his wife Flora Drew, translate his novels from Chinese into a more accessible and international language, English, to be read, since most of his intended readers have no access to his novels in China. Apparently, this is the common destiny of many Sinophone writers, who try to steer clear of their homeland’s censorship, but do not write directly in English: their surrendering to translation is the only way for them to preserve their own writing freedom. Paradoxically, censorship and self-exile have significantly promoted the evolution of Chinese literature into a globalized literature (Bruno 2012). In other words, they have shaped a world literature in Chinese or a “Sinopolyphonic literature” (Zhang 2014), which ironically has achieved the results pursued by the Chinese government with its policy of Chinese literature “going global” (zouxiang shijie 走向世界). The peculiarity of Ma’s status as a writer depends, on the one hand, on the strong political overtones of his literary production and, on the other, on the fact that he sticks to Chinese, although he has been living in the United Kingdom for more than twenty years. Indeed, his works enjoy a wide distribution and a good reception on the global market, thanks to the basically domesticating translation strategy adopted by his translator. In this sense, we can definitely state that political, personal, and editorial dynamics have created the conditions for an overlapping of identities. While Ma Jian’s Chinese identity is somehow overcome and neutralized by the translation, by partially giving up his authorship, he finds a new space for creative freedom, which substantiates his own true identity and shapes it into a different, foreign language. Although his works are mostly published in English and are “unlikely ever to be read in the original Chinese […], Ma nevertheless regards [the Chinese version] as the master copy” (Armitstead 2019). Ma Jian’s novels (banned in his homeland) are often published in English before the original Chinese versions, which now circulate only in Taiwan—they were banned from Hong Kong too— and within small Chinese communities in the United States. Ma Jian’s deterritorialization is mainly physical, not linguistic and cultural. The migrant’s own mother language and culture represent and shape his identity as a writer, but it is the English language and the international readership that shape his public identity as an author. The translator usually adopts a domesticating approach to meet this readership’s expectations and to assimilate the text to the receiving anglophone or Western context. This transaction takes place with the writer’s active participation in the manipulation of his own text, with the result that in Drew’s translation, the writer’s literary identity takes second place to his political identity. The translation thus tends to normalize and accommodate the text, while the author himself, by his own choice, has not assimilated into the receiving culture. The original culturemes are normally maintained, but they are often explained or adapted and weakened in the target text. This process of simplification ends up reducing the migrant to a voice, a vibrant and penetrating yet still bodiless voice, for sometimes the text appears to have been deprived of its literary specificity. This manipulation takes place in different ways by means of a range of translation strategies, such as reduction, paraphrasing, and explicitation, down to the omission of too overly specific elements or the addition of ones external to the original text (expansion), with the aim of assimilating the text and author into the receiving culture. In the process of translation, which is not a self-translation, but still, a translation delegated by the author to someone who is very close

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to him (his own wife),4 we find microstrategies such as mistranslation, partial translation, or even nontranslation. In terms of culturemes, [Ma Jian’s] novels are still infused with Chinese cultural-specific elements and traditional references, which are supposed to be understood and appreciated better by a Chinese reader. The most striking effect of this paradox is that many of these elements undergo an unavoidable process of domestication or simplification in the English rendition. (Pesaro 2018, 112) There are instances of (a) the neutralization of culture-specific elements; (b) the simplification of terms and expressions characterized by ethnic or cultural diversity (names, idioms, toponyms; (c) the omission or integration of short or extensive parts of the text; (d) the explicitation of logical elements or narrative devices implicit in the source language; and (e) variations to the paragraph and sentence order to make the information clearer. The following passage describes some changes in the English translation of《阴之道》(The Dark Road; 2012): [A] series of changes concern names, quotations and culture-specific details that are neutralised or modified during the translating process. Such is the case of some characters’ names, which are simplified or changed: “孔慶東Kong Qingdong” becomes “Kong Qing”; “孔維Kong Wei” becomes “Kong Wen”. In a strongly political passage, the male protagonist (a teacher and Confucius’ seventy-sixth heir) quotes an expression used by the Confucian thinker Mengzi “tianshi dili renhe” 天時地利人和 (“favourable climatic, geographical and human conditions”, Ma 2012, 148), pairing it with the idiomatic form “qian huhou” 欠火候 (need longer cooking). These elements are erased in the metatext and replaced by a simple “We wouldn’t achieve anything.” (Pesaro 2018, 153) Some of the adopted changes and the gap between the source text and its English translation emerge when reading the Italian rendition of《拉面者》(The Noodlemaker; 1991), which was not based, like the following novels, on the English translation by Flora Drew, but directly translated from the Chinese. It is as though this different language could provide a third space (as in Bhabha’s definition) where the negotiation between host and home language and culture, and between the national and the global identity of the writer, is ultimately revealed and made transparent. With respect to this first case study, we may conclude that Ma Jian can be accommodated within Bandia’s concept of “double vision” (2014, 276). This is more than apparent in the implicit representation Ma Jian offers of himself as split between the real author and the translated (or

In my article (Pesaro 2018), I have described the mystical relationship between the author and the translator. Flora Drew recently explained it as follows: “There is never any confusion. I never feel I’m translating the words of the person I’ve just had supper with, or who’s just taken our children to the park. Knowing him so well though means I can in some strange way become him, and write the translation not as a friend or a translator, but as Ma would if he were writing the book in English. There are times during the translation when I feel we are having a silent conversation with each other that we don’t have time for in real life. Many of his books have references to places we have been together, dreams of mine that I have told him about or things our children have said” (Armitstead 2019).

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translational) author. In his relationship with the host culture, Ma Jian is both an insider—thanks to the translation achieved through his wife’s involvement in the creation process—and an outsider, given his refusal to adopt the host language and the receiving culture as, respectively, the tool and the object of his literary creation. Nevertheless, Ma Jian is also at the same time an insider and an outsider in relation to his homeland. This ambivalent status is poetically represented in his novels at a narratological level, as Ma Jian adopts certain narrative devices (such as internal or external focalization and multiple narrating voices), which allegorically hint at the author’s split identity. In The Noodlemaker, the text is interspersed with dialogues between the writer and the blood donor and between the writer and the speaking dog (last episode), which somehow represent the conflicting ideas of the author himself. In Beijing Coma, the protagonist—a bedridden student who has been hit by a stray bullet during the Tiananmen Square protests—conveys a double narrating voice: the first-person narrator (external perspective) and the protagonist’s mind (internal perspective, marked in italics in the text). In The Dark Road, Ma Jian experiments with a dual perspective: that of the female protagonist, Meili, and that of her never-born child, the “Infant spirit” who watches and recounts the story from outside. This narrative technique “actually expresses Ma Jian’s shifting identity in a highly literary way” (Pesaro 2018, 123). Finally, the protagonist of China Dream, haunted by his revolutionary past and his present of corruption, embodies the split subjectivity of a high-ranking Chinese official who questions both himself and China. Arguably, these literary devices allow Ma Jian to negotiate with his own “double consciousness,” by writing in his mother language. As a Chinese writer, I will permanently face literary inquisition, something I will always clash with; even my name is banned. But this is not frightening; the thing that most frightens me is when a writer loses his/her passion, or when he/she loses the passion for his/her national language. In this sense, it is not bad for me, because I can still identify social problems and then express them in Chinese through literature. When this is lost, it means that the writer is either being detained as a criminal or monitored – two roles I’m not eager to play. (quoted in Ai 2014; my translation) I will conclude this section devoted to the most political of these three cases by quoting Polezzi’s insightful statement: The terrain where translation encounters migration, where the work of translation is directly connected to migrants and to their lives, where linguistic and cultural difference overlap and become visible, then emerges as a key location for the struggle over the control of individual lives as well as social processes. That terrain is an eminently political space and any act of translation that inhabits it is, therefore, an eminently political action. (2012: 353)

SELF-TRANSLATION AND REWRITING: ZHANG AILING The second case study revolves around the famous female writer Zhang Ailing, whose relationship with translation has already been analyzed by both Chinese and Western critics. In this chapter, though, I wish to draw a stronger connection between the psychological issue embedded in Zhang

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Ailing’s condition as a migrant writer and her translational approach. As already stated above, this author, who is caught between her profound affection for her native culture and her destiny of selfexile, engaged in the constant work of self-representation and cultural mediation. According to Bandia, “[t]he experience of exile is characterized by a tension between the fact of displacement from house and hearth and the permanently unfulfilled yearning to recapture the customs, language, and culture of a host country” (2014, 274). Polezzi has explored the phenomenon of self-translation, focusing on the peculiar overlap between the source text and the target text: [W]hen migrants act as their own self-translators, the boundary between an “original” and its translation becomes particularly fuzzy, requiring us to broaden the notion of translation. Many cases of self-translation, in fact, do not follow the familiar binary model in which a pre-existing source text moves across linguistic and cultural frontiers in a linear fashion. Non-linear forms of translation are common in migration contexts and include all of those cases and perhaps these too are the norm, rather than the exception where source and target text interact in more complex ways: at times because one does not simply precede the other, or does not even exist; or because the two cannot be neatly separated; or, often, because the initial translation continues to generate further transpositions, back-translations, and reverberations. (Polezzi 2012, 350) Indeed, many writers experience migration as a loss or even betrayal of their original culture: “for others, however, the move across languages marks a greater freedom and a wider choice” (Polezzi 2012, 351). In Zhang Ailing’s case, we observe what Polezzi defines as “the productive and the destructive power of self-translation as a creative and an existential practice” (351). In Zhang’s works—both her early fictional and nonfictional texts published in Shanghai and the novels written in English during her American exile in the 1950s and 1960s, down to her posthumous novel《小团圆》(Little Reunions; 2009)—we observe a tendency to blend autobiographic and autoethnographic writing, which acquires a transcultural meaning. Through her rewriting and selftranslating, Zhang essentially committed herself to a role as cultural mediator, providing a sharp depiction of Chinese culture and society in the prerevolutionary Shanghai middle-class milieu. At the same time, she responded to the pressing need to express and explain her own deeper self, so that many of her writings can be defined as autofictional.5 To give an example, in her translation of her own famous novelette《金锁记》(The Golden Cangue), to achieve her goals, Zhang often resorts to a strategy of adaptation and only in few cases does she maintain the original culturemes. Indeed, unlike the original source text, in her selftranslation she seeks to explain rather than express. For instance, the original idiomatic forms are only preserved in few cases. As a curious foreignizing effect produced by translation, the Italian rendition of the novelette is instead closer to

The term autofiction was coined by the French writer Serge Doubrovsky in 1977 to refer to his novel Fils. It now describes a literary genre where the author is the main character of the fictional events. The concept is also connected with psychoanalysis in terms of the exploration of the self and, formally speaking, with the nouveau roman. More recently it has come to be associated with the postmodern debate on the relationship between reality and lies, between identity and difference.

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the source text, as though the translator did not wish or dare to mediate between the two cultures. In the following examples Zhang opts for a communicative translation, namely, the re-creation or the replacement of成语 (four-character idioms), 俗语 (folk saying), and realia (culture-specific objects and customs) with analogous forms or explanations in English, while the Italian rendition often prefers to stick to the original meaning, through a semantic translation, producing a strong foreignizing effect. a) 长馨想着送佛送到西天送佛送到西天 (Zhang [1943] 2009, 251) (lit., Changxing thought of accompanying Buddha to the Western Paradise) Zhang explains the meaning of the metaphor: “Ch’ang-hsing thought she should finish her good deed” (Chang 1981: 553), while the Italian rendition provides a semantic translation: “Changxing, pensando che toccasse a lei ‘condurre il Buddha fino al Paradiso d’Occidente […]’” (Zhang 2006, 99). b)皇帝还有草鞋亲 (Zhang [1943] 2009: 228) (lit., even the Emperor has got relatives with straw shoes) The author herself translates the metaphor with a paraphrase, “if you were going to be so snobbish” (Chang 1981, 538); in the Italian rendition instead the trope remains the same: “Un imperatore che ha ancora i parenti con i sandali di paglia” (Zhang 2006, 39). The realia also receive a similar treatment in the two metatexts: c)湖纺手帕 (Zhang [1943] 2009, 219) (lit., handkerchief produced in Huzhou) It is neutralized by Zhang into a simple “handkerchief” (Chang 1981, 532), while in the Italian rendition the object’s specificity is preserved and described in its details: “piccolo fazzoletto verdeacqua in crespo di Huzhou,” with the addition of a footnote (Zhang 2006, 17). As already noted, the writer seems to constantly oscillate between the two languages/cultures, adopting in both texts many culturemes that she tends to hybridize and explain, replacing the Chinese ones with similar structures in the target language. She weaves her narrative back and forth, from the past to the present, from Chinese to English, and the frequently repeated cases of translation and self-translation are a proof of a hybrid identity and of her will to maintain or self-construct a double identity, split between the author’s attachment to her Chinese roots and the desire to relocate herself in the Anglo-American space. This continuous shift reminds us of Spivak’s concept of translation as a reparation or self-reparation act. Significantly, Spivak (2004) describes the act of translation as one of profound intimacy with both the source and the target text. In her study on Zhang Ailing’s literary identity, Shuang Shen focuses on two aspects that help us shed light on Zhang’s split identity as both a Chinese and a migrant writer: the “so-called betrayal” of her motherland during the Cold War and the “Chinese cosmopolitism” she expresses in her views on life and literature. To some extent, hers is a split situation opposite to that of Ma Jian: in Shen’s words a “[d]isjunction in Chang’s late career between living and writing in the United

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States and publishing mostly in Chinese-speaking regions.” Indeed, “Chang’s writings are set in this disjunctive space between the Anglophone and Sinophone worlds” (Shen 2012, 96). This is not a political betrayal, but rather a linguistic and cultural relocation. In the 1940s, Zhang was the protagonist and the promoter of a bilingual and bicultural practice, which made the translation between the two languages completely bidirectional. Shen uses two interesting terms to define Zhang’s situation as a migrant writer “impersonation” and “double agency,” suggesting that hers was not a simple act of language transfer but the manifestation of a “duality of Chineseness as defined and articulated in the semi-colonial urban setting of Shanghai that shaped [her] cultural position in important ways” (98). Zhang herself tried to negotiate between the two cultures—something she had learned to do from childhood, when she had been obliged to cope with her mother’s westernized lifestyle and her father’s old-fashioned attachment to tradition. Indeed, “[s]he made conscious adjustments to her writing based on the different demands of English and Chinese readerships” (Shen 2012, 99). However, the two languages are not complementary in her works: on the contrary, they overshadow a never-completed process of identity shaping: “Whether written in English or in Chinese, Chang’s work betrays shadows of the other language, from the verbal and grammaticalsentential basics to the discursive, ideological and cultural superstructure” (Ma 2011, 127). Zhang’s ability to change her role, to impersonate two different cultural perspectives, according to Shen, caused her uprooting and self-estrangement: “In this process of role-switching, the Chinese person is delinked from Chinese culture, as is a foreigner from a foreign perspective” (Shen 2012, 101). The constant presence of a “Chinese soul” within Zhang’s English writing has been almost unanimously acknowledged by scholars: her English is “Chinese-tainted” (Ma 2011, 131); “In Eileen Chang’s case, while the surface language is English, deep down she is still writing in Chinese, which at least in part controls and shapes her English style” (Lee 2012, 245). However, while noting a greater emotionality in the Chinese version of “The Golden Cangue,” Lee acknowledges that her English texts attempt to “explain her Chinese world to Western readers of her time” (2012, 244–45).

LINGUISTIC DETERRITORIALIZATION: YIYUN LI Yiyun Li did not migrate to the United States as a form of self-exile for political reasons but rather to pursue her medicine studies. Only later did she undertake the path of literary writing; however, from her interviews and her dramatic collection of essays—the partially autobiographical Dear Friend from My Life I Write to You in Your Life (2017)—we learn that her choice is motivated by a precise desire to cross Chinese boundaries and leave her country, her family, and her language. This choice is deeply and overtly connected with her rejection of many Chinese cultural and social practices, mirrored in her exclusive adoption of English in her literary production. Yiyun Li belongs to that category of migrants who adopt the highest form of self-translation, namely, assimilation into the host (acquired) language, rejecting their own mother tongue. In this case, the choice is more personal than political and reflects a deliberate strategy. The author has clearly explained her position in many interviews, where she defines herself as an “international writer” rather than a Chinese one (Pesaro 2019, 113–14), confessing her

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feeling of awkwardness with respect to her mother tongue and culture. Thus, she confirms the assumption that “being oneself in the language of the other can be the ultimate act of self-fashioning” (Polezzi 2012, 351). Yiyun Li only writes in English, and there are no original Chinese versions of her works. In many cases, though, we can reconstruct her Chinese “mental text”: indeed, the culturemes disseminated in her texts are mainly calques translated directly from the Chinese, without any form of adaptation or mediation. In her early works, Li uses these forms extensively and for this reason she has been accused of exoticizing her own culture. In The Vagrants, for instance, we find many idiomatic expressions, songs, political slogans, and so on, which, unlike Zhang, she does not try to explain or accommodate within the target language, for these culturemes are mainly used as an aesthetic strategy that helps her construct her characters’ personalities and depict the social context with a stronger realism. Besides, these culturemes, which incidentally remain unmediated in the Italian translation of the novel, always appear in a derived context, namely, in characters’ dialogues, speeches, and inner monologues: the writer thus keeps an ironic distance from these culture-specific expressions. An example of idiomatic forms preserved in Li’s narration is: “some people’s death are heavier than Mount Tai, and others’ are as light as a feather” (Li 2009, 330), which literally translates the Chinese proverb: 人固有一死,或重于泰山, 或轻于鸿毛. Another example is: “A fox feared by all animals because she befriended a tiger, the old story occurred to Bashi” (98), a literal translation of 狐假虎威. Compared to Zhang Ailing’s use of culturemes for the purpose of cultural mediation, the framework here is completely different: in her works, Li adopts a range of culturemes (especially 成语, 歇后语, 惯用语, myths, anecdotes, songs, and quotations from Zhuangzi and Confucius), but her main goal is neither to exoticize China, as some critics claim, nor to explain it. On the contrary, her strategy is aimed at depicting the characters and the local context by introducing a satirical tone. In this case, the translation into a third language, Italian, cannot avoid leaving the original specificity untouched, enhancing its strangeness.

CONCLUSION The three writers under scrutiny variously represent their experience as migrants by attempting to distance themselves from their roots while at the same time trying to preserve or deny them. This is both an emotional and a linguistic distancing, which allows them to better focus on the themes and messages they wish to convey. Nevertheless, as migrants, they adopt a wide range of strategies, from writing and rewriting to translating and self-translating. With the latter approach, the author retains greater control over both languages and decides to self-translate or rewrite her own works, as in Zhang Ailing’s case, by drawing upon autobiographical material and adapting it to meet the prospective reader’s expectations. By comparing these three writers, it is possible to ascertain that the two opposite choices of writing in one’s own mother tongue, or letting someone else translate it, and of writing directly in one’s host language are equally intended to provide the author with a space for free expression. In the case of the latter choice, Zhang’s one, the continuous oscillation between the two languages sets certain limits to the process of cultural translation, which is never completely achieved.

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The difference between these three writing practices is that the choice whether to delete or preserve the cultural elements belonging to one’s original cultural identity is left only to those who decide to adopt the host language. Indeed, in Ma Jian’s case the possibility of mediating and negotiating his “Chineseness” (to use a rather overused yet still meaningful catchphrase) is delegated to a third agent, the translator. Zhang Ailing’s rewriting and self-translating policy allows her to choose how to measure out specific elements belonging to both Western and Chinese culture, creating a third space of hybridity and uncertainty. As far as Yiyun Li is concerned, she instead adopts a form of self-deterritorialization, which from the language level shifts to the personal one, through the construction of a new identity distant from the original one. Ma Jian exemplifies the choice of letting someone else translate one’s own works. In this case, the migrant’s double identity is shaped through two different texts: a real prototext and a metatext, which as I have already noted, sometimes comes even before the prototext itself, subverting the conventional hierarchy and order in the process of translation. Each of these texts is addressed to a different audience and carries a different degree of authoritativeness, depending on its symbolic capital. Finally, in the third case, the migrant’s new identity completely overlaps with the original one from the linguistic point of view. Indeed, by choosing to write exclusively in English and not to be translated into Chinese, Yiyun Li seemingly reduces her writing identity to a deliberate monolingualism, which nevertheless is broken and betrayed by her literary practice: her refined use of culturemes allows the author to introduce numerous traces of her cultural origins while keeping her distance from them. As Zhang Aling/Eileen Chang remains in her permanent dualistic ontology and in a permanent condition of bilingualism, hybridization is the main interpretive key not just for her texts but for her very existence. By contrast, Ma Jian and Yiyun Li both make the choice of an apparent monolingualism, which in fact proves the migrant writer’s polyvalence. Ma Jian’s literary works, though originally written in Chinese, have essentially been circulating in English (all translations recently made into other languages are based on his wife’s English renditions). His identity, therefore, turns out to be split rather than hybridized. On the one hand, he shows a “Chinese self” marked by native and traditional features; he does not take the experience of migration directly into account but only focuses on his native country. On the other hand, he also brings another self into play, endowed with authorship: the self of a “translated being” achieved by means of his wife’s translations, which carefully filter and measure out the cultural specificity of his writing through an enhanced cultural mediation strategy. Yiyun Li, for her part, has chosen an opposite sort of monolingualism, that of her acquired language; as she openly states in Dear Friend from My Life, hers is a deliberate escape from her native culture. But although she claims to be steering clear of her Chinese identity, as I have already said before, this identity still emerges, if not on the political level (as in Ma Jian’s case), at least on the literary one: It has been pointed out by some critics that my fiction is not political enough. A young man confronted me at a reading, questioning my disinterest in being a political writer. A journalist in China told me that most writers believe in their historical responsibility toward our time. Why can’t you live up to that expectation? they ask, and my reply, if I were to give one, is this: I have

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spent much of my life turning away from the scripts given to me, in China and in America; my refusal to be defined by the will of others is my one and only political statement. (Li 2017) To conclude this account of three different translation practices in the Chinese sphere, I would argue that translation, when intertwined with migration, always entails a certain degree of self-violence or forceful transformation exercised by the writer or the translator with respect to the original language and culture. In Sinophone literature, this phenomenon is particularly prominent, as migrant writers always seem to engage in a challenging negotiation between their cultural roots and their migration routes, revealing a double “ontology” (Shen 2012, 98) or split identity. Throughout her life, Zhang Ailing hardly concealed her double identity; Ma Jian officially described his own split identity as a political act but actually expressed it through an act of linguistic assimilation; finally, in Yiyun Li’s case, the author’s double identity is repressed through linguistic assimilation and the refusal of autobiographism, yet still deliberately emerges as a literary, not political, act.

REFERENCES Agar, Michael. 2006. “Culture: Can You Take It Anywhere?” International Journal of Qualitative Methods 5 (2): 1–12. Ai Mi 艾米. 2014.《马建:作家最可怕就是失去对祖国语言的激情》[Ma Jian: For a Writer the Most Scaring Thing Is to Lose Their Passion for the Language of the Homeland]. RFI, September 29. Available online: https://www.rfi.fr/cn/中国/20140925-马建:作家最可怕就是失去对祖国语言的激情 (accessed June 26, 2021). Ang, Ien. 2001. On Not Speaking Chinese: Living between Asia and the West. London: Routledge. Apter, Emily. 2006. The Translation Zone: A New Comparative Literature. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Armitstead, Claire. 2019. “‘It’s a Silent Conversation’: Authors and Translators on Their Unique Relationship.” Guardian, April 6. Available online: https://www.theguardian.com/books/2019/apr/06/itsa-silent-conversation-authors-and-translators-on-their-unique-relationship (accessed June 14, 2021). Bai, Xianyong. 1976. “The Wandering Chinese: The Theme of Exile in Taiwan Fiction.” Iowa Review 7 (2): 205–12. Bala, Sruti. 2014. “Translation Is the Making of a Subject in Reparation: Elfriede Jelinek’s Response to Fukushima in ‘Kein Licht.’” Austrian Studies 22: 183–98. Bandia, Paul. F. 2014. “Translocation: Translation, Migration, and the Relocation of Cultures.” In A Companion to Translation Studies, edited by Sandra Bermann and Catherine Porter, 273–84. Hoboken, NJ: Wiley-Blackwell. Bauman, Zygmunt. 1998. Globalization: The Human Consequences. Cambridge: Polity Press. Bruno, Cosima. 2012. “The Public Life of Contemporary Chinese Poetry in English Translation.” Target: International Journal of Translation Studies 24 (2): 253–85. Budick, Sanford. 1996. “Introduction. Crises of Alterity: Cultural Untranslatability and the Experience of Secondary Otherness.” In The Translatability of Cultures - Figurations of the Space Between, edited by Sanford Budick and Wolfgang Iser, 1–24. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Chang, Eileen. 1981. “The Golden Cangue,” translated by Eileen Chang. In Modern Chinese Stories and Novellas 1919–1949, edited by Joseph S. M. Lau, C. T. Hsia, and Leo Ou-fan Lee, 530–59. New York: Columbia University Press. Cronin, Michael. 2006. Translation and Identity. London: Routledge.

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Damgaard, Peter. 2012. “Visions in Exile. Inroads to a ‘Counter-System’ of Contemporary Chinese Literature.” PhD diss., University of Copenhagen. Kong, Shuyu. 2014. “Ma Jian and Gao Xingjian: Intellectual Nomadism and Exilic Consciousness in Sinophone Literature.” Canadian Review of Comparative Literature 41 (2): 126–46. Lee, Leo Ou-fan. 2012. “Afterword.” In Eileen Chang: Romancing Languages, Cultures and Genres, edited by Kam Louie, 91–111. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. Li Yiyun. 2009. The Vagrants. London: Fourth Estate. Li Yiyun. 2017. Dear Friend, From My Life I Write to You in Your Life. London: Penguin Random House. Lungu-Badea, Georgiana. 2009. “Remarques sur le concept de culturème” [Remarks on the Concept of Cultureme]. Translationes 1: 15–78. Luque Nadal, Lucía. 2009. “Los culturemas: ¿unidades lingüísticas, ideológicas o culturales?” [The Culturemes: Linguistic, Ideological or Cultural Units?]. Estudios de Lingüística del Español (ELiEs) 11: 93–120. Ma, Sheng-mei. 2011. “Eileen Chang and Zhang Ailing: A Bilingual Orphan.” In Diaspora Literature and Visual Culture: Asia in Flight, edited by Sheng-mei Ma, 126–47. New York: Routledge. Molina Martínez, Lucía. 2006. El Otoño del pingüino: análisis descriptivo de la traducción de los culturemas [The Autumn of the Penguin: Descriptive Analysis of the Translation of Culturemes]. Castelló de la Plana: Universitat Jaume I. Pesaro, Nicoletta. 2018. “Between the Transnational and the Translational: Language, Identity, and Authorship in Ma Jian’s Novels.” Cadernos de Tradução [Translation Notebooks] 38: 106–26. Pesaro, Nicoletta. 2019. “The Death of the Mother Tongue: Language’s Inadequacy and Body Representation in Chinese-American Writer Yiyun Li.” In Viajes y escrituras: migraciones y cartografías de la violencia [Travels and Scriptures: Migrations and Cartography of Violence], edited by Nicoletta Pesaro and Alice Favaro, 107–23. Paris: Eduardo Ramos-Izquierdo. Polezzi, Loredana. 2012. “Translation and Migration.” Translation Studies 5 (3): 345–56. Rushdie, Salman. 1991. Imaginary Homelands. London: Granta Books. Shen, Shuang. 2012. “Betrayal, Impersonation and Bilingualism: Eileen Chang’s Self Translation.” In Eileen Chang: Romancing Languages, Cultures and Genres, edited Kam Louie, 91–111. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. 2004. “The Politics of Translation.” In The Translation Studies Reader, edited by Lawrence Venuti, 397–416. London: Routledge. Steiner, George. (1975) 1998. After Babel: Aspects of Language and Translation, translated by Albin Michel. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Zhai, Wenyang. 2014. “The Issue of Illegitimacy: Writing in Diaspora.” PhD diss., Florida State University. Zhang Ailing 张爱玲 (Eileen Chang). (1943) 2009.《金锁记》[The Golden Cangue]. In 《张爱玲全集:倾城 之恋》[Collected Works of Eileen Chang: Love in a Fallen City], 216–61. Beijing: Beijing shiyue wenyi chubanshe. Zhang Ailing张爱玲 (Eileen Chang). 2006. La storia del giogo d’oro, translated by Alessandra Lavagnino. Milan: BUR. Zhang, Yinde. 2014. “La Littérature chinoise transnationale et la sinopolyphonie” [Transnational Chinese Literature and Sinopolyphony]. Diogène [Diogenes] 2 (246–47): 222–34.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Translation in a Multilingual Context: Six Authors Writing the City COSIMA BRUNO

This chapter addresses contemporary directions in Chinese migrant literature produced in London by six writers of Chinese heritage: Mary Jean Chan, Sue Cheung, Sarah Howe, Jennifer J. Lee, Nina Mingya Powles, and Yilin Zhong.1 I contend that these texts invoke translation as their writing and reading method. In the first instance, they represent translation as a theme, embedding processes of micro and macro translation that involve questions of identity and power in relation to language and to the sociocultural context. Their migratory character and inner cognitive experience cross and outline borders, include and exclude, and are translational in nature because, finally and most importantly, through multilingualism they require the reader to perform an act of translation. Their heteroglossia complicates the monolingual reader’s responsiveness to the text, thus entailing a broader conception of translation, which is not so much intended as an object, or a specific decoding of a message contained in a visible text and reformulated in another language, rather, it is a translational phenomenon and experience, directly pertaining to the affective and the political. For these writers arriving in London in the 2000s, from various geographical regions, and from various personal backgrounds, the city is the actual scene of writing. With its potential of cultural pluralism, London is a multilingual city where intermingled heterogeneous cultural crosscurrents reconfigure communal discourse, through translation, imagination, and memory. As a space intersecting languages, topographies, and histories, the city allows us to engage with translation (be it cognitive, textual, or oral) as a daily experience across all walks of life.2 In the world of these writers, translation both breaks and highlights the barriers of language, appearing entangled with citizenships, precarious work, race, gender, and linguistic hierarchies, away from a romanticized cosmopolitanism and closer to a sustained effort to stretch and adapt to function across difference.

A prior contribution of mine to this topic of research was published in 2017, under the title of “Writing in London: Home and Languaging in the Work of London Writers of Chinese Descent.” In that article I looked at the work of seven authors of Chinese descent: Stephanie Dogfoot Chan, Anna Chen, Con Le, Hannah Lowe, Jin Meiling, Jennifer Wong, and Yang Lian (Bruno 2017). 2 London is a convenient place to explore translation and literature because it has the largest number of immigrants among all regions of the United Kingdom. However, Chinese migrant literature from less explored places, including small towns and rural areas, would equally make a fruitful avenue of research and offer an important contribution to contemporary Chinese literature. 1

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The authors selected in this chapter have all successfully entered the Chinese-British world of letters, with different priorities in terms of language used, literary form, and readership addressed. Reading them together highlights the spatial and temporal mobility of language and enhances, by complicating it, our understanding of Chinese literature, translation, and literature of the city across various genres. In the contemporary symbolic exchange of cultures, languages, dialects, random fragments of texts and speeches, reading these texts together can help redefining literary forms, through practices of translation, creolization, and multilingualism. Upon first analysis, these works show translation as both a privilege and a predicament crucial to these multilingual texts, an intellectual and creative practice of resistance against the notions of English as a lingua franca and the British letters as essentially monolingual. In fact, these works can temporarily resolve the watershed between national languages and literatures, presenting themselves as models of “continuous” micro and macro translation, and circulation in the international space. All of the selected works are partially if not completely autobiographical, all of them feature aspects of heteroglossia, and all illustrate the translational processes that accompany migration and understanding the world from the perspective of an outsider. As we will see, the world under scrutiny is not just London, one of the places of arrival, but also the places from where they set sail, the places of their families, and further places that may have intersected their life journey. I will start my exploration with Mary Jean Chan, born in Hong Kong in 1990—a “Chinese with English characteristics,” as she sardonically remarks (Chan 2019, 10). Educated in Hong Kong and the United States, Chan settled down in London, where she published her debut poetry collection Flèche (2019). Chan subsequently moved to Oxford, where she currently lives and works. The title of the collection, as well as its three sections—“parry,” “riposte,” and “corps-à-corps”—are all French terms used in fencing to indicate dueling techniques. As a general framework of the collection, fencing sets a text world in which two persons of the same sex synchronically duel with one another, providing a consonant setting for both the theme of queer lovemaking (further emphasized by the double entendre created by the homophony between flèche and flesh), and that one of the intercultural translational battle, where the body is site of the border and boundary between I and you, Chinese and English, mother tongue and language of empire. The collection opens with a “Preface” constituted only by a list of five points, of which number four states: 4. There are many reasons for my writing in your language. Ask your government, ask mine.* In the footnote attached to this point, the poet refers to the 1842 Treaty of Nanjing, which stipulated the cession of Hong Kong to the British Empire as a Crown colony, in the aftermath of the First Opium War. So, from the very first pages, the collection positions itself in the framework of postcolonial writing, of the (ex)colony talking back to the empire—a reclaim that is stated again in the poem “Written in a Historically White Space (I)”: The reader stares at my 皮膚 and asks: why don’t you write in 中文? I reply: 殖民主義 meant that I was brought up in your image. Let us be honest. Had I not learnt 英文 and come to your shores, you wouldn’t be reading this poem at all. Did you think it was an accident that I learnt your 語言 for decades, until I knew it better than the 母語 I dreamt in? (Chan 2019, 43)

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Here Chan makes crucial statements on the commodification of postcolonial writing—which in her view is bound to the use of English, on the marginality of her literature in her mother tongue, and the problem of translation for her putative audience. It is a continuous back and forth, where the Chinese words may be seen as minute translations within the macro translation of the English text. The relatively recent experimental practice of leaving words untranslated and unexplained creates an interlingual aesthetics that can work as a form of resistance to or accommodation of the aesthetics of alterity. In Chan’s case, I think that the ventriloquism of such code-switching is a way to map out the space between the states of being of the persona and grounds her critique of differential power relations. English and Chinese can mediate or be illegible according to the linguistic proficiencies of the readers; for both reader and writer, however, language becomes the cause of slippage and instability. As the language of the empire, of the dominant center, English is fraught and needs to be appropriated or challenged by the writer. On the other hand, English is also the language of freedom and love; it is the means through which the subject can escape predetermined cultural positioning and facilitate the encounter with her self: My desires dressed themselves in a hurry of English to avoid my mother’s gaze. How I typed “Shakespeare”, then “homoeroticism + Shakespeare” into Google, over and over. My mother did not understand the difference between English words, so she let me be. (“A Hurry of English”; Chan 2019, 12) in which language? My mind was tuned to two frequencies: mother’s Cantonese rage, your soothing English, inviting me to choose. (“Notes Towards an Understanding”; Chan 2019, 39) Language is the token that gives access to or shuts the body out of “conditional spaces” (Chan 2019, 63). Chan’s cartographies, like those of her Shanghainese mother who migrated to Hong Kong, are invariably marked with social, political, and racial alterity: your spot given to a worker’s child how you left a decade later for the colonised city … and the citizens racist your Shanghainese accent not fit (“let me know”; Chan 2019, 51) The echo of racial discrimination from her mother’s experience of migration amplifies the poet’s experience of dislocation and discrimination, both at home and in diaspora. To resist and resite, Chan redeploys English and Chinese, in a corp à corp. The poetry of Nina Mingya Powles (b.1993) uses Chinese and Maori as the languages of selfenquiry, and nature as the site of coexistence and multiplicity. Born in Wellington, Aotearoa, of mixed Malay-Chinese heritage, Powles currently lives in London, where she published her second

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poetry collection Magnolia 木蘭 (2020a). Powles’s poetry has an ecstatic dimension, contemplating nature, places, food, memories, and the unattainable “faraway love.” In her poem “Maps/地图,” boundaries and lines are reconstrued and rearranged by the skillful hand that makes origami flowers out of tube maps (Powles 2020a, 15). The poem “Magnolia, jade orchid, she-wolf” displays a naturalist attention at naming and describing species: Her name means magnolia, yet in the Disney movie cherry blossoms fill the screen. … Mùlán: 木兰 (simplified) or 木蘭 (traditional). Composed of 木which means wood, and 蘭 which means orchid. Not to be confused with the similarly pronounced múláng, 母狼, she-wolf. … Mùlán, yínxìng, xuánlíngmù. Magnolia denudate, lilytree or yulan magnolia. Native of central and eastern China. Petals curved like swans’ necks, with faint lines of blood around the roots. This species is called yùlán, jade orchid. In the country where I was born, the trees are a different language. A language I am trying to learn. Karaka, mānuka, kowhai. Karaka, mānuka, kowhai. (Powles 2020a, 77–9) Powles’s languaging, her multilingualism and effort at naming taxonomically for one-to-one equivalence combines with the experimental practice of inverting the use of italics, which also sheds epistemological doubt, while granting nature otherness. This is “proud heteroglossia” in action, having the goal of not just destabilizing the English tongue but also of showing how varied the natural world is, describing the limitations of knowledge, and breaking down generalizations that confuse magnolias with cherry blossoms.3 The autonomy of nature, the flowers and trees, fosters curiosity and wonder, all expressed in the sentence “a language that I am trying to learn,” followed by words in Maori. Powles recognizes in London a city torn by contradictions, a place in full crisis and also one of great potential as an alluring elsewhere: London is no utopia, but some days I can’t let it go. Even now, even as the days shorten. Even now, when museums and art institutions have slashed their workforces, leaving empty galleries filled with empty artworks. Even when I sat in an evening Mandarin class in a building near Euston with ten people who all admitted they voted for Brexit (they revealed this sneakily, eyes lowered but smiling). I can’t let go of my dream-version of London, the one my love first showed me through his eyes three years ago, his dream of a beautiful and chaotic city (a flower market, a poetry library, swimming ponds, the ghosts of ancient rivers running underneath us) which later became ours. (Powles 2020b)

To complicate things further, the name Mulan of the original Tuoba ballad has probably nothing to do with magnolia or any other kind of flower. Chen Sanping states: “In conclusion, it is difficult to determine with certainty the original form of any ancient Tuoba word found in a language that has been extinct for over a millennium. Even so, it is fairly safe to infer that the name Mulan once belonged to the same ‘stag/bull’ word group in the Altaic family” (Chen 2005, 40).

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The history of migration is a history of encounters and translation at different levels and at different degrees. But what happens when communication fails and the dialogue stops? The porosity of Chan’s and Powles’s places is nowhere to be found in Zhong Yilin’s 钟宜霖 work. Zhong was born in 1976, in Beijing. She graduated in drama and literature from the Beijing Central Academy of Drama. Zhong started writing literature at a very early age. She arrived in the United Kingdom in 2002, enrolling in a master’s program at the University of Warwick. The author of several books, spanning across all major genres (poetry, fiction, drama, essay),4 during her years in London, Zhong has primarily focused on writing about the life of the Chinese community in the city. Her novel《唐人街》(Chinatown; 2015) was first published in a special issue of the Chinese journal《收获》(Harvest) dedicated to works by overseas Chinese. Written in Chinese, it is based on the life and work experience of a number of Chinese migrants who Zhong became acquainted with while living in the Chinese neighborhood of London’s Gerrard Street. Because of its focus on illegal immigrants, and of the kind of characters and stories, it is in my view strongly reminiscent of Hsiao-Hung Pai’s Chinese Whispers, an undercover report on “Britain’s hidden army of labour” (Pai 2008). Zhong laments that the lives of many a Chinese migrant in the United Kingdom has remained untold and finds it extremely puzzling that overseas Chinese authors’ eyes are most likely fixed on China, rather than on the country where they actually live.5 She quotes from Mao Zedong’s 毛泽 东 (1893–1976)《在延安文艺座谈会上的讲话》(Talks at the Yan’an Forum on Literature and Art; 1942), advocating that the Chinese migrants, silent subaltern individuals, are well worth featuring as protagonists of literary works, and [t]he life of the people is always a mine of the raw materials for literature and art, materials in their natural form, materials that are crude, but most vital, rich and fundamental; they make all literature and art seem pallid by comparison; they provide literature and art with an inexhaustible source, their only source. They are the only source, for there can be no other.6 Her acknowledged literary models include works of world literature that she defines as “revolutionary” (Zhong 2015, 195). In particular she finds a favorite in the British-Trinidadian Nobel laureate V. S. Naipaul, whose travelogue An Area of Darkness and the novel Miguel Street were sources of inspiration for two of her novels:《伦敦爱情故事》(London Love Story; 2010) and Chinatown (literally, “Street of the Tang people”), respectively (192, 195). Like Miguel Street so Chinatown is a collection of linked brief stories, presenting about twenty characters gravitating toward a specific place. The book counts thirteen chapters, an epilogue entitled “People with

London Single Diary (2009) is a novel in the diary format, spanning three years of Zhong’s life experience in the city. Its sequel, London Love Story (2010), soon entered the top 10 of China’s Amazon best-selling books. Zhong also published a collection of poetry. Dear New York (2016) is her first novel in English. 5 She mentions Chinese American writers such as Ha Jin and Li Yiyun writing in English about China’s topics (Zhong 2015, 212), although, in fact, Ha Jin’s A Free Life (2007) is a long novel on the experience of a Chinese family arriving in the United States. She comments that Lin Yutang’s Chinatown (1948) cannot provide a predecessor to her Chinatown because it was not based on personal experience. Lin Yutang’s novel was translated into English as Chinatown Family, narrating the experiences of the Feng family in the hostile environment of 1930s America. 6 The entire text of Mao’s “Talks” is available online, see Mao (1942). Quotation is from Zhong (2015, 213). 4

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a story,” an appendix “Notes on writing Chinatown,” and a postscript entitled “Chinatown, an imagined Chinese community.” The narrator is a woman from Beijing on her second year of a master’s program at a university “outside London,” looking for accommodation in London, where she can write her dissertation. After a first viewing, she goes to see a second option that is a spacious room in a house in Chinatown. Each room in this house is rented to other Chinese migrants. Each chapter introduces the story of a different character, all linked together by the space of this house, located in Chinatown, a smaller city within the London urban environment. Most of these small characters, by their small and insignificant lives, migrated to London from rural China. Many arrived initially with a student visa but then, unable to continue their studies, joined the underworld of London Chinatown.7 They share accommodation, observe Chinese customs, continue to speak Chinese, eat Chinese food, and socialize with other Chinese. They remain on the fringe of law and history, in spite of their location in the center. English remains an unattainable language for them, and although the protagonist can speak and write English, and indeed she functions as the translator of the house, she nevertheless does not feel comfortable talking to British or even to other migrants in London (Zhong 2015, 71). Such a sense of linguistic insecurity also affects the job market and the social life available to them, conjuring up their little signs of nostalgia and belonging. Chinatown’s London is portrayed as a city sectioned by race, while the white British remain disconnected, and are often referred to as the 鬼佬, the foreign devils. Many times, the author provides explanation of English terms, or direct translation of words and phrases. The incommensurability of foreign culture, bolstered with elements of British hostility, negative stereotypes, and in some cases, inaccessibility of the foreign language, results in the Otherization of British white society and in the characters’ willy-nilly isolation from the world around them. Chinatown becomes here an almost independent, self-contained, compartmentalized ethnic community both claustrophobic and reassuring. The narrative pace is slow, actions inconclusive, stories unresolved. All the characters arrived in London with a purpose, a dream or an aim, but then need to resolve to plan B. Only the narrator is, eventually, in the very last pages of the novel, released from Chinatown and able to move on to the world outside. Zhong Yilin’s political representation encloses the immigrant in her own culture and idiom, thus denying access to power. The weak proficiency in English confirms English as capital, thus becoming an expression of the immigrant’s lack of citizenship. Literature of migrant Chinese writers in the 2000s does display a very distinctive complex of issues associated with adaptation and low social status in the country of arrival, even though the wave of emigration of the last few decades is not motivated by the same unambiguous political or economic reasons as the former generation of migrant authors of Chinese descent. In fact, migration in the twentieth century was principally a consequence of closed borders and the divide between East and West; today’s departures take place in the context of a completely different global culture and the contemporary nomadic life. These latter departures are often motivated by curiosity, study, independence, and artistic fulfillment on the world scene.

The main characters include the narrator, from Beijing; Xiao Di; Chunsheng; Ah Guang; Zhang Lai; Apple (Lü Ping); Ah Lang; Mingming, from Shenyang; Lao Zhu, from Fujian; Ah Wei; Lao Wei and his wife Xiao Lin, from Jiangsu; Ah Qi, from Beijing; Ah Bao, from Dongbei; Ah Chang, from Fujian; Ah Lun; and Ah Qing and his wife, from Fujian.

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Zhong Yilin describes migration as an economic postulate, one that grew increasingly utopian as the years went on. Her characters can in theory always return, was it not for numerous obstacles, including citizenship, an unprivileged non-European passport, financial costs, reputation, and so on. The principal tone of migrant literature from the Hong Kong poets is entirely different. Thematically, it encompasses transculturation, rejection of stereotypes, and a detached attitude toward any permanent definitions. Giving the perspective of a second-generation Chinese-British, Sue Cheung’s Chinglish: An Almost Entirely True Story (2019) is a novel constituted by diary entries and scribbled drawings illustrating the vicissitudes of the protagonist Jo Kwan, spanning three years, from the end of July 1984 to late August 1987. Jo Kwan is a thirteen-year-old Chinese British-girl, who, after a few years in Nottingham and some more in Hull, moves with her parents to Coventry, where the family has bought a Chinese takeaway. The novel is almost entirely set in Coventry, featuring the protagonist’s witty observations about her childhood spent in a Chinese takeaway, amid the identity issues and the racist and bullying comments of her schoolmates. Toward the end of the story, when Jo successfully applies for a course at the London College of Fashion, London becomes the promised land, the mirage of a better independent life. All Jo dreams of is forging her artistic career and being free in London. The last entry in the diary features Jo finally leaving for London. But for Sue Cheung too London is no dream. As the author later writes in The Big Issue, in the late 1980s, aged seventeen, she left Coventry for London, the big city, where after a series of unfortunate turns, in her last year at college, she ended up homeless, penniless, and pregnant. Having nowhere else to go, she first lived in a squat in King’s Cross with her boyfriend, signed on for benefits, and eventually managed to be transferred to housing association accommodation in Acton. With the help of some of her relatives, she completed a Higher National Diploma and found a good job and a house of her own. The diary format and the use of Chinglish bring to mind another novel, written in London by the migrant woman writer Xiaolu Guo: A Chinese–English Dictionary for Lovers. Guo’s title works as a metaphorical shorthand for the various linguistic and other forms of interaction and misinterpretation that unfurl between the narrator (a Chinese young woman who has only basic knowledge of English) and the foreign world she tries to understand. But while Cheung looks both at her family and at her UK-Coventry-London environment from the perspective of a young woman who finds herself in between, Guo takes the British as her principal focus, mocking stereotypes of Englishness.8 Both in Cheung’s and Guo’s works, the reader can enjoy a two-sided split, a process of other-ing that is also self-ing, in which culture-specific differences concern many spheres of life, but need not to be perceived as exclusively negative. Thus, whereas in Zhong we confront the perspective of the migrant directly transplanted in Chinatown, in Guo the focus is slightly larger, being one of the migrant in the British environment of London. Finally, Cheung’s perspective

Guo’s Dictionary can perhaps be read in the Chinese literary tradition of 筆記小說 (miscellaneous notes and trivial anecdotes), ranging from “records of anomalies” 誌怪 and “tales of the remarkable” 傳奇 to anecdotes on historical events or characters, and diverse aspects of everyday life. An example of mocking stereotypes of Britishness is provided by the character of the “alternative,” left-leaning, English boyfriend, who combines this with “vegetarianism” and his predilection for The Guardian.

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is directed mainly toward her own migrant family, and the lack of communication between the protagonist, who hardly speak any Chinese, and her immigrant parents and grandparents, who can hardly speak any English: In other words, we all have to cobble together tiny bits of English and Chinese into a rubbish new language I call “Chinglish”. It is very awkward. (2019, 10) These three novels all deal with the key problem of communication, which amplifies the protagonists’ sense of being at odds with their extended societal context. Adapting Gloria Anzaldüa’s statement about code-switching in a Hispanic American context, “while I still have to speak English or Chinese when I would rather speak Chinglish, and as long as I have to accommodate the English speakers rather than having them accommodate me, my tongue will be illegitimate.”9 The characters in the works of the three poets are consistently different, since their experience in their old and new homes are of estrangement but not of loss. Sarah Howe’s Loop of Jade (2015) offers a deceptively Orientalist portrayal of her Chinese heritage from her current location in London. Born in Hong Kong in 1983 to an English father and a Chinese mother, who migrated to the United Kingdom when Sarah was seven years old, Howe first published her poems in the form of a pamphlet in 2009, under the title A Certain Chinese Encyclopedia: Poetry, then in the collection Loop of Jade. Loop of Jade takes Jorge Luis Borges’s 1942 essay “The Analytical Language of John Wilkins” as its interface.10 The John Wilkins in the essay’s title is the seventeenth-century philosopher, who attempted to devise a universal scientific language, based, according to Borges, on an ancient Chinese taxonomy of animals, entitled Celestial Emporium of Benevolent Knowledge.11 Borges lists fourteen taxonomical categories allegedly discovered by the translator Franz Kuhn, and concludes that all attempts at describing the universe through one language are arbitrary and futile. Howe adopts the same fourteen categories, from (a) to (n), as the structure of her collection, which presents starkly autobiographical yet fantastical poems full of Orientalist images12 that define a

The original sentence reads: “while I still have to speak English or Spanish when I would rather speak Spanglish, and as long as I have to accommodate the English speakers rather than having them accommodate me, my tongue will be illegitimate” (Anzaldüa 1987, 59). 10 Borges’s essay has received much attention by the scholarly world. Michel Foucault, for example, stated that was of inspiration for his book The Order of Things. George Lakoff also commented on it in his Women, Fire, and Dangerous Things: What Categories Reveal about the Mind, and so on. In “The Myth of the Other” (1988), Zhang Longxi in turn critiques Foucault’s comments. 11 Wilkins and other scholars of his time were taking up Francis Bacon’s argument about the difference between the Chinese characters, which he saw as real as things and notions, and the European alphabetic writing systems, which he saw as nominal as letters and words. For a discussion of Bacon’s and other scholars’ theories of Chinese characters, see McDonald (2002). 12 Some of which may include jade, black lacquer, moonlight, lotus, rice, Mah Jong, bamboo grove, emperor, Son of Heaven, wok, silk, joss-stick, willow, cicada, chinoiserie, intertextual elements from Madame Butterfly, Mao Zedong, Confucius’ Analects, The Gateless Gate, Xu Bing’s A Case Study of Transference, and transliterations from Cantonese and Chinese characters. It is perhaps useful to look at these as markers of “self-mythologising,” in adoption of the author’s own description in her essay “1. To China: That Blue Flower on the Map” (Howe 2016). 9

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liminal incantatory world of real and imagination, as childhood memories and transmitted family stories usually do. In the poem “Crossing from Guangdong,” translational processes are able to cross generations, erase distances and connect worlds: Something sets us looking for a place. For many minutes every day we lose Ourselves to somewhere else. … Tell me, why have I come? … … … still-dark streets of the English quarter, the funereal stonework facades with the air of Whitehall, or the Cenotaph, but planted on earth’s other side. … Old stories tell that if we could only get there, all distances would be erased. (Howe 2015, 2–5) Places in our memories are not restricted to particular boundaries, but meaning continues to be multiple—London, Beijing, Datong, Hong Kong, Macau, Arizona, the Yangtze River—all studded with memories, images, stories, and of course, sounds and voices. It is a multilayered meaning in constant flux, continuously translated, with no path connecting the particular to the universal, the known to the unknown. The persona’s “strange pilgrimage to home” (Howe 2015, 3), a home that “you can no longer see” (5), the place of her Cantonese mother’s tongue and of her Shanghainese grandmother’s tongue entangle with each other: Yut, ye, sam, sei. … … I hear again your voice … (Howe 2015, 3) And an old woman met by chance on a bus in Datong could have well been her grandmother, who she never met, speaking in a dialect she does not understand. Languages, texts, and places are continuously crossed and translated, without pretense of an orderly resolution. The very uttering of the word mother requires the “longest and most empty pause” (Howe 2015, 16), because, as Borges indicates, trying to see particular categories in a universal vein may well deny to the other the possibility of self-representation. This is effectively articulated in the poem “(l) Others” (46), which starts with a quotation from Genesis and carries on reflecting on the matter of genetic inheritance: I think about the meaning of blood, which is (simply) a metaphor and race, which has been a terrible pun. *

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From castus to chaste, with a detour for caste. English, 廣東話, Français d’Egypte, ‫ןושל־עמַאמ‬: our future children’s skeins, carded. * … The spiralling path from Γένεσις to genetics. Language revolves like a ream of stars. The poem further refers to Gregor Mendel’s universalistic theories of inheritance, which immediately evokes the risk of Mischlinge Laws, while “ream of starts” is a luminous image describing language as emanating in somewhat parallel ways. Howe borrows and refutes texts (Borges, Chinese songs, Pound), her translation paradoxically showing that cultural difference can become commodified in a late-capitalist system in which these discourses circulate. Thus, as Rey Chow echoing Jameson states (Chow 2010, 48–54), stereotypes are inevitable and “fundamental to the representation of one group by another” (49), but what is important is “the power behind their use” (54). This excursion ends in a circular way, with the autobiographical essay of Jessica J. Lee 李潔 珂, who was born in Canada in 1983 to a Welsh father and a Taiwanese mother. She arrived in London from Canada to undertake her doctoral research in environmental history and aesthetics, obtaining her PhD in 2016, and settling down with her husband in London for a few years. Her first book Turning (2017) is a touching landscape memoir narrating her attempts to swim in a different German lake every week for an entire year, with the goal of healing from emotional trauma. But even though the book’s chief setting is the North German Plain around Berlin, Turning has a wandering nature, from Canada, to Scotland, to Wales, to Germany, and of course, London: London was home: not simply because it had been home with my husband, but because it was something I chose and chose again. In all the years I had been away the magnetic grasp of the city hadn’t disappeared. None of the other places felt like that: it felt as though the other places were things that just happened to me. I was born in Canada, I was sent to Berlin, all of accidental. But I wanted to be back in London – amidst the greying streets and the frowning commuters – and I wanted to be near to the Heath again. (Lee 2017, 161–62) As for Powles, Chan, and Howe, for Lee too writing is motivated by an enquiry that does not relate uniquely to herself but stretches back to her mother and grandmothers. Lee reflects on the concept of home and belonging, a narrative again conveyed through language, as when she recalls the voice of her mother, speaking in Chinese: I think of this. Of the language I lost and those I’ve gained. Of the places that have reshaped who I am and where I find home. I remember the sound of my mother walking through the door at the end of the day. “我回来 了” “Wo huilaile” – one of the refrains in Mandarin that she repeated, as if speaking to no one. I’ve always thought this meant “I’m home,” but I’ve learned that it means only, “I’m back”, or “I’ve returned”. But “回”, “return”, the small box tucked safely within another box, is a kind of

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comfort. The origin of the character is in a spiral, referring to a kind of regularity, the rotation of coming and going. Home as the place you return to. … Return. Home is as much in a language as it is in a landscape. (Lee 2017, 9–10) And yet, after returning to London, her elective home, actively chosen, the narrator considers: London had changed in my years away. I didn’t remember it being so expensive, or needing to work quite so hard to get by. Places that had seemed alive and interesting some years earlier had begun to feel sterile and empty, despite the crowds … I’d left before the cuts had hit deeply and returned to find things different than I remembered … For the first time, I felt adrift in London, like I wasn’t where I was meant to be. This place I’d sought out, the home I thought I was coming back to had disappeared. (Lee 2017, 169–70) Like for the other women writers explored so far, Lee’s migration means she is far from home, yet she is also at home in (an)other place(s). Analogously, Lee’s languaging, like languaging in Chan, Cheung, Howe, Powles, and Zhong, includes sustained translation, occupying more than one language at once. Translation and migration constitute vexed approaches to literature because they invite the reader to map their worlds differently, imagining a language and a space defined by the absence of another, constantly pushing the boundaries of time and space. Reading these works through the prism of translation highlights the discursive interactions between writers, their life and their environment. London constitutes a meeting point, a homing location that is approached from an array of ways and linguistic resources that are distinctive from writer to writer, their personal histories of migration and languaging. A homing location as unfixed as their point of departure, multilingual London interrogates and destabilizes literary geographies defined along monolingualism and national literatures—whatever those might be. Here literary traditions are reinvented, and borders and communities are imagined and performed through the social and ideological constructs of languages in movement. These writers’ translations at various levels and degrees work as a “transformative practice that contributes to the creation of a social space where the form, function and meaning of linguistic and semiotic signs are transformed and combined to create new subjectivities, identities and ideologies” (Mazzaferro 2018, 6). Chinese, with all its various accents and dialects, constitutes a substantial portion of the linguistic varieties spoken in London. But one of the most striking features of these works is to be found in their linguistic varieties: not just English, French, German, Yiddish, Chinese, Greek, or Maori, but also a vernacular variety of Chinese that is often restricted to domestic, family use, and a more official variety used to impart orders or interact with the world. This is visible in Chan, Zhong, and Cheung, as well as in the use of pinyin and Wade-Giles and a mixture of both in Lee. Such a heteroglossic, multilingual labyrinth that is affectively and symbolically entangled with race, gender, culture, place, and identity challenges both the concept of English and Chinese as unitary and continuous linguistic realms. Literature by migrant writers is full of voices, words gained and words lost, words written, but especially orally transmitted, memory-loaded sounds, world-traveling words.

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At the same time, London is already other words and other places too, claimed by different migrant groups. The dynamic encounter between these writers and London may be limited by time and space, but it produces literary maps of intersections with other places and literatures that enrich and complicate the comprehensive picture of Chinese, Sinophone, world, and transnational hyphenated literatures. As we have seen, such an encounter can produce narratives of London as a contact zone, where writers can share a multivocal scene. It can also produce narratives of London as a scene of separation and conflict, in which migrants, as minorities, must always proceed from a reassessment of their own heritage. The translation practiced in these works can be of a cognitive kind, or can work at the written level, but especially at an aural one, where the sounds of languages can be familiar or unfamiliar, and thus linked to affects. The migratory journey of these women13 writers is rooted in colonial history, but there are more interactions than just the center-periphery one. For this younger generation of writers, literary models include more diverse world authors, and other hyphenated writers like themselves. As Powles writes, she “never envisioned being a part of ‘British poetry,’” but even if she “first felt alone, peering in from the outside,” she feels she is not alone now with many other world writers “here filled with faraway love” (Powles 2020b). All of these writers have obtained some kind of recognition, even though not everyone participates in the global discourse to the same degree.14 I argue that the focus of these women writers on certain elements of communication plays a role in terms of power relationships. Starting from a situation that could be thought of as structurally disempowering, translingual processes of cross-cultural interactions constitute a source of empowerment for these authors. Naturally translation, book reviews in mainstream newspapers, online circulation, grants, residencies, awards and other kinds of recognition and support from British foundations, publishers, agents, bookstores, and literary organizations are all essential to these writers’ challenge of the literary canon and their inclusion in the literary networks of the world.15 And yet, although Chinese

The number and gender of London writers of Chinese descent may acquire significance in the political, social, and cultural picture emerging from their writing too. Thus, the exclusive focus on women writers can point to other fruitful avenues of research that I have, however, no space to pursue here. It must also be pointed out that Mary Jean Chan currently identifies as nonbinary and uses they/them pronouns. However, while writing and publishing Flèche, Chan identified as female and used she/her pronouns, so I preferred to use that pronoun in my analysis of her work. 14 Chan’s Flèche won the 2019 Costa Book Awards, it was chosen as a Book of the Year by The Guardian, The Irish Times, and The White Review, and has been shortlisted for the Swansea University Dylan Thomas Prize to boot. Founding editor of the small press Bitter Melon, which focuses on Asian diaspora poets, Powles won the Women Poets’ Prize (UK) in 2018, the inaugural Nan Shepherd Prize for Nature Writing, and the Landfall Essay Competition in 2019. Zhong Yili’s Chinatown made the top 10 on Amazon China. Cheung’s Chinglish won The Diverse Book Awards, Young Adult category. Guo Xiaolu’s Dictionary won the prestigious Orange Prize. Howe’s Loop of Jade (2015) won the T. S. Eliot Prize and The Sunday Times/PFD Young Writer of the Year Award and was shortlisted for the Seamus Heaney Centre Poetry Prize and the Forward Prize for Best First Collection. Jessica J. Lee’s Turning was among Best Books of 2017, selected by National Post, and among the Die Zeit’s Best Books of the Year; its was named a Notable Book by the Sigurd F. Olson Nature Writing Awards, and was longlisted for the Frank Hegyi Award for Emerging Authors. 15 In the epilogue to Chinatown, Zhong Yilin recounts that the novel took a more definite shape as a book, when in March 2005 she met with a friend of hers, Shi Tao—the then vice president of Amazon China—who encouraged her to complete and publish these stories (Zhong 2015, 191). Soon after receiving her award, Sue Cheung stated: “We were known as the ‘silent minority’ but with incredible awards like this representing all, I hope others will be encouraged to join in getting our voices heard” (Cheung 2020). 13

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British writers constitute one of the fastest growing groups in the United Kingdom, they are also one of the least visible in the long tradition of London portraiture, being excluded from the grand narrative of Britain and China. These writings remind us that the city is made of people with their meandering histories of relations.

REFERENCES Anzaldüa, Gloria. 1987. Borderlands, la frontera: The new mestiza. San Francisco: Aunt Lute Books. Bruno, Cosima. 2017. “Writing in London: Home and Languaging in the Work of London Writers of Chinese Descent.” Life Writing 14 (1): 37–55. Chan, Mary Jean. 2019. Flèche. London: Faber & Faber. Chen, Sanping. 2005. “From Mulan to Unicorn.” Journal of Asian History 39 (1): 23–43. Cheung, Sue. 2019. Chinglish. London: Andersen Press. Cheung, Sue. 2020. “I Won a National Award.” Available online: https://www.suepickford.com/2020/11/ (accessed March 31, 2021). Chow, Rey. 2010. The Rey Chow Reader, edited by Paul Bawman. New York: Columbia University Press. Howe, Sarah. 2013. “1. To China: That Blue Flower on the Map.” The Best American Poetry [blog]. Available online: https://blog.bestamericanpoetry.com/the_best_american_poetry/2016/02/i-to-china-thatblue-flower-on-the-map-by-sarah-howe.htm (accessed May 1, 2023). Howe, Sarah. 2015. Loop of Jade. London: Chatto & Windus. Lee, Jessica, J. 李潔珂. 2017. Turning. London: Virago. Mao Tse-tung. 1942. “Talks at the Yenan Forum on Literature and Art.” Marxists.org. Available online: https://www.marxists.org/reference/archive/mao/selected-works/volume-3/mswv3_08.htm (accessed April 24, 2023). Mazzaferro, Gerardo, ed. 2018. Translaguaging as Everyday Practice. Cham: Springer. McDonald, Edward. 2002. “‘Humanistic Spirit or Scientism?’: Conflicting Ideologies in Chinese Language Reform.” Historie, Epistémologie, Langage 24 (2): 51–74. Pai, Hsiao-Hung. 2008. Chinese Whispers. London: Penguin Books. Powles, Nina Mingya 明雅. 2020a. Magnolia 木蘭. Rugby: Nine Arches Press. Powles, Nina Mingya 明雅. 2020b. “Writing Britain Now: Nina Mingya Powles.” Wasafiri, October 19. Available online: https://www.wasafiri.org/article/writing-britain-now-nina-mingya-powles/ (accessed May 1, 2023). Zhang, Longxi. 1988. “The Myth of the Other: China in the Eyes of the West.” Critical Inquiry 15: 108–31. Zhong Yilin 钟宜霖. 2015.《唐人街》(Chinatown). Nanjing: Jiangsu fenhuang wenyi chubanshe.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Hong Kong and Macao Literatures in Translation: Reconceptualizing Inbound and Outbound Translation CHRIS SONG

INTRODUCTION Translating modern Chinese literature into foreign languages has been conceptualized in Chinese as “outbound translation” 外譯, in contrast to “inbound translation” 內譯, or foreign-language literature being translated into Chinese. This chapter challenges such dualistic two-way-traffic conceptualization entrenched in the translation studies of modern Chinese literature by investigating the labyrinthine translation phenomena of literature in Hong Kong and Macao, two postcolonial cities that enjoy bilingual literary traditions—that is, English and Chinese in Hong Kong, Portuguese and Chinese in Macao.1 The phenomena involve not only writers and translators but also publishers and patrons, who celebrate the linguistic richness of local literatures through the interlingual translation that embraces both inter- and intraregional practices. Their translation practices as such redefine the concepts of outbound translation and inbound translation. When practitioners in Hong Kong and Macao translate literature from one local language to another, their translations are inevitably contextualized in bilingual literary environments. The two bilingual cities thus become both the original and the receiving culture of the translation of their own literature. As outbound translation and inbound translation expand and partially merge, the translation traffic in Hong Kong and Macao projects reconceptualization of outbound translation and inbound translation differ from those currently understood in the area of translation studies in mainland China. In considering inbound translation and outbound translation, translators or translation studies scholars position themselves either inside or outside their respective cultures. This position-taking

The Chinese here refers to the Chinese script. Hong Kong’s and Macao’s Sinophone writers primarily write in Standard Chinese but speak Cantonese. Although a highly hybridized Sinitic script called Saam kap dai that combines classical Chinese, Cantonese, and Standard Chinese became popular in the newspaper supplements from the 1940s to the 1960s in Hong Kong, Cantonese as a script did not become popular for the writing of literature until the emergence in 2020 of Resonate 迴響 and its endeavors to publish literary works written in Cantonese script. There have been no activities of note promoting Cantonese literature in Macao.

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implies cultural, linguistic, and ideological proclivities in previous discussions by mainland Chinese scholars. Liu Shusen points out an intriguing lack of definition for inbound translation in the area of translation studies, especially in mainland China.2 He starts by emphasizing the neutrality of fanyi 翻 譯—which means translating the meaning, style, and cultural significance of a text from one language to another without concern for the power relations between the source text and the target text. He goes on to contextualize outbound translation in China’s reform-and-opening period since the late 1970s. The term stresses the direction of translation and expresses China’s wishes to come out of its Cold War isolation and join international society. Although translators often translate foreign literatures into their native languages, Liu laments that the term inbound translation, supposedly the opposite of outbound translation, does not seem to have appeared at all (Liu 2017, 14). Hou Guojin believes the default understanding of outbound translation is the translation and export of Chinese books into English. He stresses the power relation implicit in outbound translation from a weak original culture to a strong receiving culture. Inbound translation would reverse this power relation (Hou 2018, A07). In his study on contemporary rebuilding of China’s national image through translation, Tan Zaixi also attempts to define inbound translation as “translating alien images, alien cultures, from alien languages into the native language” 将外族形象、外族文化由外 族语言转换成本族语言, which “as a basic level of translation” 作为翻译基本层面, has been most fruitful in the area of translation studies (in mainland China) (Tan 2018, 3). Tan defines outbound translation, in opposition to inbound translation, as translating China’s national image out of the country. He criticizes the background cultural politics of “Chinese culture going out” 中华文化走出 去, a national strategy set forth by the Sixth Plenary Session of the Seventeenth Central Committee of the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) in 2011 (3). While alert to inbound translation’s implication of “an invasion of alien images or cultures” 异邦侵犯, Tan criticizes outbound translation for the same invasiveness (9). In Liu’s, Hou’s, and Tan’s discussions, inbound translation is understood in opposition to outbound translation in the cultural political context of contemporary China. The binary understanding of inbound translation and outbound translation, while perhaps accurate in conceptualizing the literary translation into and out of mainland China, becomes problematic in the more complicated linguistic landscapes of (post)colonial Hong Kong and Macao. The outbound translation of these two cities’ literatures are rarely discussed, if ever, while inbound translation is even less visible in translation studies and criticism. This chapter provides a critical overview of Hong Kong and Macao literatures in translation, discussing the many issues involved in such translations under the government’s patronage and reconceptualizing outbound and inbound translation in these cities’ multilingual literary milieux.

TRANSLATING HONG KONG LITERATURE UNDER PATRONAGE In Hong Kong, outbound translation has generally been used to refer to the interlingual translation of Hong Kong literature from Chinese to other languages. This usage was solidified officially and scholarly by the launch of the Hong Kong Literature Translation Project 香港文學外譯計劃 and the

It is worth noting that the inbound translation discussed here within the category of interlingual translation has not been mistaken for the intralingual translation from classical Chinese to modern Chinese for research and educational purposes in China.

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publication of A Bibliography of Hong Kong Literature in Translation 香港文學外譯書目 in the early 2010s. In 2011, the Hong Kong Arts Development Council (HKADC), a statutory body established by the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region government, launched a Hong Kong Literature Translation Project, which dispensed a total of HK$3,000,000 to the Department of Translation of the Chinese University of Hong Kong (HK $1,774,850) and the Hong Kong Advanced Institute of Cross-Disciplinary Studies of the City University of Hong Kong (HK $1,145,150) (HKADC 2012, 63). The former portion of the Hong Kong Literature Translation Project was later transferred to the Centre for China Studies at the Chinese University of Hong Kong for the production of a book series led by John Minford, a sinologist and renowned translator of both modern and classical Chinese literature who has been translating Hong Kong literature into English since the early 1980s (Minford 2011, 32). Minford’s team eventually produced the Hong Kong Literature Series, six volumes published by the Chinese University Press. This series implicitly argues that the Hong Kong literature written in Chinese, even as it has been influenced by literature of the West, has inherited the legacies of the “stories of the strange” 志怪小說 and “jottings” 筆記 genres from classical Chinese literature. In the series, stories with a strange element, combined with a strong impression of magic realism introduced to Hong Kong as early as the 1970s (see Wong 2018), are particularly prominent in Leung Ping-kwan’s 梁秉鈞 (a.k.a. Ye Si 也斯; 1949–2013) novellas,《養龍人師門》 (See Mun and the Dragon; 1979) and《淹死者的超度》 (Drowned Souls; 2007), included in the volume entitled Dragons, although Minford does not include Leung’s poems adapted from《聊齋 誌異》(Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio) in his volume of Leung’s poetry, Lotus Leaves. The three volumes of essays—The Best China: Essays from Hong Kong, Xi Xi’s 西西 (1937–) The Teddy Bear Chronicles, and Leo Ou-fan Lee 李歐梵 (1939–) and Esther Yuk-ying Lee’s 李玉瑩 Ordinary Days—demonstrate Minford’s intellectual effort to connect these Hong Kong authors’ writings to the jottings tradition, which according to Minford, is “a long and venerable tradition in Chinese literature, of quirky memoirs and casual personal essays, sometimes lyrical, sometimes telling a story” (Minford 2020b, xiv). The latter portion of the funding, named the Hong Kong Atlas series and edited by Christopher Mattison, was transferred to the Faculty of Arts of Hong Kong Baptist University. Eight volumes were published by various presses, including Muse, East Slope Publishing, Zephyr Press, MCCM Creations, and the Chinese University Press, because “a crucial part of the experiment has been to link as many voices and concerns as possible in offering up the various Hong Kong voices” (Mattison 2017–2018, 152). Unlike Minford’s series, which aims to deepen the reading of Hong Kong literature, Mattison’s series expands the scope of Hong Kong literature as available in English by featuring a stellar group of writers and translators. Not only does the series aim to expand “the English-language canon with a sorely neglected swath of writing,” it also allows “Hong Kong authors to converse and compete with voices written natively in, and translated into, English” (158). In effect, although the conversation might have been with world literature through translation, the projects were in competition with the English translation of mainland Chinese writers’ works. For example, to no small extent, Xi Xi’s poetry volume, Not Written Words, translated by Jennifer Feeley, helped the author win the prestigious 2019 Newman Prize for Chinese Literature, against a group of more internationally renowned mainland Chinese nominees including Yu Xiuhua 余秀华 (1976–), Wang Xiaoni 王小妮 (1955–), Xi Chuan 西川 (1963–), Bei Dao 北岛 (1949–), and others in the competition for the 2019 Newman Prize for Chinese Literature (MCLC Blog 2018).

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Also in 2011, the Centre for Humanities Research of Lingnan University published 《香港 文學外譯書目》(A Bibliography of Hong Kong Literature in Translation), initiated by Leung Ping-kwan, edited by Amanda Yuk-kwan Hsu 許旭筠, and funded by the HKADC. The book compiles an exhaustive bibliography of Hong Kong writers’ Chinese literary works that had been translated into other languages up to 2011, covering the translations into English, Asian languages (including Japanese, Korean, and Arabic), and European languages (including French, German, Dutch, Norwegian, Italian, Spanish, Slovenian, Romanian, Yugoslavian, and Greek). Hsu’s preface introduces the editorial intention not only to counter “the international readership’s slights to Hong Kong literature” (Hsu 2011, 12) but also to reconsider “the positioning of Hong Kong literature in the studies of modern Chinese literature” (18). She writes, To speak our tongue, to invite others to understand us, and to translate ours into theirs so that we can comprehend each other better is a dialogic exchange that involves complex translingual and transcultural dynamics, which cannot be fully articulated in terms of power domination and subjugation. It is with this belief we started this project—not just to let the world learn our stories, but also for us the learn more about the world. (Hsu 2011, 12) The worries about Hong Kong’s literary, cultural, and political voices not being heard, understood, or respected send out a strong echo to the question Leung famously asked in 1995, two years before the 1997 handover of sovereignty from the British Crown to the People’s Republic of China (PRC): “The stories of Hong Kong: Why are they so hard to tell? Everyone is telling […] a different story” (Leung 1995, 4). Such worries overwhelm the concern for translation in Hsu’s project. Entering the discussion of translation, she seems to have fused heteroglossic writing (e.g., Outer Out 鷗外鷗 [1911–1995]) and bilingual writing (e.g., Shu Hong-sing 舒巷城 [1921–1999]) with what Roman Jakobson categorizes as interlingual translation or “translation proper” (Jakobson 1959, 233), which the book includes in its bibliography. Obviously, Hsu’s “Preface” tackles issues far beyond the translation of Chinese-language Hong Kong literature into other languages. Both Minford’s and Mattison’s undertakings of the HKADC’s Hong Kong Literature Translation Project were at least partly inspired by Leung Ping-kwan. Minford acknowledges that the Translating Hong Kong Symposium, which Leung organized to serve as a book launch for A Bibliography of Hong Kong Literature in Translation in April 2011, was the impetus for his course on translating Hong Kong literature at the Chinese University of Hong Kong. Leung visited Minford’s class and remained the “driving force behind this project” (Minford 2020a, x) even after having passed away in 2013. Mattison also reveals that his Hong Kong Atlas project was “sprung from” a 2006 discussion with Leung (Mattison 2017–2018, 152). Connnie Ho-Yee Kwong points out, “in the study of Hong Kong literature’s outbound translation in the twentieth century, Leung Ping-kwan holds an important position, as he not only considers cross-cultural issues in translating his own literature, but also reflects on cultural criticism in everyday life in a way informed by Said’s Orientalism” (2019, 151). Leung’s influence on the translation of Hong Kong literature has no doubt stretched well into the twenty-first century, even after his passing in 2013. Leung seemed to have brought his thoughts on Hong Kong culture to the practice of outbound translation, which prevented Chineselanguage Hong Kong literature from being (self-)Orientalized in the margin of modern Chinese

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literature. However, English-language Hong Kong literature has never entered this extravaganza of government-funded translation, as the primary patron HKADC only funds the translation from Chinese to English. While recognizing the “creative traffic between English and Chinese” (Hsu 2011, 13), the editors say the translations of Hong Kong writers’ English literary works to Chinese are beyond its scope (14), so its bibliography does not include them. To a certain extent, therefore, the patron’s funding policy and the scholarly archival activity under Leung’s powerful influence have ended up neglecting the translation of Hong Kong’s English-language literature to Chinese. Leung Ping-kwan was the central figure that advanced the outbound translation of Hong Kong’s Chinese-language literature in the early twenty-first century. His contribution to its dissemination outside Hong Kong certainly deserves upmost commendation. However, his influence on the HKADC-funded translation projects was also the reason for the limitation in the directionality of translation. As a result, the emphasis on the outbound translation from Chinese to English has overwhelmed the translation in the opposite direction or any type of inbound translation in Hong Kong.

TRANSLATING MACAO LITERATURE UNDER PATRONAGE In 2015, the Cultural Affairs Bureau of the Macao Special Administrative Region government published《澳門文學書目初編 1600–2014》(A Bibliography of Macao Literature 1600–2014), edited by Wong Kwok-keung 王國強, which is the most exhaustive archival and statistic research about Macao literature written primarily in Chinese and Portuguese so far. In his analysis of publication data, Wong distinguishes translated books in the target language only from bilingual books in both the original and the target language. As a result, the former only includes two books of translation from Chinese to English and eight from Chinese to Portuguese, while the latter records eighty-one Chinese–English bilingual books and sixty-nine Chinese-Portuguese books. However, the latter involves interlingual translation in both directions, that is, from Chinese to English and vice versa, as well as from Chinese to Portuguese and vice versa (Wong 2015, 170). Tenglong Wan also provides an analytical account of literary translation in Macao, showing that the city has seen an exponential increase in the publication of literary translation since the 1980s. According to Wan’s collection, until 2016, only eleven titles of literary translation were published from the 1920s to 1970s, while the last four decades have produced 169 titles (Wan 2018, 180). Wan’s archive does not include literary translations (mostly Chinese translations of Italian literature for teenagers and young adults) published between the 1900s and 1950s by the Tipografia Salesiana 慈幼印書館, but his studies are by far the most comprehensive reflections of the contemporary practice of literary translation in Macao (Wan 2018, 171–201; 2019).3 In the twenty-first century, the most devoted publisher of translated literature in Macao so far is the Association of Stories in Macao 澳門故事協會 (ASM). In Wong’s list of the most productive local publishers, ASM occupies the third place, succeeding Yili chubanshe 毅力出版社, which primarily reprints martial arts novels, and the Cultural Affairs Bureau of the Macao Special Administrative

Tipografia Salesiana was founded in 1908 by Italian Roman Catholic prelate Luigi Versiglia, see Lee (2016). For its catalog until 1946, see Tipografia Salesiana (1946).

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Region government 澳門文化局, which was also a primary patron of literary publications in Macao (Wong 2015, 169). Since its establishment as a nonprofit community publisher in 2005 in Macao, ASM has been drawing government funding from the Macao Foundation 澳門基金會 and the Cultural Affairs Bureau every year to publish books of creative writing and literary translation. Drawing on André Lefevere’s theorization of the patronage of translation (1992), Wan lists the four most influential patrons of literary translation in Macao (Wan 2018, 188). However, listing ASM as a “patron” is questionable because ASM primarily receives economic support from public patronages to produce books of literary translations. Even if it dispensed a certain degree of status to its translators, ASM could at best be considered to be taking a double role, or acting as a secondary patron, as it both receives and dispenses components of patronage. ASM is yet another example of Lefevere’s theory falling short when applied to addressing complex real-world practice situations on the micro level. Besides, while it is correct to say ASM has “blazed a new trail for Englishlanguage literature in Macao” (Wong 2015, 148; Wan 2018, 190), ASM’s literary translations also involve Portuguese. Of more than 100 titles of ASM’s publications, most present both original works and literary translations of Chinese, Portuguese, and English in a parallel manner. Produced in either a single- or multiple-translator mode, the inventory of its literary translations primarily includes English translations of classical Chinese poetry (including anthologies of dynastic works and volumes of individual poets, mainly less translated women poets), English and Portuguese translations of contemporary Macao and Hong Kong Chinese-language poetry (e.g., I Roll the Dice: Contemporary Macao Poetry [2008], Mapa Refeito: Leung Ping-kwan [2011], and so on), and Chinese translations of contemporary Australian poetry (such as Wombats of Bundanon: Twenty Australian Poets [2010]; see the Association of Stories in Macao n.d.). ASM’s pedagogical mission in creative writing cannot be more evident as the community publisher was previously based at the Department of English of the University of Macau and directed by (now emeritus) Professor Christopher (Kit) Kelen (1958–), who was teaching creative writing at both bachelor of arts (BA) and master of arts (MA) levels. The translations in most of its publications were completed by Kelen’s students in his creative writing classes. For Kelen, translation is a means of coaching students to create stories and compose poems. In his account of ASM’s development until 2014, Kelen observed a clear shift of focus from fiction to poetry (Kelen 2014, 93). He emphasizes that “the initial premise” of the shift to poetry translation, especially the translation of Chinese poetry into English, “was straightforward: to produce a good translation of a poem involves producing a new poem—a poem in its own right–in the target language” (94). He “openly declare[s] that poetry translation and its publication have been a means to the end of making poets, poets who now routinely compose bilingually to produce parallel text works in English and Chinese” (95). These translations have helped his students mature into better literary translators or writers, and many of them are still based in Macao, such as Lili Han 韓麗麗, Agnes Vong 黃勵瑩, and Vai Si 維絲, who have continued to translate contemporary Macao poetry into English, such as Gaaya Cheng’s 賀綾聲《所有悲哀是眼睛,喜 歡光》 (Fruit of the Last Love; 2017). Some of them have left Macao for further study after graduation and invested themselves in the literary scenes of other places, such as Iris Fan 樊星 and Chris Song 宋子江. Even after Kelen retired from the University of Macau and moved back to Australia in 2017, ASM still managed to acquire government funding from the Macao Foundation and the Cultural Affairs Bureau and continue its mission of publishing literary translations under the directorship of Karen Kun 管婷婷.

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The Macao Foundation, established in 2001 by the Macao SAR government to promote, develop, and study local culture, society, economy, education, science, and research, draws funds from the city’s gambling industry and supports various local nonprofit organizations’ activities (see Macao Foundation n.d.). In addition to the administrative functions of drafting and implementing the Macao SAR government’s policies on culture and research, the Cultural Affairs Bureau supports and organizes various cultural activities that promote local culture and advance Sino-Portuguese interchange (see Cultural Affairs Bureau n.d.). However, the recent Covid-19 pandemic has caused a temporary economic recession in Macao and has indirectly affected the allocation and size of funding to arts organizations. The pandemic forced the Macao SAR government to implement strict border control, which devastated its tourism and gambling industries, the economic pillars of the city. The international conglomerate casino hotels in Macao became unable to produce the same level of tax revenues as in pre-pandemic times (Ng 2020). Consequently, the government curtailed the expenditure of every bureau, department, and unit, including the Cultural Affairs Bureau and the Macao Foundation, which were responsible for distributing funding for the development and promotion of local arts. In June 2020, both Macao’s chief executive Ho Iat-seng 賀一誠 and Macao Foundation’s president Wu Zhiliang 吳志良 openly called for a severe reduction in the arts funding henceforth and announced that no relief support would be provided for local arts organizations (MDN 2020, A06; TDM 2020). The effect of the Covid-19 pandemic on Macao SAR government patronage of literary translation is evident in ASM’s inability to continue its erstwhile productivity. During the pandemic, the only two full-length translation titles funded by the Macao Foundation were Mu Wei’s 木維 bilingual《日出之前,日落之後》(Antes do amanhecer, depois do pôr-do-sol; Portuguese translation by J. W.; 2019; also see Diaz 2020) and J. W.’s 夏簷 trilingual《黑白的拼圖》(Pedaços a preto e branco; English translation by H.; 2021). Although ASM’s founder Kelen, now based in Australia, still participates in its publishing projects, ASM has not drawn sufficient new blood from the local literary scene or academia to maintain its vivacity of literary translation.

PATRONAGE, OUTBOUND TRANSLATION, AND INBOUND TRANSLATION Though the English titles feature the word “translation,” the term “outbound translation” is conspicuous in the Chinese titles of the Hong Kong Literature Translation Project and A Bibliography of Hong Kong Literature in Translation. In using outbound translation, they not only avoid possible confusion but also exclude the interlingual translation in the opposite direction, that is, from other languages to Chinese. It is worth noting that they did not intend to nudge the English-language literature out of the umbrella of Hong Kong literature. Using outbound translation nevertheless complicates the understanding of translation within the city’s bilingual literary tradition. The HKADC, as the patron to both projects (in fact, as a primary patron to many translation projects of Hong Kong literature afterward), only concerns itself with the translation from Chinese to English. Even at present, the HKADC’s “Literary Arts” Project Grant still stipulates that the grant only supports the English translations of Hong Kong writers’ Chinese literary works.4 If we draw

4

See the HKADC’s project grant assessment guidelines for “Literary Arts” updated in January 2021 (HKADC 2021).

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on Lefevere’s theory of rewriting to describe this phenomenon, the patron HKADC’s ideological influence has not fully manifested in all three projects it sponsored. The Chinese title of Minford’s Hong Kong Literature Series 香港文學英譯系列 (lit. Hong Kong Literature in English Translation Series) more accurately describes the language direction of translation. Mattison’s Hong Kong Atlas project does not have a Chinese title, as in English there is no need to single out an awkward category known in Chinese as outbound translation. However, Hsu’s bibliography, perhaps coincidentally, aligns with the patron’s policy by adopting outbound translation in its Chinese title. As the Hong Kong SAR government promoted the Hong Kong Literature Translation Project on various platforms, the Chinese usage of outbound translation has been confirmed officially as the Chinese term for the translation of Chinese-language Hong Kong literature into other languages. For example, in his opening speech for the Asia Cultural Co-operation Forum 2013, then Secretary for Home Affairs Tak-sing Tsang 曾德成 referred to the Hong Kong Literature Translation Project in Chinese as 香港文學外譯計劃 (Tsang 2013). However, such translation culture pivoting on outbound translation inevitably twists its opposite, inbound translation, into meaning the Chinese translations of local English-language literature instead of the Chinese translations of foreign literatures—because the latter, once prosperous in the 1950s and 1960s, is now dead in Hong Kong. In this context, inbound translation is driven further to the periphery of Hong Kong literature, as I point out in my preface to Aurora Tsui’s 徐晞文 Chinese translation of Nicholas Yu-bon Wong’s 黃裕邦 Crevasse 天裂 (Song 2018, 16–21). Unlike the HKADC, the two major patrons of literary translation in Macao do not stipulate the direction of translation in the publications they sponsor, and their funding covers translations among Chinese, Portuguese, and English works primarily.5 As discussed above, ASM has enjoyed this flexibility and published many bilingual or trilingual titles of Macao literature. However, it is observable that the patrons of literary translation in Macao prefer to sponsor Chinese translations of Portuguese literature to any other kind of literary translation. Although one of the Cultural Affairs Bureau’s missions is to promote Sino-Portuguese exchange, the bureau has in fact mainly published Chinese translations of Portuguese literature (including works of Portuguese authors such as Luís Vaz de Camões, Camilo Pessenha, and Fernando Pessoa, as well as Macanese authors such as Henrique de Senna Fernandes). In addition, local cultural entities such as the Instituto Português do Oriente 東方葡萄牙學會, the Livraria Portuguesa 葡文書局, the Casa de Portugal em Macau 澳門葡人之家協會, and the Associação Promotora da Instrução dos Macaenses 澳門 土生教育協進會 have also supported a number of such translation projects (also see Zhang 2013, 79–86). For a recent example, the Livraria Portuguesa funded and published a Chinese translation of Henrique de Senna Fernandes’s first book of short stories Nam Van: Contos de Macau 南灣: 澳門故事 to commemorate the Macanese author in the tenth anniversary of his passing in 2020. According to the Catálogo de Autores Portugueses Publicados na China (Catalog of Portuguese authors published in China) edited by the Embassy of Portugal in China in 2020, a total of 121 books of Portuguese literature in Chinese translation had been published in Macao. All these patrons’ support have made Chinese translations of Portuguese literature extremely prominent in See the Macao Foundation’s guidelines for funding applications (Macao Foundation 2022). See also the Cultural Affairs Bureau’s guidelines (Cultural Affairs Bureau of the Macao Special Administrative Region Government n.d.). The two funding schemes have been recently merged into the newly established “Cultural Development Fund,” see Cultural Development Fund (2022).

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Macao’s cultural circle, whereas the publication scene of Portuguese translations of its Chineselanguage literature has been extremely barren. For example, accordingly to Wong’s bibliography, there are only two from Chinese to English and eight from Chinese to Portuguese (Wong 2015, 170), although these data probably do not include bilingual or trilingual publications with both the original and the translations. Except for a brief discussion in my “Afterword” to the Chinese translation of Fernandes’s Nam Van (Song 2020, C08), the discussions about outbound translation and inbound translation have never been raised in the translation or literature scene in Macao. Unlike the articles that polarize outbound translation and inbound translation as in binary opposition in the contemporary mainland Chinese context (Liu 2017; Hou 2018; Tan 2018), these two terms can be used to understand the complicated translational dynamics within Hong Kong’s and Macao’s multilingual literary traditions. In discussing the translations of Hong Kong and Macao literatures, to say that outbound translation only refers to those from Chinese into English or Portuguese is to offer a reduced understanding of the term. In Hong Kong, English translations of local writers’ Chinese literary works inevitably meet with the city’s English-language writing communities and English readership. Although Portuguese translations of local writers’ Chinese literary works are rare in Macao, the Chinese translations of Macanese writers’ Portuguese literary works are well known among the city’s Chinese readership. While they may be exported out of the city, sold in the international book market, and read as works of world literature, the truth is, such translations are also received, consumed, and studied as works of the bilingual city’s literature by local readers fluent in the target language. The BA and MA translation programs in local universities in Hong Kong and Macao assign students to study literary translation, especially the translation of local literature by contemporary translators who are living or used to live in these two cities—such as John Minford, Christopher Kelen, Tammy Lai-Ming Ho, Lucas Klein, Mary King Bradley, Christopher Mattison, Chris Song, May Huang, Martin Merz, Darryl Sterk, and many more. The two cities provide bilingual environments for translation, and in turn these translators’ works have been contributing to nurturing new translators of local literatures in academia. This mutually beneficial phenomenon of translation has been going on since the two cities became entrepôts. For example, as early as the nineteenth century, Robert Morrison (1782–1834) translated a chapter of《紅樓夢》 (Dream of the Red Chamber) in Macao, while James Legge and Wang Tao 王韜 (1828–1897) co-translated《十三經》(The Thirteen Classics) in Hong Kong. James Legge (1815–1897) and Thomas Francis Wades (1818–1895) also helped train local translators albeit for the British colonial government to enforce its rule over Hong Kong (Kwan 2017, chs. 4–5). A bilingual city can thus intriguingly become both the original and the receiving culture of the translation of its own literature. In this light, in Hong Kong or Macao, inbound translation can no longer be restricted to meaning the translation of foreign literature into Chinese only, because many Macanese authors’ literary works, which cannot be considered foreign to Macao, have been translated into Chinese and published in Macao and other Chinese-speaking areas. The English translation of Leung Ping-kwan’s Lotus Leaves can thus be considered a work of both outbound translation and inbound translation, so can the Chinese translation of Henrique de Senna Fernandes’s Nam Van: Contos de Macau. Both outbound translation and inbound translation are expanded insofar as they have an overlapping range of reference, which cannot be fully defined one-sidedly by either.

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CONCLUDING REMARKS Studying Hong Kong and Macao literatures in translation, in their outbound translation and inbound translation, provides valuable cases for the research on translation between a bilingual region or among the languages of a multilingual region, which has been a less visited fraction in translation studies. This chapter critically examines the contemporary practice of translating Hong Kong and Macao literatures under their governments’ patronage and reconceptualizes the concepts of outbound translation and inbound translation in the contexts of the two cities’ bilingual literary traditions. The literary translations between Chinese and English in Hong Kong and between Chinese and Portuguese in Macao have not attracted sufficient scholarly attention before. However, it is such translations that manifest the linguistic compexity and richness of Hong Kong and Macao literatures, which resist being incorporated into the recently ideologydriven framework of outbound translation and inbound translation emerging in the translation studies in mainland China. Translating Hong Kong and Macao literatures resembles what the late Hong Kong poet Leung Ping-kwan writes in his poem《重畫地圖》(Re-drawing Maps), “we’re constantly re-drawing existing maps in our hearts/swapping different centers and peripheries/dismantling old borders/ moving in and out with freedom/building connections that did not exist” 我們在心裏不斷重畫已有 的地圖/移換不同的中心與邊緣/拆去舊界/自由遷徙來往/建立本來沒有的關連 (Leung 2012, 116; my translation). Hong Kong and Macao literatures have their own internal and external borders that are moving constantly and prompting their writers, translators, patrons, and publishers to redefine outbound and inbound. What is outside? What is inside? What is foreign? What is domestic? What is theirs? What is ours? Who are they? Who are we?

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Hou, Guojin 侯国金. 2018.《语用翻译观助中国文化走出去》[A Pragmatic View of Translation Can Help Promote China Culture].《中国社会科学报》[Chinese Social Sciences Today], March 23: A07. Hsu, Amanda Yuk-kwan, ed. 2011. A Bibliography of Hong Kong Literature in Foreign Languages. Hong Kong: Center for Humanities Research, Lingnan University. Jakobson, Roman. 1959. “On Linguistic Aspects of Translation.” In On Translation, edited by Reuben A. Brower, 232–39. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Kelen, Christopher (Kit). 2014. “Process and Product, Means and Ends: Creative Writing in Macao.” In Exploring Second Language Creative Writing: Beyond Babel, edited by Dan Disney, 75–101. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Kwan, Uganda Tze-pui 關詩珮.2017.《譯者與學者——香港與大英帝國中文知識建構》[Translators and Scholars: Hong Kong and the British Empire’s Construction of Chinese Epistemology]. Hong Kong: Oxford University Press. Kwong, Connie Ho-Yee 鄺可怡. 2019.〈互為東西——德法學者視野下的也斯、香港文學與中國現代文學〉 [Shuttling between East and West: Ye Si, Hong Kong Literature, and Modern Chinese Literature from the Perspectives of German and French Scholars].《清華學報》[Tsing Hua Journal of Chinese Studies] 49 (1): 151–85. Lee Shuk Yee 李淑儀. 2016.《從澳門公共圖書館外文館藏探究20世紀前澳門的鉛活字印刷》[Exploring Macao’s Lead Movable Type Printing before the Twentieth Century in the Foreign-Language Collections of the Macao Public Library].《文化雜誌》[Review of Culture] (98): 131–50. Lefevere, André. 1992. Translation, Rewriting, and the Manipulation of Literary Fame. London: Routledge. Leung Ping-kwan 梁秉鈞 (Ye Si 也斯). 1995.《香港的故事:為什麼這麼難說?》[The Stories of Hong Kong: Why Are They So Hard to Tell?]. In 《香港文化》[Hong Kong Culture], 4–12. Hong Kong: Hong Kong Art Centre. Leung Ping-kwan 梁秉鈞. 2012.《重畫地圖》[Re-drawing Maps]. Macao: Association of Stories in Macao. Liu Shusen 刘树森. 2017.《中文典籍外译的本质与意义:基于三部启蒙经典翻译的考察与思考》[The Nature and Value of Translating Chinese Classics into Foreign Languages: Based on a Historical Interpretation of Multilingual Versions of Three Primers]. 《亚太跨学科翻译研究》[Asia Pacific Interdisciplinary Translation Studies] 4: 1–18. Macao Foundation. 2022. “Programa de Apoio Financeiro para Projectos Culturais para o ano de 2022 (O prazo de apresentação das candidaturas terminou).” Available online: https://www.fmac.org.mo/ sponsorship/apply?apply_id=13 (accessed April 24, 2023). Macao Foundation. n.d. “About FM.” Available online: https://www.fmac.org.mo/summary (accessed April 24, 2023). Mattison, Christopher. 2017–2018. “Mapping Hong Kong’s Atlas.” In “Chinese Poetry and Translation: Moving the Goalposts,” edited by Maghiel van Crevel, special issue, Journal of Modern Literature in Chinese 14 (2)–15 (1): 147–60. MCLC Blog. 2018. “Xi Xi Wins 2019 Newman Prize.” MCLC Blog, October 10. Available online: https://u. osu.edu/mclc/2018/10/10/xi-xi-wins-2019-newman-prize/ (accessed May 3, 2023). MDN. 2020.《吳志良籲社團活動應慳則慳》[Wu Zhiliang Advised Organizations to Be Frugal].《澳門日 報》[Macao Daily News], June, 2: A06. http://www.macaodaily.com/html/2020-06/02/content_1438305. htm (accessed May 3, 2023). Minford, John. 2011. “Bizarre Circuses, Barbaric Costumes: Hong Kong and the Aspiration of Translation.” Journal of Modern Literature in Chinese 10 (2): 8–35. Minford, John. 2020a. “Acknolwedgements.” In Lotus Leaves, by Leung Ping-kwan, translated by John Minford, ix–x. Hong Kong: Chinese University of Hong Kong Press. Minford, John. 2020b. “Preface.” In The Teddy Bear Chronicles, by Xi Xi, translated by Christina Sanderson, xii–xv. Hong Kong: Chinese University of Hong Kong Press. Ng, Kang-chung. 2020. “Coronavirus: Macau Will Be in the Red for First Time since Handover as Gaming Revenue Plummets amid Pandemic, Its Leader Says.” South China Morning Post, April 20. Available online: https://www.scmp.com/news/hong-kong/politics/article/3080773/coronavirus-macau-will-be-redfirst-time-handover-gaming?module=perpetual_scroll&pgtype=article&campaign=3080773 (accessed May 3, 2023).

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Song, Chris 宋子江. 2018.《《天裂》與文化翻譯:香港詩歌翻譯的革命?》[Crevasse and Cultural Translation: A Revolution of Translating Hong Kong Poetry?]. In 《天裂》[Crevasse], by Nicholas Wong, translated by Aurora Tsui 徐晞文, 16–21. Hong Kong: Spicy Fish. Song, Chris 宋子江. 2020.《《南灣:澳門故事》譯後記》[Afterwords to the Chinese Translation of Nam Van: Contos de Macau].《澳門日報》[Macao Daily News], November 11: C08. Available online: https:// penofmacau.com/article/60459dbc9c3a14fcaa0d1d5f (accessed May 3, 2023). Tan Zaixi 谭载喜. 2018.《翻译与国家形象重构——以中国叙事的回译为例》[Translation and National Image Reconstruction: The Case of China Narratives and Cultural Back-Translation].《外国语文》 [Foreign Language and Literature] 34 (1): 1–10. TDM. 2020.《政府將改革澳門基金會冀資助投放更精準》[Gov’t Is to Reform Macao Foundation for a More Precise Allocation of Funding].澳門廣播電視 [Teledifusão de Macau, S.A.], June 1. Available online: https://www.tdm.com.mo/c_news/radio_news.php?id=490483 (accessed May 3, 2023). Tipografia Salesiana. 1946.《慈幼印書館圖書目錄》[Catalogue of the Tipografia Salesiana]. Macao: Tipografia Salesiana. Tsang, Tak-sing. 2013. “Welcome Message.” Asia Cultural Co-operation Forum 2013. Available online: https://www.accf.org.hk/archive/2013/transcript/HongKong.pdf (accessed May 3, 2023). Wan, Tenglong. 2018. “Literary Translation as Cultural Production: The Production, Participants, and Practice of Literary Translation in Contemporary Macao.” In Translating Boundaries: Constraints, Limits, Opportunities, edited by Stefanie Barschdorf and Dora Renna, 171–201. Stuttgart: ibidem-Verlag. Wan, Tenglong. 2019. “Macao, Macaoness, Macanese: Literary Translation and Cultural Identity in Contemporary Macao (1980–2018).” PhD diss., University of Leeds. Wong Ka-ki 王家琪. 2018.《文學翻譯作為評論:也斯六、七十年代的西方文學譯介》[Literary Translation as Criticism: Ye Si’s Introduction and Translation of Western Literature in the 1960s and 1970s].《中外 文學》[Chung Wai Literary Quarterly] 47 (2): 125–79. Wong Kwok-keung 王國強. 2015.《澳門文學書目初編1600–2014》[A Bibliography of Macao Literature 1600–2014]. Macao: Cultural Affairs Bureau. Zhang Yan 張雁. 2013.《葡語文學在澳門》[Portuguese-Language Literature in Macao].《澳門理工學報》 [Journal of Macao Polytechnic Institute] (1): 79–86.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Language and Literature in Tibet YANGDON DHONDUP

The Chinese Communist Party’s (CCP) policy toward ethnic minorities began to change after the Third Plenary Session of the Eleventh Party Congress in 1978. Cultural autonomy in Tibet was approved and sociopolitical changes gradually became visible (Smith 2004; Kolås and Thowsen 2005; Shakya 2008). Consequently, the period from 1979 saw a reassertion of Tibetan culture and expressions of Tibetan identity, which had been forbidden since the Cultural Revolution. The Third Plenary Session also had an impact in the field of literature. The state allowed the promotion and development of minority literature, and in 1980, the First National Minority Writers Congress 国家第一次少数民族文学创作发奖大会 was held in Beijing. Zhou Yang 周扬 (1981), a politician and critic on culture, indicated in his opening speech the new political mood of that time toward minority literature: Minority literature is an important component of the whole of national literature … But this significant work has been disrupted and discontinued during the 10 years of upheaval. Now we must start anew … We must respect the historical status of minority literature in the whole development of Chinese literature … and restore its rightful position … We should … publish, introduce and spread each nationality’s art and literature periodicals. (Zhou 1981, 5) The government thus encouraged minorities to publish in their own languages and gave awards to outstanding works written by minority writers. However, some years earlier, in 1977, a journal titled《西藏文艺》(Tibetan Literature and Art) was founded by the Tibet Autonomous Region’s Literature and Art Association in Lhasa. The journal was published in Chinese as the contributors were of Han, Hui, and Tibetan origin. The only signifier of its “Tibetanness” was that the works had a Tibetan subject matter or, as Henry Zhao has described it, “they are anchored on Tibetan topemes, chronemes and anthropemes” (2002, 149). The first Tibetan-language periodical, Bod kyi rstom rig sgyu rtsal (Tibetan Arts and Literature), was founded in Lhasa in 1980, followed by Sbrang char (Light Rain) in 1981. The publication of these two journals marked the beginning of a new Tibetan literary tradition and “were like ‘declarations of independence’ that Tibetan literature belonged neither to religion nor politics but would rule its own house” (Bhum 1995, 22).

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The reason why the Chinese-language journal Tibetan Literature and Arts appeared before the Tibetan-language journal was that the official language in the Tibet Autonomous Region (TAR) in the late 1970s was de facto Chinese (Bass 1998). In addition, a number of university students from mainland China arrived in Tibet in the 1960s and 1970s. Some of them, such as Ma Lihua 马丽 华 and Gong Qiaoming 龚巧明, were engaged in the literary field shortly after they arrived. Ma Lihua, for example, came to Tibet in 1962 and lived in Lhasa for thirty-eight years (Ma 2001, 18).1 A younger generation of Han Chinese writers, such as Ma Yuan 马原, Liu Wei 刘伟, Yu Si 于斯, Jin Zhiguo 金志国, and Feng Liang 冯良,2 settled in Lhasa at a later point, and they were more independent in their thoughts and works than those who entered Tibet in the early 1970s. Some came to Tibet as part of the Down to the Countryside campaign 下乡 while many of the later generation joined the roots-seeking movement where artists and writers sought to find inspiration from rural and exotic areas inhabited by minorities in China.3 Tibetan Literature and Arts, which changed its name to《西藏文学》(Literature from Tibet) in 1984, because of its remoteness and lower scrutiny from Beijing, soon became a forum for mainland writers who could not publish their works in their own surroundings—some being too political or too experimental.4 Gang Yue states the importance of Literature from Tibet as a publishing outlet for Chinese writers: “A number of the best writers and poets active in the past two decades in the Chinese literary scene either made their debut there or became well-known through woks published by the magazine” (2004, 75). Han Chinese writers therefore dominated the Chinese-medium literary scene in Lhasa in the second half of the 1980s (Zhang 1989). Gang Yue confirms this by writing “around the mid1980s Tibet became ‘hot’ in the circles of avant-garde writers and artists” (2004, 75). Schiaffini states that this was due to “charismatic figures such as the Han writer Ma Yuan and the Tibetan writer Tashi Dawa 扎西达娃” (2013, 283). Thus, while Tibetans, with their newly gained cultural freedom, were busily resuscitating Tibetan culture, such as reprinting lost or damaged manuscripts, publishing and recording epics such as Gling ge sar (Gesar), and trying to create new forms of a modern secular literature, those writing in Chinese were producing works unheard of in the mainland literary scene, let alone in Lhasa.5 Before discussing further, I will briefly explain how I use certain terms in this chapter. According to Shih’s definition, the Sinophone refers to “Sinitic-language cultures and communities outside China as well as those ethnic communities within China, where Sinitic languages are either forcefully imposed or willingly adopted” (2013, 30). Tibetan writers using Chinese are thus included within this concept. The Sinophone also tends to take an anti-hegemonic stance (Wang 2017, 24). This is also visible in the Tibetan case where some writers have produced works that share the concerns of the Tibetans or even critique the dominant Han culture. However, it is not the case that all Tibetan writers using

Ma Lihua was one of the most established writers in the Literature and Arts Association in Lhasa. Feng Liang is from the Yi ethnic group. Her original Yi name is Jihu Shini. 3 The artist Han Shuli 韩书力 lived in Tibet, while Chen Danqing 陈丹青 and writers and poets including Ma Jian 马建, Yan Geling 严歌苓, Ge Fei 格非, Bei Dao 北岛, and Yang Lian 杨炼 have also paid short visits in Tibet or Tibetan-inhabited areas. The film director Tian Zhuangzhuang 田壮壮 made his film The Horse Thief 盗马贼 in Tibet. 4 Informal talk with Yang Lian, November 2001. 5 This relates especially to Ma Yuan’s works. 1

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Chinese as a medium take an anti- PRC stand. A few have written literary works that are favorable toward the CCP’s policies. I will discuss some of these writers later on; here, I want to pay attention to how the “Sinophone” emerged in Tibet. The Sinophone in Tibet is a legacy of Chinese occupation; it also emerged from the proximity with the Han culture, intermarriages, and other factors. Many Tibetan writers who produced “proChina” works were born between 1930 and 1940, and represent the first generation of Tibetan writers (Dhondup 2008). Most of them were born in the border areas and witnessed the arrival of the Communists. Some were attracted by the CCP’s promises of a new and fairer society and even actively participated in the “liberation” of Tibet, believing that it was a necessity and in the long run beneficial to Tibetans (Jiangbian Jiacuo 2000), and hence the eulogies to Chairman Mao and socialism. At the same time, we should not forget the reality these writers were living in. They were promoted by the CCP as role models who have embraced the party or were to spread socialist ideas. In return, they enjoyed privileges and opportunities. It was also a time when art was understood to serve politics. Confrontations were thus avoided because of the political climate and for pragmatic reasons. The question is: can we use the term “Sinophone” for Tibetan writers whose literary works are seen as being “pro-China,” or are they considered as being “less” Sinophone because they did not maintain a critical position toward the dominant culture? In other words, is the Sinophone an exclusive term, reserved only to those holding anti-PRC sentiments? What about those who have a different experience of the Sinophone? It is worth mentioning here that no matter the political situation or stance, the stakes of the Tibetans were and are always higher since they represent the margin. The above questions need to be further elaborated and explored, until then, I will use the term “Sinophone” to refer to Chinese-language productions written by Tibetan writers whose mother tongue is not necessarily Chinese. Writers who use Tibetan as their literary medium are referred to as Tibetophone writers.

THE LANGUAGE DEBATE With the emergence of two trends in literature—one written in Tibetan and the other in Chinese— discussions and debates about the definition of Tibetan literature were brought to the forefront. Intellectuals and writers from Amdo, 青海, emphasized the importance of language when defining Tibetan literature. Writers and scholars from central and southeast Tibet were advocating a broader interpretation of Tibetan literature, which included subject matter and the ethnicity of the author.6 These divergent positions were also visible in the two Tibetan literary journals Tibetan Arts and Literature and Light Rain. The Lhasa-based Tibetan Arts and Literature advocated subject matter and author’s ethnicity when defining Tibetan literature and Light Rain, the journal published in Amdo made clear from the outset that its editorial board would only publish stories written in Tibetan (Shakya 2000, 31). Hartley concludes that “emphasizing the linguistic criteria is by far the prevailing attitude held by those who write primarily in Tibetan” (2003, 267). 6

Interview with ‘Gyur med (Gyurme), August 2001.

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During the First National Conference of Minority Writers 全国少数民族文学创作会议 in Beijing in 1980, Sinophone Tibetan writers were a dominant presence: Yeshi Tenzin 益希单增, Jamphel Gyatso 降边嘉措, Yeshi Dolma 益希卓玛, and Yidam Tsering 伊丹才让, who represented the first generation of Sinophone Tibetan writers, were among those who participated.7 The meeting had a great impact on Tibetans working in the literary field and plans to convene a meeting of only Tibetan writers from all Tibetan areas were drawn up. A year later, in August 1981, the First Five-Province (TAR, Sichuan, Gansu, Qinghai, and Yunnan) Tibetan Writers Conference 第一次五省区藏族文学 创作会议 was held in Xining.8 Jamphel Gyatso writes: “The [Qinghai] Provincial Party Committee and the provincial government showed a lot of interest in our meeting. They granted us with a special fund and the conference was held at Shengli, the best hotel in town” (Jiangbian Jiacuo 2000, 494). The conference was a historical event since it was the first time that Tibetans involved in the literary field from all the Tibetan-inhabited regions were gathered in one place. Prior to this conference, there was hardly any contact between literary circles of the three main regions of Tibet: Amdo, Central Tibet, and Kham.9 Jamphel Gyatso writes that during the conference “contemporary Tibetan literature” 藏族当代文学was defined not only as works written in Tibetan but also works written in Chinese as well as those written by non-Tibetans (Jiangbian Jiacuo 2000, 495). The Second Five-Province Tibetan Writers Conference was held in Lhasa in 1982 (Jiangbian Jiacuo 2000, 496). During that meeting, heated debates on how to differentiate the two literary trends dominated the discussions. Does 西藏文学 (literature from Tibet) equal 藏族文学 (Tibetan literature)? If not, then how could it be differentiated? Is ethnicity more important than language or does the subject matter alone define a literature? Yeshi Tenzin and Kelsang Dorje 格桑多杰 held the viewpoint that language is not important when defining literature.10 Sinophone writers thus wanted their works to be included in the category of Tibetan literature. One reason for the debate was the works of Jamphel Gyatso and Yeshi Tenzin—two established Sinophone writers whose works were hailed by the CCP for showing “the darkness of old Tibet and the miserable life of serfs; the resilience of the Tibetan farmers and vision for a better life after liberation” (Luobu 2019). Both authors received the first national minority literature prize in 1981.11 Tibetan readers, however, interpreted these works as party propaganda, and expressions of resentment toward both authors could be heard. The discussion during the Lhasa meeting became quite personal, and it is said that Yeshi Tenzin left the meeting in protest.12 A series of articles were published, mostly in Tibetan, about the language issue. Sangs rgyas, a former high-ranking cadre at the Minority Publishing House in Xining, strongly advocated using language when defining literature. He argues: If the works are not written in one’s own language, then the majority of one’s own people cannot understand it … Nowadays, there are some [Tibetan] writers who write about Tibet — they write

There were about ten Tibetan writers at the meeting. Interview with Yidam Tsering, August 2001. For more on the works of the first generation, see Maconi (2002) and Dhondup (2004, 2008). 8 Interview with Lhun grub gnam rgyal (Lhundup Namgyal), Lhasa, August 2001. See also Jiangbian Jiacuo (2000, 494). 9 For the outcome of the conference, see Jiangbian Jiacuo (2000, 494–95). 10 Interview with Gyurme (‘Gyur med), Xining, August 2001. See also Hartley (2003, 259). 11 Jamphel Gyatso for his novel《格桑梅朵》(Gesang meiduo) and Yeshe Tenzin for his novel《幸存的人》(The Defiant Ones). 12 Interview with different editors. I am withholding their names as agreed. 7

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short stories, novels, and poems using the Chinese language. These writers have little knowledge about Tibet or their way of looking at Tibetans is not sincere … the reason for not counting these works as Tibetan literature is that the works are not written in the Tibetan language … Cao Xueqin was born in Manchuria and Li Zhi is of Hui origin. Their works, however, are included in the Chinese literary canon. (Sangs rgyas 1983, 24–8) He then raises the issue of the superior position enjoyed by Chinese, the dominant language: It seems that some leaders who are responsible in the cultural and art department do not really try to examine the real condition. [Tibetan] language is neglected and works written in Chinese are seen as more important. Tibetan works and Tibetan writers who write in their own language are not only being looked down upon but are also placed in the last row and receive very little opportunity. For example, there is not one Tibetan writer writing in Tibetan who is a member of the national or regional writers’ association. Secondly, the works which won prizes from the national minority literature awards are mostly written in Chinese. (Sangs rgyas 1983, 27–8) Indeed, only literature written in Chinese is considered for national prizes as the decision is made in Beijing; works written in other languages, namely, minority languages, have therefore little chance of winning.13 Linguistic hierarchy is also reinforced through other practices, and Sangs rgyas (1983), for example, points to the lack of Tibetan writers employed by the different writers’ organizations. Most Tibetan writers writing in Tibetan are not “professional writers” 专业作 家. They either are employed as editors in a state cultural department or work in a completely different work unit.14 A professional writer is affiliated with a branch of the Writers’ Association and receives a monthly salary from that work unit, and as Perry Link writes, “the incentive to become a professional writer was not primarily money, but prestige and free time” (2000, 120). Sangs rgyas thus points to the fact that writing in Chinese not only has the advantage of receiving institutional support but it also enhances status and prestige. Bsod nams’s article focusing on language when describing certain Tibetan peculiarities in Chinese concludes that the words are “rgya skad min la bod skad kyang min pa” (neither Chinese nor Tibetan) (Bsod nams 1987, 28). According to him, Tibetan literature should comprise a “thun mong sems khams ngo bo” (common psychology) and “bod rigs kyi ngag sbyor” (Tibetan language), otherwise the content becomes like “glang gi mgo la sha ba’ ra” (an ox with a deer’s horn) (31). He then takes as an example Yeshi Tenzin’s novel The Defiant Ones and argues that Yeshi Tenzin uses false vernacular expressions, which reveal that the author has no experience of

Jamphel Gyatso, Yeshi Tenzin, Yangdon 央珍, Medon 梅卓, and Alai 阿來have all won the National Minority Prize for their novels, and all of their works were written in Chinese. Hartley also notes that three out of four recipients of the Second National Minority Excellent Literary Works Awards (1985) wrote in Chinese (Hartley 2003, 254). 14 For example, Medon, a writer based in Qinghai was until not long ago employed as a full-time writer by the Qinghai Cultural Department. Tashi Dawa was also a full-time writer whereas Rdo rje tshe ring (Dorje Tsering), Glang mdun dpal ‘byor (Langdun Paljor), Bkra shis dpal ldan (Tashi Palden), ’Ju skal bzang (Ju Kelsang), and Tshe ring don grub (Tsering Dhondup), just to name a few Tibetans writing in Tibetan, all had or have full-time employment in other work units and write in their free time. 13

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real Tibetan life (37–9). This accusation is rather harsh since Yeshi Tenzin is hailed by Chinese critics as an author who captures authentic Tibetan life (Geng 1994, 165). The authorities15 and Chinese critics thus promote Sinophone Tibetan writers as “Tibetan” writers and their works as representing Tibet (Zhang 1989; Ma 1998), yet within the Tibetan literary circles they are sometimes suspicious of Sinophone Tibetan writers’ authenticity. As Maconi writes, “Tibetophone writers reject the idea that Sinophone literature by Tibetans should be considered Tibetan literature per se” (2008, 192). One critic argued that although Tashi Dawa’s literary skill is unmatched by Tibetan writers, his narrative is limited to only the observational level, meaning when the characters start to speak, there is not much evidence that they are Tibetans.16 Another Tibetan even described Tashi Dawa as “a wolf in sheep’s clothing” since “his brain had been well washed with Chinese culture” (Tsering 1999). The language debate remains a sensitive issue and could easily be turned into a political argument whereby those advocating for the language criteria could be seen as holding an overly nationalistic position.17 This might be one reason that “it was informally agreed among writers at a conference in Xining in August 1994 not to discuss this topic anymore” (Hartley 2003, 268). However, articles dealing with this issue can be seen from time to time in various journals (see Kyabchen Dedrol 2009). Tashi Dawa summed up his situation when discussing the view Tibetan critics hold of him: “If I receive a literary prize, they [the Tibetans] want me to hold the Tibetan flag, otherwise, I am considered as a Chinese.”18

A NEW LITERARY SUBGROUP: SINOPHONE TIBETAN LITERATURE By the late 1980s, a considerable number of Tibetans were writing in Chinese. Among these, Tashi Dawa was the most talked about Sinophone Tibetan writer, followed by Sebo 色波 and Alai. There were also quite a few talented women writers, such as Yangdon, Weise 维色, Medon from Qinghai, Geyang 格央, and Pema Nordon 白玛娜珍 from Lhasa.19 Thus, while Han Chinese writers in Tibet were dominating the Chinese-medium literary scene in the early 1980s, Sinophone Tibetan writers eclipsed them in exposure and in number. With the publication of their works, Han Chinese writers gradually lost their monopoly on narratives about Tibet. However, some Sinophone Tibetan writers felt a sense of guilt and regret at not being able to read and write in Tibetan.20 Medon, a writer based in Xining, for example, is unable to speak Tibetan,

See, for example, the introduction of Alai in “Face to Face,” an interview with him on CCTV (Alai 2008). Interview with ‘Gyur med (Gyurme). Xining, August 2001. 17 See the protests staged by Tibetan students in Beijing, Gansu, and Qinghai province in 2010 against the language reforms that would limit the use of Tibetan in schools (Branigan 2010; “Tibetan Students in China Protest over Language Policy” 2010). For grassroots activities in support of the Tibetan language see Robin (2014). 18 Interview, Lhasa, August 2001. 19 Of the women writers, only Weise, Geyang, and Pema Nordon still produce literary works. Pema Nordon has published two novels:《拉萨红尘》(Love in Lhasa; 2002) and《复活的度姆》(Resurrected Tara; 2006). 20 It was actually only Tashi Dawa who seemed not to give this matter much weight. But he has also stated that he sees himself as not fitting in the Han or Tibetan society (interview, Lhasa, August 2001). 15 16

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even though both of her parents are of Tibetan origin. When I first met her, she immediately told me that she had tried to take Tibetan lessons but due to her workload, she was unable to continue. The reasons for her not speaking Tibetan are due to her education—she was enrolled in a Chinese school and later graduated from Qinghai Teacher’s Training University—and the fact that she had spent her entire life in Chinese populated areas. Weise, a poet and blogger based in Beijing, has had a similar upbringing. She was not able to speak Tibetan until she moved back to Lhasa with her family. Once in a Tibetan environment, she actively began to study Tibetan, and nowadays she can converse in Tibetan but only writes in Chinese. Since being exiled in Beijing, she has been so far the most outspoken Sinophone writer. She regularly writes about the situation in Tibet for the Mandarin service of Radio Free Asia, on her own blog, and on Twitter. Her situation is highly peculiar though: she is under state surveillance, she has been denied a passport, yet she is also the only Tibetan in the PRC who is allowed to openly criticize Tibet’s situation. The authorities do not seem to interfere with her blog where she reveres and displays photos of the Dalai Lama.21 A blog post from July 6, 2021, the birthday of the Dalai Lama, is a poem dedicated to him on his eighty-sixth birthday (Weise 2021). Weise credits her understanding of Tibet from reading books and her many travels through Tibet (Weise 2020). She states, “since the Tibetan protests in 2008, and the self-immolations that followed, everything has changed—I have started to see myself as a documentarist, trying not to betray those who made such sacrifices” (Weise 2020). She has made it her mission to tell the world about what is happening in Tibet. Asked about her identity, she answers: On the surface, my identity is multi-layered: three-fourths Tibetan and one-fourth Han Chinese; my mother tongue is Tibetan, but I am not able to write it, only Chinese. But I do not worry about it anymore. The superficial identity does not say anything about a person, the selfidentification is what really matters. As for me, I can identify with these four notions: Tibetan, Buddhist, writer, exile. (Weise 2020) Sinophone Tibetan literature flourished from the late 1980s until 2000. Only Alai and Weise produce works on a regular basis. Others have either given up writing or are involved in other ventures such as producing documentaries, venturing into small businesses, or becoming cadres.22 No matter what, the emergence of Sinophone Tibetan writers have diversified the narratives about Tibet. The Tibet they envision is one that they see and experience, thus giving a voice to those who have been dislocated from their own culture.

SINOPHONE WRITERS AS TRANSLATORS To assuage their feelings of linguistic dislocation, Sinophone Tibetan writers use different strategies. They firmly locate the stories in their own cultural world: the setting is generally somewhere in a Tibetan region, the main characters are Tibetan, and Tibetan imageries are invoked to convey a

Some of her former blogs were shut down, but she still maintains one (Hladíková n.d.). Tashi Dawa has become a cadre and is the vice chairman of the Tibet Autonomous Region Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference.

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distinct “Tibetan” flavor. In addition, their texts often reveal linguistic cross-fertilization between Chinese and Tibetan. Most evident examples are glossing and intentionally leaving Tibetan words and terms untranslated. For example, Medon uses Tibetan words in phonetic transcriptions in her novel 《太阳部落》 (The Sun Clan; 1998): 供桌上摆满意了乔玛,所谓乔玛,就是贡品 (The offering table was filled with gro ma, which are offerings) (Meizhuo 1998, 61). The Tibetan word for 乔玛 is Droma, spelled as gro ma, the name for silverweed root. It is a food item eaten during festive days and special occasions. Other Tibetan terms found in her novel include 拉伊 (Tib. La ye/la gzhas), the colloquial Amdo pronunciation for “love song,” 乔康 (Tib. chos kang) for a prayer hall, or 卓 (Tib. bro) for dance. Sometimes, an explanation is added to the word, at other times, the Tibetan word is left untranslated. Worth mentioning here is Yidam Tsering. The poems he wrote after the 1980s are replete with explanatory commentaries and Tibetan words. In the poem titled《衮奔佛颜》(Kumbum’s Buddha Face; 1992), he provides a phonetic rendering of Sku ’bum (Kumbum), the famous monastery located in Qinghai province. Instead of using 塔尔寺, the existing Chinese name for the monastery, he uses the phonetic rendering of the Tibetan name, seeming to reaffirm the Tibetanness of the monastery. Another example is the poem《晶亮的种子》(Bright Seeds; 1997), where he explains in a footnote the meaning of the term 蕃 (bo or fan): Bo: The name Tibetans use to refer to themselves since ancient time (i.e., the name of the nationality), such as the word Tubo, a translation [transcription] to refer to ourselves. In Tibetan, Xizang is called Bo. The term Zang originated during the Qing dynasty and comprises of the regions of Mdo, Dbus, Gtsang. A Tibetan township in Longnan is also called Boyu. 蕃:藏族从古至今的自称(即族名),如吐蕃就是自称的译言。西藏在藏语里称“蕃”。藏源于清时 朵卫藏的省称。陇南一藏乡亦称“蕃域”。 (Yidan Cairang 1997, 118) The term 蕃 refers to the Tibetan bod, meaning Tibet. During my fieldwork, I noticed that many Tibetans consciously refer to Tibet as Tubo and not as Xizang. Tubo or Tufan is the name of Tibet when it was not part of the PRC, when Tibet was understood as comprising the three regions of Amdo, Central Tibet, and Kham. Note that the region of Amdo covers certain parts of Qinghai and Gansu 甘肃 provinces; Kham includes parts of Qinghai, Sichuan 四川, and Yunnan 云南provinces. Nowadays, Xizang, the shortened version of 西藏自治区 (Tibet Autonomous Region, TAR), is used to refer to Tibet. However, Xizang only covers central Tibet, leaving out the regions of Amdo and Kham. With the term Xizang, Tibet is thus reduced to a considerably smaller region. By consciously using the ancient term Tubo, Yidam Tsering thus problematizes the term Xizang and alludes to what is known as “Greater Tibet,” a territory that covers all the Tibetan-speaking areas. Glossing seems to be an often-used technique by Sinophone Tibetan writers. Indeed, Poupard has identified so far more than 600 glossed Tibetan words and phrases, both culture-specific and non-culture-specific terms (Poupard 2019, 88). It is usually a task performed by the translator, but in the case of Sinophone Tibetan writers, the writers are the authors as well as the translators. Glossing thus serves as a strategy for cross-cultural communication and a tool to convey and translate their native culture to the majority group. This translational practice might be also a way to ensure avoiding misunderstandings and, most importantly, misrepresentation.

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CONCLUSION Sinophone Tibetan writers, especially the younger generation, were advantaged when they started their writing career. First, while Tibetophone writers were preoccupied with creating an independent space for modern Tibetan literature, those writing in Chinese could follow the literary trend from mainland China. Their educational background, their urban upbringing, the exposure to different kinds of literature and styles, and the language they use provided them with a literary foundation that Tibetan authors writing in Tibetan could not compete with in the first place. Second, Sinophone Tibetan writers have more exposure than their colleagues writing in Tibetan. Since Chinese is the dominant language in Tibet, works written in Chinese have a wider readership than those written in Tibetan. Third, most of the national literary prizes are, as explained above, awarded to works written in Chinese. Finally, works written in Chinese are more likely to be translated into Western languages.23 Sinophone writers thus not only have a head start on their writing career but also receive more state support, enjoy a broader audience, and translation of their works, which offer easier access to a global audience. Writing in Chinese is considered as more prestigious, more profitable, and seemingly more advantageous. However, as I have shown, Sinophone Tibetan writers were (and still are) not necessarily accepted as representatives of “Tibetan” literature. In addition to the language issue, many of them had grown up in urban Chinese cities and had received a Chinese upbringing. When they went to Tibet, they “discovered” their own cultural heritage. Weise shares her feelings with the reader when she visited the Jokhang, Tibet’s most sacred temple, for the first time: When I first entered the Jokhang, my eyes were filled with tears and when I saw Jowo,24 I couldn’t hold my tears. I thought to myself: I have finally come home! (Weise 2003, 215) This discovery is expressed in their writings with ethnological details and some exotic images, an aesthetic they had inherited from the Han culture. To the Tibetan readership, these depictions of Tibet represent more of an outsider’s view (see Kyabchen Dedrol 2009). It is only in the case of Weise that the disconnection between the linguistic identity and ethnic identity does not seem to matter much to Tibetans. This is because she writes about the conditions in Tibet and of Tibetans, thereby giving Tibetans a voice. As Jacobs writes, Weise “has become an accidental hero to a generation of disenfranchised young Tibetans” (Jacobs 2009). With Sinophone Tibetan writers who repeat the party ideology or denigrate Tibetan culture, Tibetans are less tolerant. For example, Alai, who became widely known for his novel《尘埃落 定》(The Dust Settles; 1999), is not popular among Tibetans.25 In a television interview, he claimed that Tibetan was an outdated language and not shared by all the people (Alai 2008). In another interview, he mentioned the “beautiful simplicity” of native languages, namely, Tibetan in this case,

Overall, the works of Tashi Dawa, Alai, and Weise have been translated the most. Yeshi Tenzin’s novel and Tashi Dawa’s works were also translated into English by Panda Books, the official branch of the Chinese Literature Press, which specializes in translating literature from the PRC. 24 The “Jowo” is Buddha Shakyamuni, the most sacred statue in Tibet. 25 For Tibetans’ reactions to Alai, see Kyabchen Dedrol (2009) or Weise (2008). 23

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but argued that these languages “clearly lack a richness of expression” (Alai 2019). Skyabs chen bde grol (Kyabchen Dedrol) responded to Alai’s claim: [T]he statement that “Chinese is the perfect medium of expression” is hardly without justification […] Written Tibetan is part of life in modern Tibet, and can represent it, as even my own writings show. (Kyabchen Dedrol 2009) He then shares his opinion about what constitutes being a “Tibetan” writer: I think a Tibetan writer should be preoccupied with the particular historical predicament of the Tibetan people, and at a time when the written language is in danger of extinction, writing in Tibetan should be the first priority. (Kyabchen Dedrol 2009) The issue of who gets to represent “Tibetan” literature therefore not only seems to depend on the language itself but also hinges on the writer’s nationalistic stance.

REFERENCES Alai 阿来. 1999.《尘埃落定》[The Dust Settles]. Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe. Alai 阿来. 2008《面对面》[Face to Face]. Interview on CCTV, April 30. Available online: http://news.sina. com.cn/c/2008-04-30/142915458403.shtml (accessed December 2, 2021). Alai 阿来. 2019. “Growing New Forms of Literature: A Conversation with Tibetan Writer Alai.” Interview by D. Dayton. World Literature Today (Spring). Available online: https://www.worldliteraturetoday. org/2019/spring/growing-new-forms-literature-conversation-tibetan-writer-alai-d-dayton. Bass, Catriona. 1998. Education in Tibet: Policy and Practice since 1950. London: Zed Books and Tibet Information Network. Bhum, Pema. 1995. “The Life of Dhondup Gyal: A Shooting Star that Cleaved the Night Sky and Vanished,” translated by Lauran Hartley. Lungta (Winter): 17–29. Branigan, Tania. 2010. “Tibetan Student Protests Spread to Beijing.” The Guardian, October 22. Available online: https://www.theguardian.com/world/2010/oct/20/tibetans-protest-language-chinese-schools (accessed December 2, 2021). Bsod nams. 1987. “Rtsom rig gi mi rigs khyed chos dang bod rigs rtsom rig skor gleng ba” [A Discussion of Nationality Characteristics in Literature and Tibetan Literature]. Bod ljongs zhib ’jug (2): 21–49. Dhondup, Yangdon. 2004. “Writings from the Margin: Culture, Identity and the Invention of a Literary Space in Tibet (1980–2000).” PhD diss., SOAS University of London. Dhondup, Yangdon. 2008. “Roar of the Snowlion: Tibetan Poetry in Chinese.” In Modern Tibetan Literature and Social Change, edited by Lauran Hartley and Patricia Schiaffini Vedani, 32–60. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Geng Yufang 耿予方. 1994.《藏族当代文学》[Contemporary Tibetan Literature]. Beijing: Zhongguo zangxue chubanshe. Hartley, Lauran R. 2003. “Contextually Speaking: Tibetan Literary Discourse and Social Change in the People’s Republic of China (1980–2000).” PhD diss., Indiana University. Hladíková, Kamila. n.d. “ASYMPTOTE: An Interview with Tsering Woeser.” Available online: http:// woeser.middle-way.net/ (accessed April 28, 2023).

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Jacobs, Andrew. 2009. “A Tibetan Blogger, always under Close Watch, Struggles for Visibility.” The New York Times, April 24. Available online: https://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/25/world/asia/25woeser.html (accessed December 2, 2021). Jiangbian Jiacuo 降边嘉措. 2000. 《感谢生活:我和我的长篇小说《格桑梅朵》》 [Thankful Life: Me and My Novel Kesang Metok]. Beijing: Minzu chubanshe. Kolås, Åshild, and Monika Thowsen. 2005. On the Margins of Tibet: Cultural Survival on the Sino-Tibetan Frontier. Seattle: University of Washington Press. Kyabchen Dedrol. 2009. “Writer Alai on Tibetan Language.” May 31, Tibet Web Digest. http:// tibetwebdigest.com/alai-on-tibetan-language. Link, Perry. 2000. The Uses of Literature: Life in the Socialist Chinese Literary System. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Luobu Ciren 罗布次仁. 2019.《西藏文学的又一个春天》[Another Spring of Tibetan Literature]. 中国作家 网 [China Writers]. Available online: http://www.chinawriter.com.cn/n1/2019/1225/c404098-31521816. html (accessed December 2, 2021). Ma Lihua 马丽华. 1998.《雪域文化于西藏文学》[Snowland Culture and Tibetan Literature]. Changsha: Hunan jiaoyu chubanshe. Ma Lihua 马丽华. 2001.〈在藏三十年〉[Thirty Years in Tibet].《西藏文联通讯》[China Federation of Literary and Art Circles (Tibet) Newsletter] (1). Maconi, Lara. 2002. “Lion of the Snowy Mountains, the Tibetan Poet Yi dan Tshe ring and His Chinese Poetry: Reconstructing Tibetan Cultural Identity in Chinese.” In Tibet, Self and the Tibetan Diaspora: Voices of Difference, edited by Christian Klieger, 165–93. Leiden: Brill. Maconi, Lara. 2008. “One Nation, Two Discourses: Tibetan New Era Literature and the Language Debate.” In Modern Tibetan Literature and Social Change, edited by Lauran Hartley and Patricia Schiaffini Vedani, 173–201. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Meizhuo 每桌. 1998.《太阳部落》[The Sun Clan]. Beijing: Zhongguo wenlian chuban gongsi. Poupard, Duncan. 2019. “Reading Tibetan in the Original Chinese: Tibetan Sinophone Authors and Translation.” Asian Highlands Perspectives 58: 79–113. Robin, Francoise. 2014. “Streets, Slogans and Screens: New Paradigms for the Defence of the Tibetan Language.” In On the Fringes of the Harmonious Society: Tibetans and Uyghurs in Socialist China, edited by Trine Brox and Ildikó Bellér-Hann, 209–34. Copenhagen: NIAS Press. Sangs rgyas. 1983. “Bod kyi rtsom rig gsar rtsom byas na nges par du bod kyi skad dang yi ge la brten dgos” [When Writing New Tibetan Literature, It Must Be in Tibetan]. Mi rigs skad yig kyi bya ba [Works on Nationalities Languages] (1): 23–9. Schiaffini, Patricia. 2013. “On the Margins of Tibetanness: Three Decades of Modern Sinophone Tibetan Literature.” In Sinophone Studies: A Critical Reader, edited by Shih Shu-mei, Chien-hsin Tsai, and Brian Bernards, 281–95. New York: Columbia University Press. Shakya, Tsering. 2000. “The Waterfall and Fragrant Flowers: The Development of Tibetan Literature since 1950.” In “Song of the Snow Lion: New Writing from Tibet,” edited by Frank Stewart, special issue, Manoa 12 (2): 28–40. Shakya, Tsering. 2008. “The Development of Modern Tibetan Literature in the People’s Republic of China in the 1980s.” In Modern Tibetan Literature and Social Change, edited by Lauran Hartley and Patricia Schiaffini Vedani, 61–85. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Shih, Shu-mei. 2013. “Against Diaspora: The Sinophone as Places of Cultural Production.” In Sinophone Studies: A Critical Reader, edited by Shu-mei Shih, Chien-hsin Tsai, and Brian Bernards, 25–42. New York: Columbia University Press. Smith, Warren. 2004. “China’s Policy on Tibet Autonomy.” East-West Center Washington Working Papers (2), East-West Center Washington. Available online: https://www.eastwestcenter.org/publications/chinaspolicy-tibetan-autonomy (accessed December 2, 2021). Stewart, Frank, ed. 2000. “Song of the Snow Lion: New Writing from Tibet,” special issue, Monoa 12 (2). “Tibetan Students in China Protest over Language Policy.” 2010. BBC News, October 20. Available online: https://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-pacific-11581189 (accessed December 2, 2021).

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Tsering, Pema. 1999. “A Deceitful Erected Stone Pillar and the Beginnings of Modern Tibetan Literature,” translated by Riika J. Virtanen. Tibet Journal 24 (2): 112–24. Wang, David Der-wei. 2017. “Introduction: Worlding literary China.” In A New Literary History of Modern China, edited by David Der-wei, 1–28. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Weise 维色. 2003.《西藏笔记》[Notes on Tibet]. Guangdong: Huacheng chubanshe. Weise 维色. 2008.《藏人驳阿来先生:我的葡萄不酸, 还很甜》[A Tibetan Refutes Alai: My Grapes Are Not Sour, But Very Sweet]. 《看不见的西藏——维色的博客》[Invisible Tibet—Woeser’s Blog], May 9. Available online: https://woesermiddleway.typepad.co.uk/blog/2008/05/post-15.html (accessed December 2, 2021). Weise 维色. 2020. “An Interview with Tsering Woeser.” By Kamila Hladíková. Asymptote. Available online: https://www.asymptotejournal.com/interview/an-interview-with-tsering-woeser (accessed December 2, 2021). Weise 维色. 2021.《大海的声音——献给尊者达赖喇嘛86寿诞》[The Voice of the Sea: Dedicated to His Holiness the Dalai Lama on his 86th Birthday].《看不见的西藏——维色的博客》[Invisible Tibet— Woeser’s Blog], July 6. Available online: http://woeser.middle-way.net/2021/07/86.html (accessed December 2, 2021). Yidan Cairang 伊丹才让. 1997.《雪域的太阳》[The Snowland Sun]. Beijing: Zuojia chubanshe. Yue, Gang. 2004. “Echoes from the Himalayas. The Quest of Ma Lihua, a Chinese Intellectual in Tibet.” Journal of Contemporary China 13 (38): 69–88. Zhang Jun 张军. 1989.《如魔的世界:论当代西藏小说》[A Magical World: On Contemporary Tibetan Fiction]. In 《西藏小说》[Xizang Fiction], edited by Feng Liang, 431–68. Lhasa: Xizang renmin chubanshe. Zhao, Henry. 2002. “Forms on the Roof of The World.” New Left Review (13): 146–51. Zhou Yang 周扬. 1981.《创刊词》[Inaugural Words].《民族文学》[Literature of Ethnic Groups] (1): 4–5.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Taiwanese Literature in Translation: Sinocentric and Eurocentric Predicaments WEN-CHI LI

Weltliteratur, a term coined by Johann Wolfgang Goethe in 1827, to erase nascent nationalist sentiments and embrace cosmopolitanism, has recently been reillustrated by contemporary scholars such as Franco Moretti and David Damrosch. Moretti argues that world literature goes beyond national borders and requires readers to adopt the practice of “distant reading” (2004, 151). Damrosch defines world literature as “all literary works that circulate beyond their culture of origins, either in translation or in their original language” (2003, 4). World literature is not a set of canonical texts, the truthful refraction of national literature, or an inventory of must-read classics, but a mode of personal reading that involves the practice of translation, circulation, and production. Moretti’s and Damrosch’s theories draw attention to a further question: who decides which works are translated and circulated as world literature? As André Lefevere notes, the translation and circulation of texts are processes manipulated, whether consciously or not, by the “poetics” of professional gatekeepers and by the ideologies of the patrons, a term not merely associated with premodern publishing but also in a broader sense including commercial and academic publishers, non-gvovernmental organizations (NGOs), government agencies, and so on (Lefevere 1992, 14–15). Translators, critics, reviewers, teachers, and other cultural gatekeepers, in effect, repress works opposed to the dominant concepts of literature in their national and professional milieus, and adapt other works to the poetics and ideologies of their own time and place, arguably rewriting and assimilating them in the process. Lefevere further points out that patronage can “further or hinder the reading, writing, and rewriting of literature” (15). Patronage, whether exerted by an institution, religious body, political party, royal court, publisher, or censorship bureau, is more interested in ideology than poetics. It aims to “regulate the relationship between the literary system and the other systems [of cultural and political power-knowledge]” (15). Patrons choose who is sponsored, preserved, and canonized in literary history and anthologized or discussed in textbooks. Lefevere’s analysis demonstrates how the actors and mechanisms of patronage, particularly institutional ones, can intervene in the practices of world literature, including translation, to promote their political and ideological interests and national images. Taiwanese works, once they enter the arena of world literature, are subjected to systems of translation, production, and circulation manipulated by the ideology and poetics of both local and

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foreign editors, translators, and publishing houses. Although these systems and their effects have been explored by numerous scholars including David Der-wei Wang (1995), Gwennaël Gaffric (2011), Hsu Chu-ching (2013), Liao Shih-wen (2014), and Pei-yin Lin (2019), there remains much to investigate in the history of Taiwanese literature in translation. In this chapter, I will focus on the English anthologies before 1990 and the national grant program “Chinese Books in Translation” 中書外譯, implemented by the Taiwanese government’s Council for Cultural Affairs after 1990, to illustrate the different strategies of patronage, the predicaments they give rise to, and the representations of literary Taiwan that they promote. The predicaments arise more or less inevitably from the two factors that dominate the operational mechanisms of literary patronage and book marketing strategies: Sinocentrism and Eurocentrism. Sinocentrism has multiple dimensions. For the Taiwanese, it implies the perception of Taiwan as a version of “Free China” and the overemphasis on Chinese mainland culture and belittlement of Taiwanese local culture—this ideology prevailed during the Cold War. For the Chinese under the auspices of the rise of the People’s Republic of China (PRC) after the Cold War, Sinocentrism means that neighboring countries must respect China’s ambitions for regional hegemony and its claim to sovereignty over Taiwan. Western powers have also corroborated first by seeing Taiwan, during the Cold War, as Free China, and after the Cold War, as an inalienable part of the PRC. When the world acquiesces in Chinese hegemony, Taiwan becomes merely an extension of China without a culture, literature, or language of its own. Mainland China enjoys the most attention and is characterized as central, sophisticated, civilized, and gentle, whereas Taiwan is nothing more than fledgling, barbarian, despicable, and marginal. If that is the case, why then should anyone read Taiwanese literature in translation? A further complication is that Sinocentrism has become intertwined with Eurocentrism. The writings of Africa, India, the Arabic nations, the Caribbean, and Latin America are “understood” in the West through an established “world literature” canon featuring the likes of Wole Soyinka, Salman Rushdie, Naguib Mahfouz, Derek Walcott, and Gabriel García Márquez. Even though some of their works arguably aggravate rather than deconstruct certain Western stereotypes of the postcolonial subject, they at least provide a route into what would otherwise be an unexplored world. By contrast, Taiwan, having no such canonical postcolonial writers, remains on the margins of world literature. Its experience of Japanese rather than Western colonization, as Shu-mei Shih notes, enables Taiwan to be excluded from the fashionable discipline of postcolonial studies and ghettoized into the less attractive realm of “Asian studies” or even further “marginalized within so-called Sinology or Chinese Studies” (2003, 144). Compared to other Global South writers incorporated into postcolonial discourse, Taiwanese writers remain ambiguous and difficult to categorize—pan-Asian, semi-Chinese, or Chinese-looking—and, as such, stand little chance of penetrating the “international” (that is, European-language-oriented) literary marketplace.

TRANSLATION PATRONAGE BEFORE 1990 Taiwanese literature in translation can be traced back to the 1960s, when it usually appeared in anthological form. Notable early anthologies include Nancy Chang Ing’s 殷張蘭熙 New Voices: Stories and Poems by Young Chinese Writers (1961), Nieh Hua-ling’s 聶華苓 (1925–) Eight Stories by Chinese Women (1962), and Lucian Wu’s 吳魯芹 (1918–1983) New Chinese Stories: Twelve

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Short Stories by Contemporary Chinese Writers (1961) and New Chinese Writing (1962). All of these pioneering publications were sponsored by the United States Information Service (USIS) in Taipei as a small part of the overall American aid program 美援, an extensive package of military, economic, and cultural support to promote Taiwanese modernization and security.1 The anthologized works were selected to show a modernized side of “China” to the world and enhance understanding between “China” and the United States during the Cold War. For example, in New Voices Chang Ing explains that the selected authors, whether they were born in Taiwan or settled there from mainland China, illustrate the “many sides of present-day Chinese life” (1961, x) in their stories, reflecting the then-standard view that Taiwan, for the Kuomintang (KMT), most of the Taiwanese people, and the world, represented “Free China,” in opposition to the “Red China” of the PRC. The image of the “many sides of present-day Chinese life” also suggests the influence of American culture on Taiwanese life at the time and, for the anthology’s American patrons, affirms the ideology that literature promotes “freedom.” The image of Taiwan as Free China continues to inform C. T. Hsia’s (1921–2013) TwentiethCentury Chinese Stories (1971), sponsored not by the USIS but by the Columbia University Committee on Oriental Studies. Hsia’s selection includes May Fourth writers as well as authors such as Shui Ching 水晶, Nieh Hua-ling, and Pai Hsien-yung 白先勇 (1937–), who were born on the mainland, grew up in Taiwan, and then became US residents. Hsia is aware of the Sinocentrism of his selection but still alleges that the term “Taiwan literature” is a “misnomer,” since “many of the best contributors to Taiwan’s literary periodicals do not live there” (1971, xi). These writers, he argues, remain “characteristically Chinese” in their “nostalgia for their lost homeland” and in their “intense awareness of their frustrations or lack of identity in Taiwan or abroad” (xi). This comment, as Pei-yin Lin criticizes, is “self-fulfilling,” demonstrating Hsia’s “predilection for the modernist works by the émigré writers” (Lin 2019, 13). It also reflects the Sinocentric discourse of the Republic of China (ROC): modern Chinese literature was initiated by the May Fourth Movement and inherited by later writers with a pervasive nostalgia for the mainland. These diasporic writers serve to promote an idea of Chineseness that transcends borders, national identities, and ethnicities, and is as authentic in the United States as in Taiwan. Unlike the mainland, with its glorious ancient traditions and modernization, particularly promoted in the May Fourth Movement, Taiwan is rendered in this discourse as absent, uncivilized, illiterate, and lacking a culture of its own. It is presented as having no unique literary history and must therefore look to the writings of Chinese mainlanders for its identity. Chi Pang-yuan’s 齊邦媛 (1924–) two-volume Anthology of Contemporary Chinese Literature (1975), sponsored by the Taiwan Ministry of Education’s National Institute for Compilation and Translation 國立編譯館, is a milestone because it contains both poetry and short stories on various topics by thirty-nine authors of diverse backgrounds. Chi recalls that, for her and other American sinologists, after the establishment of the PRC, modern Chinese literature on the mainland became nothing but propaganda. One scholar said, “can we purvey this sort of propaganda in the classroom? How can we explain this nonsense to American students?” He then continued, “Does Taiwan have literature?” (quoted in Chi 2018, 346). The question posed to Chi by this scholar provoked her

The American aid program also introduced pop music, bar culture, and other Western lifestyles to Taiwan, which in turn helped spur the emergence of literary modernism in the 1960s.

1

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to edit an anthology that would provide a “candid record of a people facing the challenge of a dazzling series of social and political changes” (Chi et al. 1975, v). Chi’s selection was intended to show that, while the mainland was suffering from the Cultural Revolution, Taiwan was carrying forward China’s rich literary tradition. Chi highlights the “soldier writers” in her anthology such as Ssu-ma Chung-yuan 司馬中原 (1933–) and Chu Hsi-ning 朱西甯 (1927–1998), who look back to their Chinese hometowns and the past while at the same time crafting liberal, local versions of Chineseness on the island of Taiwan. As David Der-wei Wang says, Chi treats Taiwan as an integral part of a “great tradition … traceable to the fifties and earlier” in China (1995, 263–64). Chi’s anthology is thus “pensive, [and] seated in the shadow of History” (264). If Chi’s attitude remains essentially Sinocentric, this may be the result of her own Chinese background in combination with her position as director of the National Institute for Compilation and Translation. Although she had some leeway to represent her own poetics, she had to fit her views into the KMT’s own Sinocentric discourse. In an interview in 2012, she explained frankly that the term “Chinese” in the anthology’s title was due to the political climate at the time, in which Taiwan was conceived of simply as Free China and the concept of a unique Taiwanese nationhood was taboo (Chi 2012, 259). Nevertheless, the Chiang Kai-shek regime’s authoritarianism did not deter her from including Taiwan-born writers, although she did feel constrained to call them Chinese. The anthology thus focuses on modernism in postwar Taiwan, and while featuring many Chinese mainlanders, does not neglect Taiwanese modernists such as Yang Mu 楊牧 (1940–2020), Huang Chun-ming 黃春明 (1935–), Shih Shu-ching 施叔青 (1945–), Lin Huai-min 林懷民 (1947–), and Lo Ching 羅青 (1948–). In the preface to the anthology, Chi particularly extols Huang, Shih, and Lin for a “view of the world” that synthesizes Western themes and “distinct local color” (Chi et al. 1975, v). The anthology represents the culture of Taiwan, even if dressed up as the free version of China, as dynamic, modern, outward-looking, and robust. While Chi cautiously seeks to express Taiwanese distinctiveness within the limits of political KMT orthodoxy, Joseph S. M. Lau 劉紹銘 (1934–2023) and Timothy A. Ross boldly present a “larger variety of Taiwan literature” (Lau and Ross 1976, ix) in Chinese Stories from Taiwan: 1960–1970 (1976). This anthology is not funded by any institution, which perhaps gives Lau and Ross the liberty to defy official discourse. In the preface, Lau articulates two criteria of selection: the writing had to be of “Taiwanese origin” and the stories a “genuine reflection of the native sentiments about Taiwan” (xxix). He equally selects the works of Taiwanese islanders and Chinese mainlanders to “give a larger variety of the Taiwanese experience as felt and recorded by a larger variety of writers regardless of their ancestral origins” (xxix). For Lau, the works of Taiwanese islanders, thanks to a homogenous education system and language policy, read more like those of Chinese mainlanders, and vice versa. The policy of ethnic integration has been so successful that the “distinction between a ‘Taiwanese’ writer and a ‘Mainlander’ writer” is no longer “viable” (xxix–xxx). The political constraints of the time may have caused Lau to ignore the violence of the KMT’s language policy and the trauma of the ethnic conflicts it fueled, but Lau nevertheless enunciates a vision of Taiwanese literature that is very similar to literary historiography nowadays. Perhaps it was Lau’s Hong Kong background and his independence from any political patrons that enabled him to escape official ideology and focus more on literary concerns. His sense of localness is even more conspicuous in the ensuing The Unbroken Chain: An Anthology of Taiwan Fiction since 1926 (1983), which, again, does not seem to have been sponsored by any authority. This anthology is in two parts: works produced during the Japanese occupation and works written after 1945. The former is based on the twelve volumes of The Whole Volumes of Taiwanese

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Literature before 1945 光復前台灣文學全集 (1979) edited by Yeh Shih-tao 葉石濤 (1925–2008) and Chung Chao-cheng 鍾肇政 (1925–2020). Historically, these volumes marked a turning point by unearthing colonial texts written in Japanese and translating them into Mandarin for postcolonial readers. The rediscovery challenges the Sinocentric myth of Taiwan before 1945 as an isolated island without literature that had to be empowered after the war by mainland writers baptized in the May Fourth Movement. The Whole Volumes of Taiwanese Literature before 1945 demonstrates that Taiwan has its own history of literature and rebellion, a revelation Lau acknowledges when he says in his preface to The Unbroken Chain that the “translation of Taiwan literature” has always been “heavily lopsided” (1983, ix) and that failing to include writers who experienced Japanese rule creates a false impression that “Taiwan was a literary wasteland prior to its retrocession to China in 1945” (ix). Lau’s collection in The Unbroken Chain therefore includes Lai He’s 賴和 (1894–1943) “The Steelyard” 一桿秤仔 (1926), Wu Cho-liu’s 吳濁流 (1900–1976) “The Doctor’s Mother” 先生媽 (1945), Chu Tien-jen’s 朱點人 (1903–1951) “Autumn Note” 秋信 (1936), and Yang Kuei’s 楊逵 (1906–1985) “Mother Goose Gets Married” 鵝媽媽要出嫁 (1942) as “precursors of Taiwan fiction” that demonstrate a form of Taiwanese “self-expression” and “protest” (x). Indeed, the title’s image of an “unbroken chain” suggests not merely a connection with Chinese literary tradition but also, as Pei-yin Lin notes, an “effort to construct a self-sufficient tradition for Taiwan’s literary development from 1926 onwards” (2019, 15). Lau’s selection of Taiwanese fiction since 1945 reveals telling gaps in Chi’s state-sponsored 1975 anthology, from which important writers such as Chen Ying-chen 陳映真 (1937–2016), Liu Ta-jen 劉大任 (1939–), and Chang Hsi-kuo 張系國 (1944–) were excluded for political reasons. Chen was arrested in 1968 for his leftist views and imprisoned until 1975. Liu and Zhang were involved in the Baodiao movement 保釣運動 provoked by the unilateral American decision to return the Senkaku and Okinawa islands to Japan in 1971. The movement was suppressed in Taiwan, and the dissidents who joined the protests overseas were blacklisted and prevented from returning to Taiwan (Hsiau 2017, 148–51). Lau’s anthology reflects the cultural impact of the emerging “back to the native soil” 回歸鄉土 movement, a reaction both to the booming Taiwanese economy and growing disillusionment with the KMT’s political mythology. Taiwan-born writers Wang Chen-ho 王禎和 (1940–1990), Li Chiao 李喬 (1934–), and Cheng Ching-wen 鄭清文 (1932–2017) appear in this anthology, where their stories “Three Springs” 三春記 (1968), “The Spheric Man” 人球 (1969), and “Betel Palm Village” 檳榔城 (1979) deal, respectively, with repressed female desire, male lethargy in a rapidly changing society, and a romance undermined by the urban-rural divide. The concept of Taiwan as “native soil” was not new, however, a fact Lau highlights by including Chung Li-he’s 鍾理和 (1915–1945) “Together through Thick and Thin” 貧賤夫妻 (1959), which is about “rural poverty and hardship” in the 1950s. The notions of localness and being native that can cross different periods and authors underline the “unbroken chain” of Taiwanese literature. The anthology’s presentation of the multiplicities of Taiwanese localness culminates with Chang Ta-chun’s 張大春 (1957–) “Birds of a Feather” 雞翎圖 (1978), a story of a young Taiwan-born army officer who fails to understand the diasporic experience of an older China-born soldier. The story touches on the inevitability of identity crisis for people in Taiwan faced with a new stage in the history of defining who they are (Wang 1995, 266). In concluding the anthology, Chang’s story invokes a recurrent theme in the selection, that of “breaking away” from the past, the mainland, and origins while highlighting, as Wang notes, an “unexpected paradox to the book’s title, the ‘unbroken’ chain” (266). Taiwanese subjectivity both emerges from and departs from that of China.

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In the field of poetry, there are at least four collections in English: Wai-lim Yip’s 葉維廉 (1937–) Modern Chinese Poetry: Twenty Poets from the Republic of China 1955–1965 (1970), Angela C. Y. Jung Palandri’s Modern Verse from Taiwan (1972), Dominic Cheung’s 張錯 (1943–) The Isle Full of Noises: Modern Chinese Poetry from Taiwan (1987), and Michelle Yeh 奚密 (1955–) and N. G. D. Malmqvist’s Frontier Taiwan: An Anthology of Modern Chinese Poetry (2000), sponsored respectively by the University of Iowa, the University of Oregon, the University of South California, and the Taipei-based Chiang Ching-kuo Foundation 蔣經國基金會. Yip’s early selection in Modern Chinese Poetry explores the evolution of Chinese poetry in Taiwan under the influence of Western modernism, but the absence of any sense of distinctive Taiwaneseness is even more severe in Jung Palandri’s Modern Verse from Taiwan, which despite its title, sees the modern poetry of Taiwan as merely a tributary of the poetry of mainland China, particularly that of the May Fourth Movement, and alleges that “Taiwan had no poetry to speak of prior to 1949” (1972, 4). This extreme Sinocentrism is finally challenged in Cheung’s introduction to his 1987 anthology: “Modern Chinese poetry from Taiwan no more represents a continuation of the mainland’s new poetics than it does a break from its own painful, local tradition. Taiwan has its own poetry, with its own Chinese identity” (1987, 1). Among all the collections of Taiwanese poetry or short stories, Yeh and Malmqvist’s Frontier Taiwan is the only one that both provides a local historical narrative and includes multiple writers from diverse backgrounds. In her preface, Yeh traces Taiwanese cultural history back to the sixteenth century, when the island was “discovered” by Portuguese sailors and incorporated into European consciousness as Formosa. While she gives some attention to the subsequent Dutch and Koxinga/Zheng Chenggong 鄭成功 (1623–1662) regimes, Yeh puts greater emphasis on the resistance to Japanese colonialization, portraying the flourishing of journals, magazines, and poetry that conveyed the people’s discontent under Japanese rule. More fully discussed from the postwar period are many Taiwan-centered poetry societies such as Le Moulin Poetry 風車詩社 and the Bamboo Hat Society 笠詩社, literary debates such as the new poetry debate 現代詩論戰 (1972– 1974), the “native soil” controversy 鄉土論戰 (1977–1979), and the emergence of the “translingual generation” 跨語言的一代 (Taiwanese poets who had written in Japanese and struggled after the war to switch to Mandarin). Political crises such as the February 28 Incident in 1947, the Formosa Incident in 1979, and the Massacre of the Lin Family in 1980, are also discussed in the context of modern Taiwan’s shifting cultural identity. A wide range of poets, including colonial writers Yang Hua 楊華 (1900–1936) and Yang Chih-chang 楊熾昌 (1908–1994), translingual poets Chen Hsiuhsi 陳秀喜 (1921–1991) and Du Pan Fang-ke 杜潘方格 (1927–2016), and gay poet Chen Ke-hua 陳克華 (1961–) are discussed to highlight the synthesis of “heterogeneous forces” and “contending visions”—aboriginal, mainland Chinese, Hakka, Minnan, Japanese, and Western—that distinguish the Taiwanese poetic tradition from that of China. The outcomes of this synthesis, as Yeh argues, have been both traditional and modern, both local and global (Yeh 2000, 50).

TRANSLATION PATRONAGE AFTER 1990 Chi’s 1975 anthology is the only one sponsored by the ROC government before 1990. This neglect of the need to promote Taiwanese literature globally, either in the name of Taiwan or Free China, began to be repaired from the 1990s onwards. Coincidentally, this was a significant moment when

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the Taiwanese said farewell to martial law, embraced full democracy, and proudly asserted their local identities, and the government realized the value of soft power in the international domain. In 1990, the Council for Cultural Affairs, established in 1981, launched the “Chinese Books in Translation” program to support the translation of key works. The program sponsored not only Taiwanese works but also Chinese classics such as Journey to the West. It also supported the publication of Chinese PEN.2 By 2010, “Chinese Books in Translation” had sponsored over 200 books in target languages ranging from English, French, German, and Czech, to Korean, Japanese, and Mongolian (Liao 2014, 310). In 2010, the program was taken over by the National Museum of Taiwan Literature and renamed “Grant for Translating and Publishing Taiwanese Literature” 臺灣 文學翻譯出版補助計畫. In 2012, the Council for Cultural Affairs was upgraded to the ministerial level as the Ministry of Culture. In 2015, it took back the program, renamed it “Books from Taiwan,” and began to include comics, graphic novels, and genre fiction. Over the three decades of its various incarnations, the program has helped make major Taiwanese writers such as Wu Mingyi 吳明益 (1971–), Li Ang 李昂 (1952–), Chiu Miao-chin 邱妙津 (1969–1995), and Yang Mu well known globally, especially to readers of English, Japanese, French, and Korean. State patronage can also cultivate strong networks of cooperation with foreign scholars. Books from Taiwan, the Ministry of Culture, the National Museum of Taiwan Literature, and the Chiang Ching-kuo Foundation have helped establish book series of Taiwanese literature in the United States, France, Japan, and the Czech Republic. As one example, the Modern Chinese Literature from Taiwan series, founded by David Der-wei Wang, Pang-yuan Chi, and N. G. D. Malmqvist with Columbia University Press in 1996, focuses on canonical Taiwanese texts such as Chu Tienhsin’s 朱天心 (1958–) The Old Capital 古都 (1997), Wang Chen-ho’s Rose, Rose, I Love You 玫 瑰玫瑰我愛你 (1984), and Huang Chun-ming’s 黃春明 The Taste of Apples 蘋果的滋味 (1972). Although focusing on such mainstream work might suggest a conservative approach, the series has published gay novelist Chi Ta-wei’s 紀大偉 (1972–) The Membrane 膜 (1996), Taiwan-based Malaysian authors Chang Kuei-hsing’s 張貴興 (1956–) My South Seas Sleeping Beauty 我思念的長 眠中的南國公主 (2001) and Ng Kim Chew’s 黃錦樹 (1967–) Slow Boat to China and Other Stories, as well as the anthology Indigenous Writers of Taiwan. Another important university-based project, Taiwan Literature: English Translation Series, edited by Tu Kuo-ch’ing 杜國清 (1941–) at the University of California, Santa Barbara, was sponsored by the Council for Cultural Affairs until 2010. In the preface of the first issue, composed in 1996, Tu acknowledges the contribution of Japanese, Western, and Chinese cultures to the distinctiveness of Taiwanese hybridity (Tu 2015, 4). He notes that during the Cold War, with Taiwan seen as Free China, its modernist movement offered the West a “good” Chinese counterbalance to the philistinism of the mainland’s Cultural Revolution, but the misrepresentation of Taiwan only intensified as China emerged onto the world stage in the 1980s and assimilated Taiwan into its version of a unitary Chinese literary history (quoted in Chang 2020, 85). He acknowledges the reality of a Chinese diaspora but strongly disputes

The first issue of Chinese PEN Quarterly, edited by Nancy Chang Ing, was published in 1972. The name was later changed to Taipei Chinese PEN Quarterly. Well-known translators have included Howard Goldblatt and John Balcom. By 2009, the journals had translated over 1,800 works, and not merely those of established writers but also works from young, emerging voices. It is now sponsored by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

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the resultant Sinocentrism and sees Taiwan in the context of “world literatures in Chinese” 世 界華文文學. This concept recognizes that Taiwanese literature is localized and singular, while simultaneously echoing other literatures in Chinese (Tu 2015, 369). By this logic, Tu includes stories of Taiwanese authors on various themes that will be intelligible to foreign readers: historical representation, feminist writings, folk ballads, aboriginal works, and ecological essays. Some issues of the series also feature authors with little or no international market value but importantly provide specifically Taiwan-based perspectives such as Yeh Shih-tao, Lü He-jo 呂赫 若 (1914–1950), and Lung Ying-tzung 龍瑛宗 (1911–1999). To foreground the distinctiveness of Taiwanese literature and build a picture of a Taiwanese literary landscape irreducible to mainland Chinese discourse, Tu has published more than forty-five issues and accommodated as many different authors as possible. In France, the European country with the greatest interest in Taiwan, thanks to the early popularity of Taiwanese new wave cinema there, the promotion of Taiwanese literature has mainly been carried on not by overseas Taiwanese academics or university presses as it has in the United States, but rather by independent publishers and scholars born and raised in France, such as Marie Laureillard, Sandrine Marchand, Gwennaël Gaffric, Angel Pino, and Isabelle Rabut. Marie Laureillard, for example, edits the Poésie de Taïwan series for the publishing house Circé, bringing out poetry collections by Luo Fu 洛夫 (1928–2018), Chou Meng-tieh 周夢蝶 (1921–2014), Hsia Yü 夏宇 (1956–), Chen Yu-hung 陳育虹 (1952–), Chen Li 陳黎 (1954–), and Hung Hung 鴻鴻 (1964–). Gwennaël Gaffric has been editing the Taiwan Fiction series for the publishing house l’Asiathèque since 2015. This series accommodates authors such as Wu Mingyi, Chi Ta-wei, Walis Nokan 瓦歷斯諾幹 (1961–), and Huang Chong-kai 黃崇凱 (1981–). In the Czech Republic, the emerging publishing house Mi:Lu 麋鹿 focuses on Taiwanese writers on environmental issues such as Zheng Egoyan 伊格言 (1977–), Liao Hung-chi 廖鴻基 (1957–), and Liu Ke-hsiang 劉克襄 (1957–). Although these initiatives are passively sponsored by the Taiwanese government, the selection and taste are decided by scholars in cooperation with local publishers.3 Each country reads Taiwanese works based on its own culture and concerns. In the United States, for example, a concern for sales may be the reason why David Der-wei Wang’s Columbia series tends to choose novels over poetry collections. French translation, on the other hand, seems to select work that corresponds with its own literary and philosophical waves: surrealism, modernism, postmodernism, feminism, and so on. Mi:Lu’s publisher Tomáš Řízek and its inhouse translator Pavlína Krámská are concerned with environmental issues and therefore select Taiwanese ecological writings. German translators such as Thilo Diefenbach appear to be more interested in themes of social change, political repression, and transitional justice. Japan, where Taiwan studies is a burgeoning field, never falls behind the changes in Taiwanese literary trends, while multiethnic Malaysia has taken a particular interest in Walis Nokan’s indigenous writings. Vietnam, whose economy is largely based on farming, has embraced the agricultural poetry of

I call it passive because the government needs to wait for applications to decide the next procedure. Due to legal constraints, the relevant institutions are not allowed to sponsor some costly or unexpected activities. This bureaucratic passivity has interfered with the promotion of Taiwanese literature and poured cold water on potential translation projects initiated by foreign scholars.

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Wu Sheng 吳晟. In general, multiple translations of specific authors such as Wu Ming-yi, Li Ang, and Chiu Miao-chin, who have been widely translated and have gained international reputations and popularity, suggest that issues of environmental sustainability, female subjectivity, and queer liberation are universal and intelligible.

THE NEW CHALLENGE By shaking off the Free China myth, Taiwan has been able to assert and explore its subjectivity. At the same time, China has leveraged its growing economic and political clout to maintain the fiction that Taiwan is a renegade province—not a part of Free China, but worse, an inalienable part of the PRC. The West’s diplomatic acquiescence in this fiction lingers but is often invisible, and it may be no accident that Taiwanese literature gets less attention and is less translated, published, or circulated in the West than literature from mainland China. This is not merely the result of inequality of the governmental patronage and the world attention, but also arises from a deep but largely unconscious assumption that Taiwan, in Shu-mei Shih’s words, is “too marginal, too ambiguous, and thus too insignificant” (2003, 144). Indeed, from analogy with international diplomacy, in which anything that could be seen as opposed to the One China principle is taboo, even the term “Taiwanese literature,” or merely “Taiwan,” is often eschewed by publishers in the West. This phenomenon is exemplified by the marketing of Yang Fu-min’s 楊富閔 (1987–) Sixty-Year-Old Boy 花甲男孩 (2010) in Poland. As Lin Wei-yun 林蔚昀 discovered, on the publisher’s website Yang’s novel is listed alongside Yu Hua’s 余华 (1960–) To Live and Jiang Rong’s 姜戎 (1946–) Wolf Totem, as if it were simply another work of Chinese literature. When Lin’s Polish partner expostulated with the publisher on the “disgrace” of “labeling this book as Chinese literature” while “receiving a Taiwanese grant” to enable publication, the publisher replied, “The book has been translated from Chinese, so it is part of Chinese literature, just like any book written in Polish belongs to Polish literature” (Lin 2021a).4 The publisher does seem to have changed attitude, however, as they have changed the category from Chinese to Chinese-language literature. Later, to avoid further dispute, the category “Asian literature” was generated to accommodate works from Taiwan, Japan, Korea, China, and other Asian countries, ironically replacing the publisher’s initial Sinocentrism with the Eurocentrism of sweeping a variety of very different literatures into the obscure Orientalist concept of “Asia.” Lin Wei-yun finds a similar problem in the Polish collection On the Other Side: An Anthology of Contemporary Taiwanese Stories.5 The Polish editor uses the term wyspa (island) rather than państwo (state), as if trying to avoid any possibility of offending China (Lin 2021b). These prevarications contribute to a false impression: this “island,” the “other side” or an extension of China, is a transitional place for mainlanders who want to return to the mainland or escape to the United States, and a hopeless place for islanders who must stay. Thus, not merely in translation but also in politics Polish scholars enforce a One China consensus (Lin 2020) in which Taiwan is seen, as Polish scholar “Książka została przetłumaczona z j. chińskiego, więc jest częścią literatury chińskiej, tak jak każda książka napisana w j. polskim należy do literatury polskiej.” 5 The Polish title is Na drugim brzegu. Antologia współczesnych opowiadań tajwańskich, edited by Professor Lidia Kasarełło, published in 2020, by the government-funded State Publishing Institute PIW. 4

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Goralczyk states, as doomed to be “re-united” with a prosperous, unique, and “responsible” 任重道 遠 China through an inevitable process that started with Hong Kong, progressed to Macao, and will inevitably incorporate Taiwan (Goralczyk 2017). The absence of Taiwanese subjectivity in translation spans the entire period from the Cold War to the rise of China as a world power. To promote Taiwanese writing as a distinctive national literature, Taiwan will need to invest more financial resources in publication, translation, and particularly circulation, and cultivate long-term, trustful, and mutually respectful cooperation with foreign scholars, translators, and publishers. This has been done in anthologies edited by Michelle Yeh, Dominic Cheung, and Joseph S. M. Lau, and by several governmental projects, such as the early Chinese Books in Translation and the current Books from Taiwan projects, in cooperation with foreign publishing houses such as Columbia University Press, Circé, l’Asiathèque, and Mi:Lu. Despite these efforts to promote Taiwanese literature, though, Taiwan, in the eyes of many in the West, is not a place that attracts much attention. To fight this cultural marginalization, whether produced by Sinocentrism or Eurocentrism, Taiwan must do more to establish its own distinctive image, create its own narrative, speak its name aloud (Lin 2020, 2021a, b), and devise a strategy for imprinting its distinctiveness more clearly on the minds of readers abroad.

REFERENCES Chang Li-hsuan 張俐璇. 2020.《北美台灣文學研究的發展:以「台灣文學研究會」與《台灣文學英譯叢刊》 為例》[The Development of Taiwan Literary Studies in North America: Society for the Study of Taiwan and Taiwan Literature: English Translation Series].《台灣文學研究期刊》[NTU Studies in Taiwan Literature] 23: 73–120. Cheung, Dominic. 1987. The Isle Full of Noises: Modern Chinese Poetry from Taiwan. New York: Columbia University Press. Chi, Pang-yuan. 2012. 《齊邦媛教授訪談:翻譯面面觀》[Aspects of Translation: An Interview with Chi Panyuan]. 《編譯論叢》[Compilation and Translation Review] 5 (1): 247–72. Chi, Pang-yuan. 2018. The Great Flowing River: A Memoir of China, from Manchuria to Taiwan, edited and translated by John Balcom. New York: Columbia University Press. Chi, Pang-yuan, John J. Deeney, Ho Hsin, Wu His-chen, and Yü Kwang-chung, eds. 1975. An Anthology of Contemporary Chinese Literature: Taiwan: 1949–1974. Taipei: National Institute for Compilation and Translation. Damrosch, David. 2003. What Is World Literature? Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Gaffric, Gwennaël. 2011.《台灣文學在法國的現狀》[The Status of Taiwan Literature in France].《文史台 灣學報》[Taiwan Studies in Literature and History] 3: 131–63. Goralczyk, Bogdan. 2017.《旁觀中國:波蘭教授Bogdan Goralczyk訪談錄》[Watching China: An Interview with Polish Professor Bogdan Goralczyk].《壹讀》[Read01], March 17. Available online: https://read01. com/3MD7nN.html#.YN2g6BMza3I (accessed May 1, 2023). Hsia, C. T., ed. 1971. Twentieth-Century Chinese Stories. New York: Columbia University Press. Hsiau A-chin 蕭阿勤. 2017.《記住釣魚台:領土爭端、民族主義、知識份子與懷舊的世代記憶》 [Remembering Diaoyutai Islands: Territorial Dispute, Nationalism, and Generational Memory of Nostalgic Intellectuals in Taiwan]. Taiwan Historical Research 24 (3): 141–208. Hsu Chu-ching 徐菊清. 2013.《贊助對臺灣文學英譯的發展與傳介之影響》[The Influence of Patronage on the Development and Dissemination of Taiwanese Literature in English Translation]. Compilation and Translation Review 6 (1): 1–32. Ing, Nancy Chang, ed. 1961. New Voices: Stories and Poems by Young Chinese Authors. Taipei: Heritage Press. Jung Palandri, Angela C. Y., ed. 1972. Modern Verse from Taiwan. Berkeley: University of California Press.

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Lau, Joseph S. M, ed. 1983. The Unbroken Chain: An Anthology of Taiwan Fiction since 1926. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Lefevere, André. 1992. Translation, Rewriting, and Manipulation of Literary Fame. London: Routledge. Lau, Joseph S. M, and Timothy A. Ross, eds. 1976. Chinese Stories from Taiwan: 1960–1970. New York: Columbia University Press. Liao Shih-wen 廖詩文. 2014.《政府部門的翻譯贊助與台灣文學的外譯:以《台灣文學外譯書目提要 (1990-2011)》為例》[Governmental Patronage on the Translation of Taiwanese Literature: The Case of Bibliographical Synopses of Translated Taiwanese Literary Works (1990–2010)]. Journal of Taiwan Literary Studies 18: 305–26. Lin, Pei-yin. 2019. “Positioning ‘Taiwanese Literature’ to the World: Taiwan as Represented and Perceived in English Translation.” In Positioning Taiwan in a Global Context, edited by Bi-yu Chang and Pei-yin Lin, 13–29. London: Routledge. Lin Wei-yun 林蔚昀. 2020.《我們必須說出自己的名字:從波蘭學者《台灣例外論》的矛盾談起》[We Have to Speak out Our Name: The Paradox in the Polish Scholarly Book Taiwan’s Exceptionalism].《報導者》 [The Reporter], October 5. Available online: https://www.twreporter.org/a/opinion-taiwan-exceptionismpoland-view (accessed May 1, 2023). Lin Wei-yun 林蔚昀. 2021a.《我們必須創造自己的台灣敘事:從波蘭出版《花甲男孩》的分類爭議 談起》[We Have to Create Our Own Taiwanese Narrative: The Dispute over Categorization of the Polish Translation Sixty-Year-Old Boy].《報導者》[The Reporter], May 17. Available online: https://www.twreporter.org/a/opinion-a-boy-named-flora-a-polish-edition?fbclid=IwAR2D86yVz_ mCeUsaRVGuDc0Hr5Bqm6F7fvBUnIoQKHjx0anvndv3G7zqP4s (accessed May 1, 2023). Lin Wei-yun 林蔚昀. 2021b.《我們必須建立自己的形象:從波蘭《在彼岸:台灣當代短篇小說選》的問題 談起》[We Have to Establish Our Own Image: The Problem of the Polish Anthology On the Other Side: An Anthology of Contemporary Taiwanese Stories].《報導者》[The Reporter], March 1. Available online: https://www.twreporter.org/a/opinion-how-poland-publish-translate-taiwan-fiction (accessed May 1, 2023). Moretti, Franco. 2004. “Conjectures on World Literature.” In Debating World Literature, edited by Christopher Prendergast, 148–62. London: Verso. Shih, Shu-mei. 2003. “Globalisation and the (In)significance of Taiwan.” Postcolonial Studies: Culture, Politics, Economy 6 (2): 143–53. Tu, Kuo-ch’ing. 2015. Taiwan Literature and World Literatures of Chinese. Taipei: National Taiwan University Press. Wang, David Der-wei. 1995. “Translating Taiwan: A Study of Four English Anthologies of Taiwan Fiction.” In Translating Chinese Literature, edited by Eugene Eoyang and Lin Yao-fu, 262–72. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Yeh, Michelle, and N. G. D. Malmqvist, eds. 2000. Frontier Taiwan: An Anthology of Modern Chinese Poetry. New York: Columbia University Press. Yip, Wai-lim, ed. 1970. Modern Chinese Poetry: Twenty Poets from the Republic of China 1955–1965. Iowa City: University of Iowa Press.

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Translation in Singapore Chinese Literature TONG KING LEE AND E. K. TAN

Although the origins of Chinese literature in Singapore can be traced to at least the first decades of the twentieth century, its translation on a systematic basis is a relatively recent development. Germane to this development is the delicate status of the Chinese language within the policy infrastructures of the city-state, which is uniquely multiethnic, multicultural, and of course, multilingual. An informed consideration of Singapore Chinese literature in translation should thus begin with the complex sociolinguistics in which it is embedded.

THE SOCIOLINGUISTICS OF SINGAPORE Singapore’s population comprises 74.3 percent Chinese, 13.5 percent Malay, 9.0 percent Indian, and 3.2 percent Others (Department of Statistics 2020, 5). As proclaimed by the Singapore Constitution (Article 153A), the Chinese language, specifically in the form of Mandarin, is one of the four official languages alongside Malay, Tamil, and English. This quadrilingual schema has a strong shaping effect on how multilingual Singapore is imagined by both state and private actors and, as a corollary, on how translation practices are structured, either in conformity with or in resistance to the legally enshrined linguistic framework. The schema excludes as much as it includes. The iterability of the English-Chinese-Malay-Tamil template across diverse linguistic representations (e.g., public signage and notices) means the discursive silencing of other spoken languages on the streets, notably the various Sinitic languages— primarily Hokkien, Teochew, Cantonese, Hakka, and Hainanese, labeled as “dialects” in the official discourse—and colloquial Malay. This ostracization of the Sinitic languages is reinforced on the level of language planning through the Speak Mandarin Campaign (SMC). The SMC is an annual movement that, since its inauguration in 1979, has consolidated Mandarin as a privileged medium within the Chinese community, with a view to eradicating the Sinitic languages on the fear that their sheer diversity may cause miscommunication and lead to disharmony.1 A direct fallout of the SMC is the virtual expungement of these languages from mainstream textual practices. However,

More recently, official discourses around the SMC have been rearticulated toward promoting Mandarin Chinese not only as a cultural resource but also as an instrumental tool to benefit from the opportunities arising from China’s growing status as an economic powerhouse.

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precisely due to their peripherality, these languages are given premium status in nonmainstream platforms of cultural expression, notably the theatre, which concern themselves with the mundane and the subaltern. In public narratives, the four official languages are situated in a relation of complementary distribution, premised on a division of functional labor. Mandarin, Malay, and Tamil represent the vernaculars, more commonly known as the mother-tongue languages (MTLs), serving as cultural ballasts for the three major ethnic communities (Chinese, Malay, and Indian) in Singapore. English, on the other hand, overarches the MTLs and functions as a putatively neutral medium for interethnic communication. It is also the singular language for technocratic governance and the channel for global communication, and in virtue of that, English is the more dominant language in terms of its symbolic and economic capital. This creates a power asymmetry between English and the MTLs, leading to the latter’s marginalization within the political economy of language management in Singapore. This power asymmetry is entrenched in the locale psyche through the state’s long-standing bilingual education policy. Under this policy, students in government schools learn English as a first language and one of the three MTLs generally as a second language.2 This creates a paradoxical situation whereby English is learned as a first language but implicitly recognized as a second tongue,3 whereas the so-called “mother tongues” are not technically the first languages of their speakers. Moreover, English has been instituted as the medium of instruction for most academic subjects—apart from the MTL subjects and less “instrumental” subjects such as civic education—in government schools since at least the 1980s. Bilingualism in Singapore is therefore an Englishknowing bilingualism (Pakir 1991) that accentuates the prestige distinction between English and the MTLs. It has also resulted in an intergenerational shift in language usage, which has increasingly pivoted toward English (Kuo and Chan 2016, 22),4 leading to anxieties among the respective ethnic communities over the impending loss of their respective tongues. As Chinese is in demographic terms the most significant MTL, the tension at issue is fundamentally between the English-educated/English-speaking Chinese (the anglophones) and the Chineseeducated/Chinese-speaking Chinese (the sinophones5) in Singapore. This is sometimes called the heartlander/cosmopolitan divide (Tan 2003), a broad-stroke and arguably simplistic rubric that nonetheless impacts the figuration of cultural relations in Chinese literary writing. Whereas the heartlanders are characterized as “providing the critical cultural and moral ballast” for society, the cosmopolitans are “economic dynamos enjoying ‘flexible citizenship’” and the vanguard of Singapore’s integration into the global economy (Tan 2003, 758).

In restricted cases, students who excel academically may study MTL as a first language subject instead. This is the case for students in a small cluster of elite secondary schools, called the Special Assistance Programme (SAP) schools, who study their MTL (limited to the Chinese language) as a first language subject alongside English. 3 See Koh Tai Ann’s chapter on Singapore literature in English, titled “First language, second tongue” (Koh et al. 2018, 18–41). 4 Statistics from 2019 show that among local Chinese households with young children at Primary 1 level, 71 percent speak English, as opposed to Mandarin or a Chinese dialect at home, as compared to 42 percent from twenty years ago. See Zhuo (2019). 5 We use the term “sinophone” here to refer generally to “Chinese-using” in contrast with “anglophone.” The lower case “s” is meant to distinguish from the theoretical construct of the Sinophone with the capitalized “s,” which is a more complicated notion with geopolitical meanings. 2

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This is where the construct of the Sinophone can become a potentially useful qualification to the categorical label “Chinese,” which conflates the ethnic and the linguistic. “Chinese” as an ethnic-linguistic nexus aligns with an official paradigm of multilingualism premised on the direct correlation between language, ethnicity, and culture. What ensues is a discursive model in which Chineseness is imagined as a closed framework encapsulating a linguistic and cultural essence, which can be translated into its counterpart frameworks of Malay, Tamil, and English. Such a model feeds into the state’s “fantasies of a multicultural society” (Chong 2010, 138), in which the four official languages and their associated cultures are construed to be in a state of equilibrium. This model, however, can be challenged by bottom-up representations, which draw on alternative fantasies to reveal the differential cultural dispositions transgressing normative boundaries around language and ethnicity. It is against this backdrop that the arts and culture in general, and literature in particular, may be considered privileged sites for the articulation of competing discourses on multiculturality in Singapore (see Chong 2010). Translation adds a complicating inflection to this, for it has the potential both to draw languages together and to mark them apart. This chapter examines three modalities of literary translation in Singapore, with an eye to how they position the Chinese language in relation to the other official as well as unofficial languages. By investigating the identity meanings evinced by these modalities, we demonstrate how translation, as both empirical practice and conceptual method, mediates between Chinese literature as a discrete, translatable entity and Sinophone writing as that which is always already translated.

TRANSLATION AS INSTITUTION Until recently, the translation of Chinese literature in Singapore has, for the most part, been an institutional affair, undertaken as part of structural efforts to showcase official multilingualism. It is on this level that we can speak of a “translational regime,” which in Singapore is “driven overwhelmingly by the national interest and the need for the state and government to communicate effectively with different linguistic communities” (Tan 2021, 159). This imperative is realized in different kinds of discourse, including cultural productions that embody both a literary aesthetic and a language ideological function. Multilingual anthologies, which have been a staple feature of Singapore’s literary landscape since the mid-1980s, exemplify cultural productions of this order. These anthologies, often published under the patronage of statutory boards, notably the National Arts Council (NAC) and the National Library Board (NLB), are usually produced in conjunction with national-level events or literacy campaigns. The implication of such institutionalization is that, apart from being an intellectual endeavor, literary anthologies tend to dovetail with macro-level discourses around national identity and are, as a result, structurally inflected by language ideological imperatives. Under these imperatives, anthologies turn into top-down platforms that ratify statal narratives on multilingualism through the strategic configuration of literatures.6 And on this ground anthologization and translation are connected enterprises; as Lefevere ([1992] 2017, 6) argues, translators and anthologizers (along with literary historians, critics, editors, and authors of reference works) are rewriters who “manipulate the originals they work with to some extent, usually to make them fit in with the dominant, or one of the dominant ideological and poetological currents of their time.”

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A typical anthology conceived along institutional lines would contain literary works written in the four official languages, including Chinese, forming a quadrilingual spatial schema that operates as a durable template. There is a strong emblematic dimension to this schema, whose quadripartite visuality is fetishized as a stable, iterable pattern. Chinese literature figures as one component within this semiotic setup, alongside its Malay, Tamil, and English counterparts, subtly speaking to the official language policy in which the same four languages are construed as equal partners. The question of translation enters the picture when we consider how the quadrilingual literatures are configured in relation to one another. At issue here is directionality, that is: Which languages are translated into or out of which other languages? And what are the implications of such directionality for the power relations among the four languages and literatures? By far, the most frequently attested model is an asymmetric one in which the MTL literatures are translated into English, but not vice versa. In this setup, English is the exclusive translating language: it is always translated into but not out of, in opposition to Chinese and the other two MTLs, which are always translated out of but not into. As an example, the 2015 volume Singathology (Gwee et al. 2015), published in celebration of Singapore’s fiftieth year of independence, features fifty works—the number is nonarbitrary, symbolizing the golden jubilee—by local writers. In terms of Chinese literature, the anthology features writings by such canonical writers as Wong Yoon Wah, Chia Joo Ming, You Jin, Wong Meng Voon, Xi Ni Er, and Yeng Pway Ngon. Each piece written in Chinese is printed on the verso, followed by its English translation on the recto, creating a parallel reading format (the same applies to Malay and Tamil). In contrast, works originally composed in English are left untranslated.7 As our theory goes, in multilingual societies the capacity of a language to translate another language is directly proportional to its symbolic capital: the higher the symbolic capital of a language the greater its propensity to represent—that is, to speak on behalf of—the literature of another language. This propensity to represent, as opposed to being represented, signals language power. The use of English as the only translating language in a multilingual anthology indicates that it is institutionalized to ventriloquize the MTL literatures, thus rendering the latter representable. Conversely, the fact that literary works in English are not translated into the MTLs means the latter are deprived of the capacity to ventriloquize English-language literature, which alone enjoys the privilege of being represented solely through its own medium.8 In virtue of this asymmetry, Chinese literature becomes a represented literature in the context of multilingual anthologization; it exists but is at the same time susceptible to being written through by English. Underpinning such asymmetric translation is the logic of English-knowing bilingualism, noted earlier, which naturalizes the English + MTL bilingual formula and conceals the

Other anthologies using the same model include Journeys: Words, Home and Nation (Thumboo et al. 1995), published in commemoration of the thirtieth anniversary of Singapore’s independence; Memories and Desires: A Poetic History of Singapore (Goh 1998), which branded itself as a “historical project of articulating national identity”; Fifty on 50 (Thumboo et al. 2009) which marked the fiftieth year of self-government; and Contour: A Lyric Cartography of Singapore (Ng et al. 2019), published to mark Singapore’s bicentennial year. 8 In some rare cases, as in & Words: Poems Singapore and Beyond (Thumboo 2010), not only is the (uni)direction of translation MTL-into-English, the original MTL texts do not appear in the anthology. Here, MTL literatures are not just representable; they are made invisible, hence creating a paradox where multilingual literatures are represented monolingually, that is, by way of canceling out multilingualism. 7

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unequal distribution of symbolic capital within. By coupling English with each of the three MTLs, including Chinese, this translation model instantiates that formula, thus establishing a structural correlation between the discursive patterning of anthologies and the normative combination of the four languages under the bilingual education policy. It implicitly minoritizes Chinese writing as an ethnic literature alongside Malay and Tamil writing and relegates it to a secondary position vis-àvis the literature in English. An alternative model is that of multilateral translation, whereby literary works written in one language are translated into three other official languages. Hence, for instance, a piece composed in Chinese would be translated into English, Malay, and Tamil. This model is attested, for instance, in Rhythms, published to mark Singapore’s thirty-fifth year of independence (Singh and Wong 2000), as well as in NLB’s literacy-oriented anthologies published for its annual Read! Singapore campaign (later rebranded as Read! Fest). It gives rise to a symmetrical matrix in which all four official languages serve as both translating and translated languages. This balances out the semiotic privilege accorded to English under the asymmetric model, creating a hyper-egalitarian framework in which the MTLs are afforded equal capacity to represent English as well as one another. Contrast this with a more extreme model that is only occasionally seen: that of nontranslation, in which literary works in all four languages stand as they are sans translation. For example, the 2015 anthology SingaPoetry, published by NLB, also in conjunction with the golden jubilee, divides its eighty pieces into four monolingual sections in English, Malay, Tamil, and Chinese. Given that institutional anthologies typically come with some form of translation, nontranslation is an intriguing arrangement that speaks to a unique imaginary of multilingual writing in Singapore, one that envisions the coexistence of the four official languages and their literatures as autonomous voices capable of eschewing the imperative of translation. Notwithstanding their differences, all these models are a literary performance of the EnglishMalay-Chinese-Tamil schema, the cornerstone of Singapore’s language policy. They represent an institutional literary apparatus within which Chinese literature figures as a component and does not stand on its own terms, so to speak. Rather, it partakes of a fossilized constellation, being positioned as one among three MTL literatures that, together with the literature in English, signify a multilingual ethos under the unifying rubric of the nation. Translation is integral to this setup, serving as the nexus of a top-down multilingual choreography for the public gaze. It articulates different formations of connectedness between Chinese literature and its peer literatures, but generally aligning with the establishment’s narrative on how multilingual Singapore is to be discursively constituted.

TRANSLATION AND BICULTURALITY It is more recently that Chinese writing by individual authors has become regularly available in English translations. A bibliography of Chinese literature in English translation compiled by Koh et al. (2018, 111–12) registers nineteen single-authored titles, mostly published after 2012.9 These translated titles cluster around a small number of established authors, including Wong Yoon Wah,

See Chua (2019) for an updated and expanded list of local Chinese writing in English translation, with forty items including single-author and multiauthor collections.

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Yeng Pway Ngon, Xi Ni Er, and You Jin—all awardees of the Cultural Medallion, the highest accolade for the arts in Singapore. This demonstrates a drive toward the literary canon—also witnessed in institutional anthologies—that is possibly motivated by marketing needs. Eclectic collections of Chinese short stories in English translation have been published intermittently, for instance, Droplets (St. André 2001) and KIV (St. André 2002), both of which originated as translation projects by final year undergraduate students at the National University of Singapore. The latest volume to date along this line is Memorandum: A Sinophone Singaporean Short Story Collection (Quah and Hee 2020), featuring the term “Sinophone” that had hitherto rarely, if ever, been used by local authors or translators in substitution of the prevailing term “Chinese.” An interesting textual issue arises with the translation of a particular cluster of works from the 1980s and 1990s that revolve around an identity crisis within the Sinophone community in Singapore. Due to the rising dominance of English across all sectors of society, insecurities were brewing with regard to the sustainability of Chinese language and culture within an increasingly anglicized linguistic landscape. These insecurities were exacerbated by the bilingual education policy, mentioned above, which consolidated the status of English as the primary medium of instruction in schools, as well as by the closure of Nanyang University, a local university that used Chinese as a medium of instruction and was widely seen as the symbolic anchor of Chinese culture in Singapore. This gave rise to a siege mentality among Chinese intellectuals, which found expression in literary works of the day. These works “have a tendency to reify a timeless ‘Chinese culture’ which Singaporean Chinese are exhorted to remember and admonished not to forget” (St. André 2006b, 40). They valorize an imagined “Chinese culture” that is premodern in nature, celebrated for its antiquity and achievements, and composed of fixed and timeless elements which can be listed, and which must be kept pure … the Chinese language is seen as the most basic tool for the preservation of this culture both in memory and in writing; its disappearance signals the end of all Chinese culture in Singapore. (St. André 2006b, 40) In other words, these works turn “Chinese culture” into a fetish object, often through the use of stereotyped metaphors and synecdoches associated with a nebulous notion of Chineseness (see St. André 2006b, 36–7, for examples). Such fetishization feeds into an irreconcilable binary between the anglophone and the sinophone that constitutes the ethical basis of these works. On the logic of this binary, the English language and its associated (and reified) “Western culture” are indexicalized as representing the excesses of modernization and cosmopolitanism; they have a negative valence, in contrast to the Chinese language and its associated “Chinese culture,” which are seen to embody tradition, memory, and identity, hence attracting a positive valence. In other words, the identity position espoused in these works is anglophobic and sinophilic. The translation of these works into English produces an interpretive dilemma. The code initially representing the Other vis-à-vis Chineseness now forms the linguistic matrix; consequently, the same crisis over sinophone identity, as communicated in a poem or story originally written in Chinese, is by necessity reworked through an anglophone medium, turning the cultural Them (“Western culture”) into a linguistic Us (the English language). This throws the ethical framework of the original works into question, leading to a crisis of a different order—that of paradoxical

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representation. It is the inadvertent result of translation that the narrative or poetic persona now speaks English to articulate an ethical position against what is considered an anglophone sensibility. There is a certain irony, for instance, in reading a sardonic account, in English translation, of how anglophone Chinese Singaporeans are culturally rootless because alienated from “Chinese culture.” Lin Gao’s “The Painting” is a story about a young couple who fails to appreciate the historical value of a Chinese painting by the famous scholar-artist Tang Bohu, who lived between the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries in China. The story portrays the couple with sarcasm, specifically targeting the wife who at one point asks whether Tang Bohu is still alive and if he lives in China. The story concludes with a critical scene in which the couple is presented a painting, which unbeknownst to them, mocks their cultural condition: Source Text 一个月后,我给他们送去一张水墨小品。 画的是浮萍。绿意正茂,白花几朵,有只蛙正踢腿游出水来。题的是:蛙得水域,浮萍无踪。 不知道年轻夫妇把我的画挂上去了吗? 挂上去,他们看出什么东西没有。 Translated Text I gave them an ink-wash creation a month later. I drew them a picture of duckweed, lush green with several white flowers. There was a frog kicking its legs, emerging above the water. The inscription read “The frog gains its territory but the duckweed has disappeared.” I wonder if the couple has hung up my painting. If they have hung it up, I wonder if they noticed anything special. (St. André 2001, 118–23) Here, the translation appends an exegetic footnote that does not exist in the original Chinese text: “The frog, being part of Nature, has found its true place, while the ‘rootless’ nature of the duckweed makes them float aimlessly above water. The author uses this as a metaphor for Chinese who do not know how to speak their mother tongue and lack cultural roots” (St. André 2001, 123). Hence, the painting, together with its rich symbolism, is a wry metacommentary on the young couple who are estranged from the culture with which they are supposed to affiliate—that is, from the perspective of the narrator. At this juncture we need to ask who might potentially be reading this story in English. The editor of the anthology in which the translation is published identifies one group of target readers as “adult Singaporeans who could not read Chinese, and therefore do not have access to or even knowledge of a large body of literature written by their fellow-Singaporeans on an important contemporary issue” (St. André 2001, 15). For this particular audience, chiefly anglophone Chinese Singaporeans, the act of reading is complicated by the fact that their linguistic position predisposes them to identify with the young couple in the story—like the fictitious couple, they have limited access to things Chinese, which is why they are reading the translation in the first place. But if they do follow through an anglophilic stance, their reading is destined to fall wayward of the ethical point of the story, which is essentially sinophilic. In an alternative scenario, if, as the editor anticipates, they are reading the story “to learn how Chinese-speaking Chinese in Singapore

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felt (and, in many cases, still feel) about the changing nature of Singaporean society” (17), these readers will need to launch themselves into the narrative as an Other and project themselves as an object of satire. In other words, prospective anglophone Chinese readers will need to temporarily suspend their disbelief, so to speak, and put on an anglophobic lens. The two reading stances posited above are hypothetical; in reality, any intermediary position between them would be possible. Yet they reveal an aporia in reading that is symptomatic of deeper ideological tensions between sinophone and anglophone sensibilities in Singapore. This aporia comes into relief with heterolingual Chinese texts, where English is occasionally invoked as an emblem of Otherness. Liang Wern Fook’s “Cultural Exchange” (St. André 2002, 99–102), for example, plays on the orthographic transition of one set of place names across three codes—English, Hanyu pinyin, and Chinese—to reveal the foreignness of the Chinese script among young Chinese Singaporeans. In Aw Guat Po’s “Homesickness” (72–6), a young boy speaks to his grandfather using a code-mixed register featuring generous doses of English within the matrix of Mandarin utterances, signaling a cross-generational rupture in cultural lineage. What happens to these fragments of English when the texts are translated into English? They remain as they are in the translation but are italicized to indicate that they are originally in English. Despite this typographical intervention, this retention of English as a foreign code within an English translation creates a textual impasse. What is supposed to be a foreign code—English, in respect of the original Chinese text—is simultaneously a familiar code—also English, but this time in respect of the English translation. In other words, “the linguistic elements that signaled Otherness in the original run the risk of having their indexical meaning reversed and being read as ‘familiar’ signs of Sameness” (Grutman 2006, 22). This produces a potent irony (Mezei 1998, 239) in which English is used to communicate an ethical position against the values that English purportedly stands for in the narrative. Such irony takes on a twist in the case of self-translation, where the slippage between Self and Other occurs in the work of a single author. One of those rare talented bilinguals who write in either English or Chinese while translating their work into the other language is the eminent playwright Kuo Pao Kun. Kuo’s bilingual oeuvre provides an exclusive window on the intersection of languages and identities as negotiated through self-translation. Here, there is little purchase in speaking of Singapore Chinese literature as such, for the inherent distinction underpinning this formulation, vis-à-vis the literature in English, for instance, is problematized by the bilingual flux that characterizes a self-translating act. It is not so much that there is no original or translation, but rather that these categories must be seen as reciprocal and complementary manifestations operating within a biliterate and bicultural frame. One notable feature in the movement from one language into another in self-translation is a shift in the degree of heteroglossia. Consider, for instance, the following extract from the play No Parking on Odd Days, first written in English and then translated into Chinese by Kuo himself. English version Let me start with this parking of fence—that time I got a ticket when I left my car at the end of the street when I went to visit this friend of mine in Bukit Timah. He lives in a rented garage of one of those old, pre-war bungalows. When I came out, there was this ticket waiting for me tucked under the windscreen, you know how they do it. The ticket says I committed an offence leaving my car too close to the end of the street. (Kuo 2000, 77)

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Chinese version 我先讲我去找朋友park车被 “恶公” 这一件事。很多年前了。我去Bukit Timah探一个老朋友, 车放在他门口给traffic “book”。我的朋友住在一间战前的bungalow后面的车房里。很久不见, 我们聊了很长一段时间,到我回去开车,糟糕,挡风玻璃前面放了一张summons,放在wiper下面, 你们知道怎样放啦,那summons讲我park车犯规,离开路口太近。 (Quah and Pan 2005, 89–90) In this piece of monologue, the narrator’s English is couched in a more or less standard register, with no traces of vernacularity or ungrammaticality. The Chinese version of the same passage, however, is much more heteroglossic. There are several instances of code-mixing in English, even though there are readily available Chinese equivalents for the terms in question; among these are what might be called “false friends”—apparently English terms that need to be interpreted in Singlish to make sense (“traffic” = “traffic police”; “book” = “to issue a penalty”; “summons” = “parking ticket”). This, together with the occasional transcription of Hokkien words (恶公 = “to be fined”), affords the Chinese passage a strongly vernacular tone. There is, therefore, an asymmetry between the English and Chinese passages in terms of their stylistic constitution. The intensification of heteroglossia in the Chinese version produces a semiotic excess, pointing to an incursion of the English code into the discursive territory of Chinese. The converse is not true, as attested in the relatively monoglossic English text. This asymmetry is interpretable in light of the heartlander/ cosmopolitan divide, that is, the language ideological tensions between sinophone and anglophone Chinese Singaporeans, which gives the Chinese play text its different identity meaning. But there is more nuance to this. As it turns out, the English version of No Parking on Odd Days is not entirely monoglossic either. The protagonist uses Standard English where legal themes are concerned, but slips into Singlish when conversing with his son, whose repertoire is characteristically vernacular. In the Chinese version, however, English (including Singlish) is invoked precisely when matters regarding law and order are dealt with. Hence, as St. André (2006a, 148) observes, heteroglossia has different identity meanings in the English and Chinese versions of the play. In the former, the use of Singlish indexes an absence of power in relation to government authorities, hence “establish[ing] the speaker’s identity as the man in the street, poised between the government and the uneducated youth who will make up the next generation.” In the latter, by contrast, heteroglossia as registered in code-switches from Chinese into English “reveals English as the language of power, law and order” (148). Kuo Pao Kun’s self-translation, then, gives rise to two texts that converge on the same play while signifying autonomously with respect to their language ideological implication.

“ALWAYS ALREADY TRANSLATED”: TOWARD THE TRANSLATIONAL We have thus far been looking at translation as an extrinsic operation between languages and texts that are discretely constituted. Here translation is centrifugal, as it were, folding a text out of its own language into other languages. Let us now consider a different modality in which translation is intrinsically conceived. Rather than translation in the conventional sense, we have in this case the translational, where languages are enfolded centripetally into a text, and translation becomes a method integral to the text itself.

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Written and performed in 1988, Kuo Pao Kun’s multilingual play《寻找小猫的妈妈》(Mama Looking for Her Cat) is a reflection on Singapore’s multiracial and multilingual policies. Despite it being a multilingual play, the script was first written mainly in Chinese with a mix of other languages found in Singapore. Showcasing the result and impact of these polices on society, the play illuminates the problems underlying them. As Singapore’s first multilingual play, Mama Looking for Her Cat was both groundbreaking and controversial. The linguistic experiment Kuo employed with the staging of this project was not one of comprehension and intelligibility; rather, the mixture of languages—including Singapore’s four official languages, English, Mandarin, Malay, and Tamil, as well as other Sinitic languages, such as Hokkien, Teochew, and Cantonese— in the play suggests a diversity that cannot be taken for granted as a mere result of the interaction between languages. The lack of communication among the characters and their inability to understand each other in Mama Looking for Her Cat is both a product and problem of linguistic and cultural diversity. The problem of language lies in the reality that there is no one common language that can wholly define a multicultural nation and people. The implementation of English, first as an official language at the dawn of Singapore’s independence, led to miscommunications between the characters in the play. Not only are characters unable to communicate well owing to their varying linguistic capabilities, but the instrumental purpose of the English language also fails to account for the affective meanings of individual speech—in the case of the play, Mama’s words. No translation was provided for the audience during performances of the play, imparting to viewers a strong sense of alienation and frustration. Ironically, this very alienation, which I see as a generative characteristic of linguistic dissonance, provides the grounds of solidarity needed for audience members to acknowledge and reevaluate the reality of their cultural identity, one that is marked by diversity and difference. When Mama’s children engage in a tongue-twister competition in two languages and soon become frustrated because of the confusion rendered by the distinct difference between the two, they immediately switch to a different game, called Di-xia-tie: [The] groups break into a kind of verbal competition. SW: (Playing word games with others in two languages.) “Bitter Batter” (in English). SB: “天上星星亮晶晶” “Little stars twinkle bright” (in Mandarin). V: “Peter Piper” (in English). K: “四不是十” “Four is not Ten” (in Mandarin). YH: “She sells seashells on the seashore” (in English). YB: “一、二、三、四、五” “One, two, three, four, five” (in Mandarin). J: “The rain in Spain stays mainly on the plain” (in English). Then the two groups begin to argue, one with “Hereford” in English, the other with “know is know,” until they reach a state of utter confusion. W: Stop! Stop! This is no fun anymore. Let’s change. CHILDREN: Change what? W: 地下铁 Di-xia-tie! CHILDREN: Ah!

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They understand the new game is about translation and everyone happily joins in. For every word one mentions, the next appointed person has to give an equivalent in Mandarin, and then the next appointed person would have to give an equivalent in Hokkien. In every case, they know both the English and Mandarin terms but fail to know the proper Hokkien rendition. (Kuo 2000, 131–32) Di-xia-tie is a translation game that focuses on the interaction between languages, not only on the mere competition between the two dominant languages in Singapore. The game’s inclusion of the Sinitic dialect Hokkien highlights the irreparable status of dialects as a tradition lost to Chinese Singaporeans owing to the implementation of the official language policies. Regardless, our point here is to not dwell on the decline in status of dialects among Chinese Singaporeans but to consider the generative potential of Singapore’s linguistic condition marked by linguistic dissonance, not language purity. In a way, Mama suggests that Sinophonic dissonance allows Singaporeans to think beyond the constraints of policies such as the bilingual policies and speak Mandarin campaign, to imagine a common culture that transcends the compartmentalization of the country’s diverse communities while still appreciating their differences. Furthermore, the example underscores the fact that translation is a linguistic condition and everyday reality of Singaporeans. In the context of this chapter, Chinese literature from Singapore is always already translated (see Holden 2017) and always in-translation. The next example, “Lost” 怅然若失, an experimental poem by writer Xi Ni Er 希尼尔 depicts the translational through the process of mapping the Latin alphabet onto the Chinese script. On the surface, the poem seemingly suggests that any attempt to find commonality between the English and Chinese language will lead to failure, as something is bound be lost.

(注一) 解构文化 没有形象的一堆族群 清楚地模糊自己,扭曲 只为锻炼竞相求存的伎俩 (注二) 颠覆传统 不再青绿的一脉青山绿水 清醒地沉默自己,移屈 只为保全迷失坐标的弃根 (Xi Ni Er 2001, 36–7)

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The poem could be read as a short cinquain verse depending on how we read it. The first four lines of the poems perform an etymological excavation of origin of the Chinese characters. The very act of tracing back in time reveals the theme of change as part and parcel of nature (or the depiction of nature in the Chinese characters). Each logogram begins to transform after the first line into a pictogram. The pictograms (Chinese characters) transform into graphemes (alphabets) from the fourth and fifth line. Even though this transformation appears to be abrupt, the poem reveals in the third and fourth line a gradual progression of an uncanny logocentric similarity between the two scripts despite their difference in form and meaning. Instead of an abrupt switch from Chinese characters to the Latin alphabet, the transformation from one script to another can in fact be read as not an attempt to seek connections in visual semblance across the two distinct forms. So, if the “origin” of each Chinese character is descriptive and expressive in pictorial forms, then the switch to the symbolic form of the alphabets by way of resemblance—L. O. S. T.—transforms the meanings embodied in each logogram into a collective one. Ironically, though a connection between English and Chinese is made between the fourth and fifth line of the poem, the relationship between the two scripts can only be established at the expense of a deconstructivist move that negates the initial search for the origin of each of the four Chinese characters. This points to an act of failure; hence, 怅然若失—Lost. And this failure can only be realized when sound and script collide into one. 月、日、川、山, L. O. S. T., Lost. What adds to this translational experimentation of the two official languages in Singapore is the two footnotes, which are themselves two separate free verses. For example, the first verse titled “Deconstructing Culture.” This verse collapses language and culture into a lamentation of the loss of cultural meaning in a group of ethnically unique characters 象形族 群. The cultural loss is a product of self-erasure 清楚地模糊自己 facilitated by the assimilation into English for survival 锻链竞相求存的伎俩. The second verse titled “Subverting Tradition” reveals a consciousness of the loss of culture in the first verse as the speaker laments that “Rivers and mountains have lost their lush and luster.” This consciousness in the speaker is coupled with a sense of helplessness as he “silences himself” and displaces his grievances to preserve what is left of his abandoned roots. In a sense, the two footnote verses echo what the poem body depicts, the gradual loss of cultural heritage in the form of the Chinese script to that of the English language. The kind of biculturalism, which is supposedly a feature of Chinese Singaporean identity, always already involves a translational process of negotiation between the Chinese and English language. Yet this kind of negotiation of one’s linguistic identity is not an exclusive theme in the works of Sinophone Singapore writers. Anglophone writer Ng Yi-sheng complicates this linguistic identity by introducing Hanyu pinyin 汉语拼音 into his set of five poems adequately titled “Translations.” In this poem, Hanyu pinyin substitutes the Chinese script to serve as indexes for each one of the poems. The poems are titled “meng/dream,” “xiao/laugh,” “tu/picture,” “dao/island,” and “xiang/think.” While each title in Hanyu pinyin points to specific imagery in a Chinese character, the imagery is mediated through Latin alphabets to translate the character phonetically. Hanyu pinyin serves exactly the purpose to help Chinese Singaporeans learn how to speak Mandarin since 1971, when it was first adopted into school curricula. Furthermore, though written exclusively in

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English, each poem comes together to compose that particular imagery, which the Hanyu pinyin title indexes. For example, the poem “tu/picture”: tu/picture Someone has swallowed winter into a box. Under a miniature sky, two stillborn snowflakes, unidentical every time you draw them. (Ng 2006, 57) The first line, “Someone has swallowed winter into a box,” introduces the box 口 and winter 冬, and places winter inside the box to create the compound character, picture 图. The following lines reinforce the character winter by invoking the two snowflakes to reference the act of drawing, tying the poem to the Chinese character, picture. In the poem “dao/island,” the Chinese character 岛 is simply composed by the imagery of a bird 鸟 carrying a mountain under its wings: dao/island Only a bird to begin with, and yet it carries a mountain under its wings. (Ng 2006, 57) In analyzing the two poems by Ng, we recognize that “Translations” is not simply a set of poems written to perform a language play. It exhibits the symptoms of a linguistic process and development in a postcolonial society such as multicultural Singapore. The interplay between languages reveals the characteristics of Singapore literature as always already translated and always in translation.

CONCLUSION In this chapter, we have offered an introduction to the sociolinguistic condition in Singapore as background to the discussion of translation in the multilingual island city. In our examination of translation as institution in Singapore, we look at anthologies, especially multilingual anthologies to lay out how these anthologies are not only shaped by the linguistic diversity of the country but also the different state policies such as the bilingual education policy and Speak Mandarin Campaign. This allows us to describe the various translation practices and/or theories that are common to the Singapore literary scene, underscoring the language politics involved in the production of translated texts such as the anthologies discussed in this chapter. In our discussion of Singapore Chinese literature in translation, we take two different approaches. First, we look at translation in the traditional sense to examine works by Chinese Singaporean writers. We look at both quadrilingual anthologies in which Chinese literature is treated as a mother-tongue

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language literature and bilingual practice in translation, which includes self-translation. We compare writings in Chinese with their English translations to address challenges posed by issues such as intended audience and code-mixing when translating Chinese texts to English. Instead of focusing on what is lost or the authenticity of these translations we look at how the latent biculturality of these Chinese writings both enable and impede the act of translating into English. For our second approach, we look at translation in an unconventional and innovative way in the context of Singapore. We propose that Singapore Chinese literature is translational, or always already translated. To exemplify this claim, we look at metaliterary works that take translation as its subject matter to reflect on the essence of translation as an everyday reality of Chinese Singaporeans. Under this proposal, we also extend our discussion to include an anglophone text that meditates on the linguistic realities of Singapore where languages bleed into one another—in other words, Singapore literature is always in-translation.

REFERENCES Chong, Terence. 2010. “The State and the New Society: The Role of the Arts in Singapore NationBuilding.” Asian Studies Review 34 (2): 131–49. Chua, Tiong Seng. 2019. “Translating (or not) in Multilingual Singapore: A Historical Approach.” PhD diss., National University of Singapore. Available online: https://scholarbank.nus.edu.sg/ handle/10635/191693 (accessed December 1, 2021). Department of Statistics, Singapore. 2020. Population Trends, 2020. Singapore: Ministry of Trade and Industry. Available online: https://www.singstat.gov.sg/-/media/files/publications/population/ population2020.pdf (accessed December 1, 2021). Goh, Robbie B. H. ed. 1998. Memories and Desires: A Poetic History of Singapore. Singapore: Unipress; Centre for the Arts, National University of Singapore. Grutman, Rainier. 2006. “Refraction and Recognition: Literary Multilingualism in Translation.” Target 18 (1): 17–47. Gwee, Li Sui, Tan Chee Lay, Sa’eda Bte Buang, and Azhagiya Pandiyan, eds. 2015. Singathology: 50 New Works by Celebrated Singaporean Writers. Singapore: Marshall Cavendish and National Arts Council. Holden, Philip. 2017. “Always Already Translated: Questions of Language in Singapore Literature.” Asymptote. Available online: https://www.asymptotejournal.com/special-feature/philip-holdensingaporean-writers/ (accessed December 1, 2021). Koh, Tai Aaa, Tan Chee Lay, Hadijah Rahmat, and Arun Mahizhnan. 2018. Singapore Chronicles: Literature. Singapore: Institute of Policy Studies, National University of Singapore, and Straits Times Press. Kuo, Pao Kun. 2000. Images at the Margins: A Collection of Kuo Pao Kun’s Plays. Singapore: Times Books International. Kuo, Eddie C. Y., and Brenda Chan. 2016. Singapore Chronicles: Language. Singapore: Institute of Policy Studies, National University of Singapore, and Straits Times Press. Lefevere, André. (1992) 2017. Translation, Rewriting and the Manipulation of Literary Fame. Abingdon: Routledge. Mezei, Kathy. 1998. “Bilingualism and translation in/of Michèle Lalonde’s Speak White.” The Translator 4 (2): 229–47. National Library Board (NLB). 2015. SingaPoetry: An Anthology of Singapore Poems. Singapore: NLB. Ng, Leonard, Azhar Ibrahim, Chow Teck Seng, Kanagalatha, Kanagalatha, and Tan Chee Lay, eds. 2019. Contour: A Lyric Cartography of Singapore. Singapore: Poetry Festival Singapore. Ng, Yi-sheng. 2006. Last Boy. Singapore: Firstfruits.

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Pakir, Anne. 1991. “The Range and Depth of English‐Knowing Bilinguals in Singapore.” World Englishes 10 (2): 167−79. Quah, Sy Ren, and Hee Wai Siam, eds. 2020. Memorandum: A Sinophone Singaporean Short Story Collection, translated by Tan Dan Feng. Singapore: Ethos Books. Quah, Sy Ren, and Pan Cheng Lui, eds. 2005. The Complete Works of Kuo Pao Kun, vol. 2: The 1980s. Singapore: World Scientific Publishing. Singh, Kirpal, and Wong Yoon Wah, eds. 2000. Rhythms: A Singaporean Millennial Anthology of Poetry. Singapore: National Arts Council. St. André, J., ed. 2001. Droplets. Singapore: Department of Chinese Studies, National University of Singapore. St. André, J., ed. 2002. KIV. Singapore: National University of Singapore. St. André, J. 2006a. “Revealing the Invisible: Heterolingualism in Three Generations of Singaporean Playwrights.” Target 18 (1): 139–61. St. André, J. 2006b. “‘You Can Never Go Home Again’: Cultural Memory and Identity Formation in the Writing of Southeast Asian Chinese.” Journal of Chinese Overseas 2 (1): 33–55. Tan, E. K. B. 2003. “Re-engaging Chineseness: Political, Economic and Cultural Imperatives of NationBuilding in Singapore.” China Quarterly 175: 751–74. Tan, E. K. B. 2021. “Translation in Global City Singapore: A Holistic Embrace in a Multilingual Milieu?” In The Routledge Handbook of Translation and the City, edited by Tong King Lee, 159–75. Abingdon: Routledge. Thumboo, Edwin, ed. 2010. & Words: Poems Singapore and Beyond. Singapore: Ethos Books and National Arts Council. Thumboo, Edwin, Isa Kamari, Chia Hwee Peng, and K. T. M. Iqbal, eds. 2009. Fifty on 50. Singapore: National Arts Council. Thumboo, Edwin, Wong Yoon Wah, Ban Kah Choon, Naa Govindasamy, Shaharuddin Maaruf, Ribbie Goh, and Petrina Chan, eds. 1995. Journeys: Words, Home and Nation. Anthology of Singapore Poetry (1984–1995). Singapore: Unipress. Xi Ni Er 希尼尔. 2001.《轻信莫疑》. Singapore: Singapore Association of Writers. Zhuo, Tee. 2019. “Speak Mandarin Campaign Marks 40 years: Singapore Must Guard against Losing Bilingual Edge, says PM Lee Hsien Loong” Straits Times, October 27. Available online: https://www. straitstimes.com/singapore/speak-mandarin-campaign-marks-40-years-with-local-lexicon-pm-lee-hsienloong-says (accessed April 26, 2023).

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CHAPTER THIRTY

The Translator as Cultural Ambassador: The Case of Lin Yutang JAMES ST. ANDRÉ

INTRODUCTION Lin Yutang 林語堂 (1895–1976) was one of the earliest Chinese translators who worked independently from Chinese into English and therefore occupies an important place in the history of Chinese-to-English translation practice. In the 1930s, when Lin Yutang began to write in English, certain stereotypes regarding the Chinese were already well established in the Englishspeaking world, especially relating to women in Chinese society. Working within the constraints of English-language publication mediums imposed by such stereotypes, this chapter argues that Lin sought to engage with and at the same time to counter certain facets of these images of China and the Chinese. To explain how Lin Yutang’s work draws upon, reinforces, and also challenges the image of China that was prevalent in the Anglo-American world, it will be necessary for me to give a brief overview of the main facets of those existing images. I will concentrate on Lin’s translations, although it is my contention that it is impossible to understand what he is doing in his translations without situating them within his larger writing practice, which included journalism, nonfiction books, and fiction. Therefore, some reference will be made to those other works to better understand how his translations function.

PREEXISTING STEREOTYPES The image of China in the foreign imagination is a well-trodden field. For the purposes of this chapter, I will concentrate on Anglo-American perceptions of Chinese women in the nineteenth century, as it is Lin’s translations and writings about women that will be the focus of my analysis of his work. The overall picture is well known. The initial rosy reports of China painted by the Jesuits were enthusiastically embraced by prominent Enlightenment figures such as Voltaire (Etiemble 1988–1989), as well as by some early American millenarian and utopian thinkers (Aldridge 1993, 23–45) and the New England transcendentalist writers Emerson and Thoreau (Cady 1961, 20; Takanashi 2014, 1–12). Yet a decidedly more negative strain quickly emerged, first in British

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writing and then in popular American works (Ch’en 1928; Ch’ien 1940, 1941; Fan 1949; Chang 2010), often contrasting British eyewitness travel accounts with “armchair sinologists” based in Europe (St. André 2006). Regarding women in particular, a good early example is included in John Barrow’s description of the Macartney Embassy to China, published in 1804. His chapter four, “Sketch of the State of Society in China,” opens with this sentence: “It may, perhaps, be laid down as an invariable maxim, that the condition of the female part of society in any nation will furnish a tolerable just criterion of the degree of civilisation to which that nation has arrived” (Barrow 1804, 138). He then links Asiatic despotism with a degraded state of women, stating, “The Chinese, if possible, have imposed on their women a greater degree of humility and restraint than the Greeks of old, or the Europeans in the dark ages” (138). He goes on to list specific ills, including being confined to the house, having to toil in the fields while their husbands are off amusing themselves, receiving no love or respect within the household, being disposed of in marriage like a piece of “inanimate furniture,” and female infanticide (141–75). Almost a century later, J. Dyer Ball in his Things Chinese has remarkably similar comments regarding confinement, marriage, infanticide, and foot-binding (Ball 1904, 86–9, 226–27, 349). Furthermore, he has a separate entry devoted to “Status of Women in China,” in which he speaks of the “finical nonsense” engendered by a strict seclusion of women, their life of servitude to parents, husband, and sons; bound feet (again); and concubinage (762–64). This all is because “the chivalry of the West … is utterly unknown” and “the prudery of the unnatural system of Confucianism” keeps women down (763, 764). Of particular note for my discussion of Lin Yutang is that the explicit link between Confucianism and women’s inferior status here is emphasized, as are the problems revolving around women having no say in their own marriage. Slightly later, Murdock in his China: The Mysterious and Marvellous, devotes an entire chapter to the “Wrongs of Chinese Women” (1920, 55–61). In it, he explicitly compares the status of Chinese women to that of African Americans in the United States. Just as some argue that educating African Americans would be a mistake “because it will make him unhappy,” so too apologists for China claim that “the Chinese woman [is] a very happy, contented being,” whereas Murdock feels strongly that such age-old injustices must be righted immediately (55–6, 61). Even though he sees some progress since the founding of the Republic of China, he argues that China still has a long way to go (59). In sum, nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Anglo-American perceptions of the plight of Chinese women was overall negative, covering a wide range of issues. Socially they treated women poorly, with foot-binding, concubinage, enforced widowhood, and the idea that a woman always must be dependent upon and obey some man (father, husband, son), resulting in their scarcely being considered human. This situation is often laid at the feet of Confucianism.

REIMAGINING THE ROLE OF WOMEN IN CHINESE CULTURE Lin Yutang, who spent a year at Harvard University just after the First World War, then between 1935 and 1965, spent a substantial amount of time in the United States, mainly New York, engages with almost every facet of this stereotypical image of China in his voluminous writings. It is my

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contention that he was not merely reacting against those earlier stereotypes but also working through them. In some cases, that means trying to activate (or resuscitate) certain of the more positive traits; in other cases, it means trying to give a new, more positive value to others. For the purposes of this chapter, I will focus on the Chinese mistreatment of women, which was one of the main traits that he sought to soften in his translations. These translations include both modern and premodern fiction; it is important to keep in mind that Lin Yutang sees Chinese civilization as a continuum stretching back deep into the past, and he draws upon works from all periods freely in discussing modern China rather than simply dismissing all of it. He thereby became a cultural ambassador for the Chinese people of both the recent and the distant past. One of the main trends that run through many of the texts that he translated relates to the role of women in Chinese society, as we can see just by looking at the titles of works he published over the years. One of his first books ever published in English was Letters of a Chinese Amazon and Wartime Essays (1930), and three other translations he published all feature women prominently: A Nun of Taishan (1936b), Widow, Nun and Courtesan (1951), and Lady Wu (1957), while the early Confucius Saw Nancy and Essays about Nothing (1936a) features a fictionalized expansion on a passage in the Analects about Confucius meeting the wife of a ruler, as well as an essay on “Feminist Thought in Ancient China,” wherein he takes aim at the tendency of Chinese scholars to blame women for the fall of every dynasty before going on to identify three feminist writers who attacked foot-binding, female infanticide, and widows committing suicide, all traits that Western critics had highlighted (Lin 1936a, 112–18). Letters of a Chinese Amazon and Wartime Essays (1930) featured Lin Yutang’s translation of selections of the diary entries of Hsieh Ping-ying 謝冰瑩, who served in the nationalist army, was later captured by the Japanese and wrote about her wartime experience. Certainly not a traditional woman with bound feet or confined to the inner quarters, Lin’s translation of her work challenges Anglo-American stereotypes of the Chinese even as it works within them. Lin was heavily involved in promoting Hsieh’s work over a period of approximately fourteen years both in Chinese and English. Lin’s first contact with Hsieh was through the newspaper《中 央日報》(Central daily news), where he was working under Sun Fuyuan 孫伏園, to whom Hsieh’s diary entries were sent (the Mr. F____ in Lin’s translation). Lin was immediately impressed by her writing and translated some of them for the English-language edition of the newspaper (Hsieh 1929, xi). He then encouraged her to collect the Chinese diary entries together and publish them as a book, which appeared in 1929; he wrote a preface to it in Chinese, and the editor thanked him for his aid and encouragement in a preface to the collection (Hsieh 1929, i and x). The next year he republished his own translations of her diary in book form, filling out the volume with other works and introducing her to a wider English-speaking public. In the late 1930s, Lin encouraged his two daughters to translate some of Hsieh’s later writings under the title Girl Rebel (1940) and arranged for it to be published by the John Day Company, which was his own publisher and also whose head was married to Pearl S. Buck, to whom Hsieh’s book is dedicated (Hsieh 1940, xiv–xv). In the preface to his 1930 book, Lin makes Hsieh out to be the epitome of the modern Chinese woman, embodying the process by which China becomes modern. This includes refusing her mother’s attempts to bind her feet and escaping from an arranged marriage, two of the symbols of the “old China” decried by Western observers. Not only does she reject this old life, but she also embraces the new role for women in society. She bobs her hair, manages to enroll in an institution of higher education—the Whampoa Military Academy—joins the army, serves in the war, and

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finds true love, all hallmarks of the modern woman. Her boyfriend’s name is, fittingly, Weiteh 維特, which is the Chinese transliteration for Werther and derived from his having read Johann Wolfgang Goethe’s Sorrows of Young Werther and wanting to model himself on that character (Hsieh 1940, 230), so the man she finds to love is a typically romantic modern man.1 Lin’s translation is a fairly straightforward affair. A detailed comparison sentence by sentence reveals that he mainly follows her diary entries quite closely in terms of content, but he makes considerable efforts to rearrange the structure of some sentences and generally to break up her long sentences into shorter, more manageable ones in English. He also employs cultural substitution, for example, “flaxseed pudding” (Lin 1930, 14) for 芝麻糕 (zhima gao, sesame seed cake; Hsieh 1929, 18). The result is a fluent version of events that does not challenge the English reader stylistically with awkward or difficult phrasing. In terms of content, there is one main difference. Lin Yutang consistently plays down the more radical or revolutionary language of Hsieh’s work. The most obvious example is that the term 同志 (tongzhi, comrade), which Hsieh uses regularly, is almost always deleted or elided in Lin’s translation. In the one example where he did translate the term, he uses the more neutral word “colleague” (Lin 1930, 15; Hsieh 1929, 19). Much more typically, Lin takes advantage of pronouns and other English structures to elide the term without actively deleting it, as for example where Lin’s “these twenty” refers back to “twenty nurses” of the previous sentence (Lin 1930, 4); in Chinese Hsieh has “comrades” (Hsieh 1929, 2). In the next paragraph, Lin does something similar with the construction “One of the three” (Lin 1930, 4–5), whereas in the Chinese Hsieh repeats the noun “comrade” (Hsieh 1929, 2).2 Where comrade is used as an appellation, as in 王繼宗同志 (Comrade Wang Jizhong; Hsieh 1929, 5), Lin omits it, saying simply “Wang Chi-chung” (Lin 1930, 8). In the subsequent paragraph, he also changes “Comrade Tung” 董同志 to “Mr. Tung” (Hsieh 1929, 5; Lin 1930, 8). Other examples of Lin’s de-radicalizing Hsieh’s works include the avoidance of translating 革 命 (geming, revolutionary) when it occurs in Hsieh’s text, for example, in the very first paragraph, where Hsieh has 革命軍 (geming jun, revolutionary soldiers) and Lin translates this simply as “soldier”’ (Hsieh 1929, 1; Lin 1930, 3). Lin also tones down some of the rhetoric critical of the nationalist government. When Hsieh has the rather emotional reduplicative phrase 千萬請政府 請我們的國民政府早點解決 (It is imperative that the government, that our national government, must act immediately; Hsieh 1929, 6). Lin waters this down to “these are matters which deserve the immediate consideration of the government” (Lin 1930, 9). Finally, in a minor point, when Hsieh cries out 天啊有什麼辦法呢 (heavens! What can I do?; Hsieh 1929, 16), Lin renders this as “O Heaven Almighty, what can I do?,” which has a distinctly

Lin Yutang is not alone in his appreciation of Hsieh as the embodiment of the modern Chinese woman. A second translation of her autobiography published in London in 1943 also argues that Ping-ying typifies the struggle of modern Chinese women in China, mainly against her mother and an arranged marriage (Hsieh 1943, 11–12). Interestingly, Tsui Chi claims that Hsieh belonged to no political or literary group but was independent; this may in part explain her attraction to Lin Yutang who, although certainly anti-communist, was also frequently critical of the Nationalists. The autobiography was translated for a third time by her daughter and son-in-law (Hsieh 2001). 2 That this is a conscious decision is reinforced by the fact that, when it suits him, Lin Yutang uses fewer pronouns than Hsieh, as in the sentence where she refers a second time to bandits as 他們 (tamen, they; Hsieh 1929, 5) whereas Lin chooses to repeat the noun “bandit soldiers” for emphasis. This is an unusual move because Chinese generally employs pronouns less frequently than English. 1

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Christian ring to it that is completely absent in the original (Lin 1930, 11). This aims to make Hsieh’s character more appealing to Lin’s English-language audience. All in all, Lin works hard to present Hsieh to his American audience as a model Chinese “new woman,” freed from the shackles of the Confucian past, patriotic, hard-working, and self-sacrificing. This is accomplished through a combination of domesticating translation practices, toning down of her more radical language, and making her more acceptable to his audience through the use of Christian language. But it is also accomplished by Lin’s work to promote her, arranging for her later writings to be translated by his daughters and published by the publisher of his and Pearl S. Buck’s works, as well as in his prefaces, which lay out some of the necessary biographical information about Hsieh and explicitly praise her as a model modern woman. In Lin Yutang’s postwar translations, the collection Famous Chinese Short Stories (1952) also contains several stories that feature important female figures. Crucially, the subtitle to that collection, “Retold by Lin Yutang,” as well as the subtitle to the collection Widow, Nun and Courtesan, “Three Novelettes from the Chinese Translated and Adapted by Lin Yutang,” both announce that these are not simple translations. Rather, Lin has intervened, sometimes heavily, in the text of the story, as he notes in the introduction to both collections. In the introduction to Widow, Nun and Courtesan, he states that he “translated and in part adapted” the first two stories, which are both by modern authors, while for the last one, which is based on a Tang-dynasty legend, he essentially wrote his own version (Lin 1951, v). In Famous Chinese Short Stories, he elaborates further, claiming the same right as any Chinese storyteller to adapt, edit, delete, or add material as he sees fit to the stories, especially since they are mostly between 500 and 1,000 years old (Lin 1952, xvi–xvii). Thus what we see in Lin’s translations are strong intervention or, as Lefevere (1992) would call it, rewriting and manipulation. Widow, Nun and Courtesan: Three Novelettes from the Chinese Translated and Adapted by Lin Yutang (1951) contains “Widow Chuan,” “A Nun of Taishan” (originally published separately in 1936), and “Miss Tu.” In the introduction, Lin notes that all three women reject Confucianism: “the nun was beyond Confucius, the widow totally ignored him, and the courtesan tried at least to defy him” (Lin 1951, vi). To understand why the rejection of Confucianism by these three women could seem important to Lin Yutang, who earlier compiled The Wisdom of Confucius (1938), it is necessary to look at his other writings, specifically the essay “Feminist Thought in Ancient China” from his collection Confucius Saw Nancy and Essays about Nothing (1936a). In that work, he argues that Confucius was a liberal whose followers corrupted and co-opted their master’s teaching, creating a conservative political ideology out of the liberal Confucius’s original reformist agenda (Lin 1936a, 112–13). Thus, when the widow, nun, and courtesan reject Confucianism, they are not rejecting the teachings of Confucius but rather the conservative sociopolitical system generated by later generations of his followers. This is a direct answer to the charge by Ball and others that Confucianism was the root of the oppression of women in China, arguing that there is some set of core Confucian principles that may be saved from the criticisms targeting Confucianism. Having rejected that hidebound tradition, the women in the three texts that he presents are strong characters who work to shape their own lives, with or without the blessing of society at large. Although Lin is caught in the bind of the fact that the women, in defying Confucianism, highlight the power of that conservative ideology in China and thus belie Lin’s argument that China has a tradition of treating women relatively well, still, taken together, the stories show women pursuing

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their lives through three different roles available to them in premodern China. The first story, “Widow Chuan,” which is the most modern, is a translation of 全家村 (Chuan Family Village), the work of the twentieth-century writer Wang Xiangchen 王向辰 (1898–1968), in which the jockeying of a widow in the power politics of a small village are displayed. In particular, she is often pitted against the Elder of the village, a Confucian scholar who thinks that because of his status as a literatus, his word should be law. However, the story makes it clear from the very first time that the two characters are compared that the widow normally enjoys the upper hand: “she was willing to let the Elder maintain his outward semblance of authority as long as he did not step on her toes, and the Elder knew her too well to do that” (Lin 1951, 23). The mother of five daughters, three of whom had been married but were now divorced, the Elder’s first conflict with her was over the fact that she had no sons, leading him to order her to adopt a son to continue the family line; she flatly refused, and he found himself powerless to do anything about it (27). The second time they cross swords in a lawsuit over family property, the case never even gets to court because she is able to cow him into withdrawing the suit. Throughout the story, she is portrayed as acting in a free and unfettered manner, impervious to all attempts by the men of the village to control her (27–31). The second story, “A Nun of Taishan,” is a late Qing novelette《老殘遊記續集》 (Sequel to the Travels of Lao Can) by Liu E 劉鶚 (1857–1909) that celebrates the physical fitness of a woman. No bound feet for this young nun, who is able to run up a mountain and endure harsh weather conditions (128–29, 132) and exhibits intellectual acuity (147–51). Not only is the nun in question physically and mentally fit, she also is capable of independent thought and of guiding her own destiny, rejecting the well-meant advice of the seemingly benign patriarchal figure Laots’an. Finally, in “Miss Tu,” adapted from the short story《杜十娘怒沉百寶箱》(Miss Du Sinks Her Jewelbox in Anger) collected by Feng Menglong 馮夢龍 (1574–1646), Lin gives the English reader a beautiful and talented courtesan who, betrayed by her lover after he had promised to marry her, commits suicide in public rather than be unfaithful to him, and as a reproach to his lack of faith. These three stories thus allow Lin Yutang to showcase how Chinese women in various walks of life challenge patriarchal norms of traditional China. Famous Chinese Short Stories contains twenty tales, of which I would like to consider five that showcase his continued concern with women and feminist issues. In “Madame D.,” Lin Yutang has chosen a story by Lian Bu 廉布 (1092–?), which portrays a strong woman getting what she wants. Set during the Southern Song dynasty (1127–1279), it features a woman saddled with a husband who is essentially a high-level careerist bureaucrat, putting his own selfish interests before the interests of the nation (specifically, attempts to reconquer the north of China). She meets and falls in love with another man heavily involved in a “student movement” at the time, a patriotic attempt to push for a more vigorous policy to recover the north. The specification that her lover is a supporter of the reformist student-led movement has obvious parallels to Republican China, and the contrast between the political views of the two men in her life is in fact one of the innovations that Lin Yutang introduces. Her husband attempts to get rid of his rival by killing a group of protesters, including the lover, that have been arrested, but her lover manages to escape, and later her husband is exiled from the court for his actions, where he conveniently dies so that she can then marry her lover, who has in turn been appointed to high office. Thus, Lin combines a love story with a thinly veiled allegory of the plight of China in the 1920s, when the north of China was largely controlled by various warlords and student protests about the situation were sometimes brutally suppressed.

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“The White Monkey” is an anonymous Tang-dynasty tale of the abduction of a general’s beautiful young wife by a monkey of extraordinary ability, who takes her to his distant kingdom and makes her one of his wives. The earliest version of the tale was purportedly designed to ridicule the scholar Ouyang Xiu 歐陽修 (1007–1072) by suggesting that his father was a monkey (he was famously ugly). Lin Yutang refocuses the tale to suggest that the real reason the monkey is successful in kidnapping the general’s wife is that the general is somehow inadequate as a husband, either in the way he treats her as a person, in sexual matters, or both. This is made clear at the end of the story when the wife states baldly that she prefers to stay with the monkey rather than go back with the husband: “‘you go away without me. I cannot leave my boy here. I am his mother …. He [the monkey] is the father of my child. You go away alone. I am happy here’” (Lin 1952, 42). This part of the plot again is an innovation on Lin’s part. “The Stranger’s Note” is a popular tale that is found in several versions in different collections of stories. The basic outline of the plot is that a stranger sees a beautiful woman and decides to win her for himself. He does this by sending a love note addressed to her that he knows her husband will intercept; the husband, outraged, believes his wife is having an affair and divorces her. Once she is divorced, the stranger arranges a “chance” meeting and successfully woos her. After they are married, however, the wife becomes suspicious and learns the truth about the trick. In the original story, she then exposes the man and goes back to her husband. In Lin Yutang’s version, however, the husband first becomes the main villain, an inflexible, bigoted man who is so heartless as to believe his wife is unfaithful to him based on the flimsiest of evidence. Therefore, the wife decides to stay with the stranger even after she learns the truth. Meanwhile, her husband is portrayed as having become lonely and embittered at his rash decision to divorce her. When he meets her in a public place, he is startled by the change in her: “her tone and carriage were so different from his submissive wife that for a moment he thought she must be somebody else.” He, meanwhile, seen through his former wife’s eyes, looks “shabby and thin, and there was a new sad look on his face” (Lin 1952, 62–3). He says that he has forgiven her and wants her to return home; in return, she gives a speech: “Let’s make this clear,” she said. “You did not want me. I told you I was innocent. You would not believe me, and did not care whether I lived or died. You said it was none of your business. Luckily I did not die, and what I do is none of your business now.” (Lin 1952, 64) The husband is portrayed as clueless to the last, the final words of the story being his plaintive “‘But I have forgiven you, Chunmei! I have forgiven you!’” (Lin 1952, 64). What was originally the tale of a clever plot that is uncovered, thus restoring the status quo (the wife returning to her husband) in Lin Yutang’s treatment becomes the story of a woman suffering through adversities but finding new strength and independence to live a happy and fulfilling life with a man who truly loves her for who she is, not what he wants her to be. “Chastity” is based on an anonymous short anecdote about a woman who, about to receive a memorial arch from the imperial government for her maintenance of chastity after her husband’s death, falls into temptation and then hangs herself in remorse. Lin Yutang takes the kernel of this tale and turns it into a condemnation of the cult of female chastity that arose in late imperial China. In Lin’s telling, the woman’s daughter, whom we learn immediately is “frank, independent and

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stubborn” (Lin 1952, 85–6), falls in love with an army officer billeted with the family and secretly gets engaged to him, rather than wait for her mother to arrange a marriage for her. Furthermore, she becomes Lin’s mouthpiece, attacking vigorously the whole concept of chaste widowhood in a spirited discussion with her lover, ending with: “I am glad for Mother,” [that she will be awarded the arch and given a sum of money by the government] said Meihua. “But after we are married we will be gone. And Grandmother’s health is so frail. What will she do with a thousand taels [of silver] living all alone, with nothing to look forward to except another twenty years of lone confinement in glory, until she dies like a sainted carcass?” (Lin 1952, 95) When her mother confronts her with having cavorted with the officer without a chaperone, the daughter lashes out, saying she “will not let myself rot in the loveless of this house” and urging her mother to remarry (Lin 1952, 96). Her daughter’s subsequent marriage, coupled with the death of her mother-in-law, means that the widow finds herself alone and facing a lifetime of enforced chastity if the memorial arch is granted. As in the original anecdote, she seduces her gardener, thus forfeiting the arch, although in Lin’s version they do not actually have sex until after they marry, whereas in the original anecdote, the point is that they do have sex, and therefore she loses the arch. In Lin’s version, instead, she explicitly rejects the arch and what it represents in a speech to the gardener: Never mind the arch of chastity. I want you. We can be happy together and live together till great old age. I do not care what the people say. I have had twenty years of widowhood and that is enough for me. Let other women have it. (Lin 1952, 105) The people who are most bitterly disappointed by her giving up the arch are members of her husband’s clan, who had seen it as an honor for the family name, whereas her daughter and her daughter’s husband fully approve of her decision. “Passion (or the Western Chamber)” is translated from《鶯鶯傳》(The Tale of Yingying), believed to be a thinly disguised autobiographical story by Yuan Zhen 元稹 (779–831) about a love affair he had with a woman whom he then abandoned. Toward the end of the tale, after having broken it off, the male character in the story justifies his action by saying that any woman as beautiful as her is a type of a demon who would destroy any man she married; realizing this, he had with difficulty broken things off. This explanation seems to be accepted by his friends. The original version goes some way, therefore, in attempting to exculpate the man at the expense of the woman. It also includes two poems supposedly composed by the girl when, after her marriage to another man, the lover asks to see her, but she refuses. The poems speak mainly of her own suffering and advise him to treat his next lover better. Lin Yutang cuts the section of the story where the woman is portrayed as dangerous simply because she is beautiful, and then instead of her refusing to meet him and sending poems in her place to speak for her, has her confront him angrily when he tries to visit: “‘Why do you come to bother me? I waited for you and you

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did not return. There is nothing to be said between us. I have got over it, and you should, too. Go Away!’” (Lin 1952, 106). Although Lin’s version does not have a happy ending, still we see here how Lin Yutang intervenes in the plot to shift the balance of sympathy toward the female character, who is portrayed as brave and angry, instead of wallowing in self-pity. These five tales all critique traditional Confucianist (again, for Lin Yutang, conservative followers of Confucius) marriage customs and the privileging of men over women, either directly or indirectly. At the same time, they show strong women with independent minds who are capable of pursuing their own goals and finding ways to achieve happiness. While not perhaps feminist in any strong sense, and still espousing certain essential elements to female roles in society (in “Chastity,” one of the reasons that the daughter advocates her mother remarrying is so that she can have more children), still Lin Yutang has clearly and systematically shifted sympathy onto the female figures of these stories through the changes he makes in the storyline and characterization. Last but not by any means least, Lady Wu (1957) is a slightly fictionalized account of the career of Wu Zetian 武則天 (r. 684–704), who after the death of her husband usurped the throne, declared a new dynasty and ruled until her death. The only known female ruler in name3 throughout Chinese dynastic history, she is also perhaps the single most vilified woman in Chinese history. There are extensive writings about her in both the old and the new version of the History of the Tang Dynasty, as well as various less official works, fiction, and popular legend. Subtitled “A True Story,” in the introduction, Lin Yutang claims to have kept to the facts for all publicly recorded information, basing his chronology on the two dynastic histories. He claims that “I have not included one character or incident or dialogue which is not strictly based on Tang history,” but he then goes on to say that he has of course selected, arranged, and interpreted events, and then chosen to tell the story through the eyes of one of her grandchildren (Lin 1957, x).4 A mixture of translation, interpretation, retelling, and fictionalization, in this work, Lin Yutang blurs the boundaries between all of the genres he has employed to date. Lin picks Wu Zetian because she is unique in Chinese history. She had “a bit of Elizabeth I, a bit of Catherine de Medici, the strength of the former and the ruthlessness of the latter combined”; “She shattered more precedents, created more innovations and caused more upsets than any male schemer in history” (Lin 1957, ix); “Lady Wu was a self-willed, inordinately ambitious and very clever woman. She did what no other woman ever did in China, or in the world …. Unique in the annals of China, she deserves a place among the wicked great of the world” (xii). In the end, she is so anomalous that he can only compare her to Stalin—“if Stalin were a woman” (xii). Perversely, Lin’s decision to write a fictionalized biography of the “evil” Wu Zetian celebrates the power, intelligence, and political astuteness of this most reviled of Chinese women. By putting her in the company of famous political European female figures such as Elizabeth I, Catherine de’ Medici, Lucretia Borgia, and Marie Antoinette, he places her on a world stage at a level above the reach of most ordinary mortals.

3 4

As opposed to figures such as Cixi 慈禧, the late Qing Empress Dowager who ruled de facto through her son. This strategy was possibly inspired by Robert Graves’s I, Claudius (1934).

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LIN AND THE IRREDUCIBILITY OF CHINESE CULTURE In the introduction to Famous Chinese Short Stories, Lin Yutang rejects the culturally specific as the object of translation. He says that he purposefully chose stories he felt had a universal appeal and, in the stories so chosen, also sometimes eliminated elements that would have been incomprehensible to his readers. Although he also acknowledges that it is often the culturally specific that makes stories from another culture interesting to readers, he has chosen to downplay those elements to ensure the universal appeal of the works he translates. By making such an argument, Lin asserts that indeed there exist universal human elements and/ or interests in all cultures. This is what allows him to compare Wu Zetian to great figures in European history, and thus we can say that it is a necessary strategy for his translation practice. Yet I would argue that all too often those “universal” values Lin espouses turn out to be current Anglo-American ones which he then applies to the case of China. Condemnation of foot-binding, enforced chastity upon widows, and the sacrifice of love on the altar of family duty, coupled with the celebration of a Lincoln-style democracy and modern scientific values are all derived from Lin’s experience in the United States. So “universal” in his works means American values that can be shown to be shared by the Chinese (as well as the British to a lesser extent). Moreover, it is often through means of rewriting and adaptation that Lin Yutang is able to establish these commonly shared or “universal” values. Thus, his extensive rewriting of short fiction in the postwar period allows him to create a corpus of works that portray women as strong, independent figures. This strategy of selective rearrangement and rewriting can be compared to his argument, advanced in the early essay “Feminist Thought in Ancient China,” where the three feminists whom he identifies just happen to protest against three evils in traditional Chinese society (foot-binding, female infanticide, and widows committing suicide to preserve their chastity) that were the target of much Western criticism (Lin 1936a, 118). By finding Chinese writers who had also criticized these practices, Lin is able to argue first that revulsion against such practices is a universal trait shared by (some) Chinese and Westerners; but also, more importantly, then to show how these men critiqued these practices by harking back to an earlier stage of Confucian thought that did not sanction any of these practices, thus ensuring that a core “Chineseness” is not guilty of the oppression of women—or at least, not guilty of the specific oppressive practices commented upon by Westerners in China. There are, however, very occasionally instances where cracks appear in the universalism created by Lin Yutang. Juniper Loa is a short novel written in English by Lin and first published in 1963, rather late in his life (Lin [1963] 1975). Set mainly in Singapore, where Lin had a brief but disastrous stint as head of Nanyang University, the novel concerns a young man Silok who grows up in a small village in China, but then moves to Singapore to work for his uncle, who is an important businessman there. He falls in love with a Eurasian woman while living there but loses her, and this sends him into a tailspin of despair. His aunt, seeing what a bad state he is in, arranges for his childhood playmate, Juniper Loa, to visit him in Singapore. Throughout the novel, she is consistently portrayed as possessing all the traditional virtues of a Chinese woman (selfless sacrifice, devotion to her family and, once married, her in-laws, even devotion to Silok’s mother after he leaves the village), and it is only she who can finally heal the hurt he feels. At the end of the novel, he moves back to his village, and they live happily ever after. This plot in a late novel flies in the face of much of his translation practice, where he created strong

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modern women who challenged traditional values. Thus, for Lin Yutang, there are limits to the universalism he so often espouses elsewhere in his work; it also demonstrates that, even before the CCP victory in 1949, there were problems in his US-China comparisons.

CONCLUSION Lin Yutang uses translation, adaptation, and original writings (both fiction and nonfiction) to engage with, and challenge, existing stereotypes of China and the Chinese, and to argue that China and America alike had strong female figures in history and literature. To accomplish this end, he relied on not just his original writings in English (novels, newspaper and magazine articles) but also his translation practice. Moreover, his translation strategy involved heavy intervention in the text in many cases, allowing him better to make his case. Although he believed there were limits to what could be accomplished by translation, his work bears testimony to a sustained attempt at intercultural dialogue, rapprochement, and the possibility of contesting centuries of stereotypical thinking.

REFERENCES Aldridge, A. Owen. 1993. The Dragon and the Eagle: The Presence of China in the American Enlightenment. Detroit, MI: Wayne State University Press. Ball, J. Dyer. 1904. Things Chinese: Or, Notes Connected with China, 4th edn., revised and enlarged. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons. Barrow, John. 1804. Travels in China, Containing Descriptions, Observations, and Comparisons, Made and Collected in the Course of a Short Residence at the Imperial Palace of Yuen-min-yuen, and on a Subsequent Journey through the Country from Pekin to Canton. London: T. Cadell and W. Davies. Cady, Lyman V. 1961. “Thoreau’s Quotations from the Confucian Books in Walden.” American Literature 33 (1): 20–32. Chang, Elizabeth Hope. 2010. Britain’s Chinese Eye: Literature, Empire, and Aesthetics in Nineteenthcentury Britain. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Ch’en, Shou-yi. 1928. “The Influence of Chinese on English Culture in the Eighteenth Century.” PhD diss., University of Chicago. Ch’ien, Chung-shu. 1940. “China in the English Literature of the Seventeenth Century.” Quarterly Bulletin of Chinese Bibliography 1: 351–84. Ch’ien, Chung-shu. 1941. “China in the English Literature of the Eighteenth Century.” Quarterly Bulletin of Chinese Bibliography 2: 7–48; 113–52. Etiemble, René. 1988–1989. L’Europe chinoise, 2 vols. Paris: Gallimard. Fan, Tsen-chung (Fan Cunzhong). 1949. “Chinese Fables and Anti-Walpole Journalism.” Review of English Studies 25 (April): 141–51. Graves, Robert. 1934. I, Claudius. London: Arthur Barker. Hsieh, Ping-ying 謝冰瑩 (Xie Bingying). 1929.《從軍日記》[War Diary]. Shanghai: Guangming shuju. Hsieh, Ping-ying 謝冰瑩 (Xie Bingying). 1940. Girl Rebel: The Autobiography of Hsieh Ping-ying: With Extracts from Her New War Diaries, translated by Adet and Anor Lin, with an Introduction by Lin Yutang. New York: John Day. Hsieh, Ping-ying 謝冰瑩 (Xie Bingying). 1943. Autobiography of a Chinese Girl: A Genuine Autobiography, translated into English with an introduction by Tsui Chi, with a Preface by Gordon Bottomley. London: George Allen & Unwin. Hsieh, Ping-ying 謝冰瑩 (Xie Bingying). 2001. A Woman Soldier’s Own Story: The Autobiography of Xie Bingying, translated by Lily Chia Brissman and Barry Brissman. New York: Columbia University Press.

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Lefevere, André. 1992. Translation, Rewriting, and the Manipulation of Literary Fame. New York: Routledge. Lin, Yutang. 1930. Letters of a Chinese Amazon and War-Time Essays. Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan. Lin, Yutang. 1936a. Confucius Saw Nancy and Essays about Nothing. Shanghai: Commercial Press, Limited. Lin, Yutang. 1936b. A Nun of Taishan (A Novelette) and Other Translations: Translated by Lin Yutang. Shanghai: Commercial Press. Lin, Yutang. 1938. The Wisdom of Confucius. New York: Random House. Lin, Yutang. 1951. Widow, Nun, Courtesan: Three Novelettes from the Chinese: Translated and Adapted by Lin Yutang. New York: John Day. Lin, Yutang. 1952. Famous Chinese Short Stories Retold by Lin Yutang. New York: John Day. Lin, Yutang. 1957. Lady Wu: A True Story. London: William Heinemann. Lin, Yutang. (1963) 1975. Juniper Loa. New York: Mei Ya Publications. Murdock, Victor. 1920. China: The Mysterious and Marvellous. New York: Fleming H. Revell. St. André, James. 2006. “Traveling toward True Translation: The First Generation of Sino-English Translators.” The Translator 12 (2): 189–210. Takanashi, Yoshio. 2014. Emerson and Neo-Confucianism: Crossing Paths Over the Pacific. New York: Palgrave Macmillan.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

“An Exercise in Futility”: Zhang Ailing as a Self-Translator DYLAN K. WANG

Among the major writers of modern China, no one experienced such dramatic vicissitudes to their literary reputation in their lifetime as Zhang Ailing 張愛玲 (1920–1995), better known in English as Eileen Chang. Chang had a meteoric early career. A series of short stories and novellas published in 1943 to 1944 made her the most popular writer in Japanese-occupied Shanghai during the Second World War, but at this stage she was closely associated in the public mind with the pulp “Mandarin Duck and Butterfly School” 鴛鴦蝴蝶派 (Link 1981).1 In addition, her scandalous and short-lived marriage to Hu Lancheng 胡蘭成 (1906–1981), a flamboyant womanizer and infamous collaborator with Japanese imperialism under the puppet regime of Wang Jingwei 汪精衛 (1883–1944), earned her tabloid fame. After the war, she was boycotted in the literary circle for her noncommittal politics and her relationship with a confirmed traitor (Yu [1993] 2018, 188–235). Following the communist conquest of mainland China, Chang was quickly consigned to oblivion there.2 In the meantime, though, she remained popular in Hong Kong and Taiwan, where pirate editions of her works were rampant. With the publication of his groundbreaking History of Modern Chinese Fiction in 1961, C. T. Hsia 夏志清 (1921–2013) almost single-handedly elevated Chang to the status of a canonical writer. As he put it, Chang “is not only the best and most important writer in Chinese today; her short stories alone invite solid comparisons with, and in some respects claim superiority over, the work of serious modern women writers in English: Katherine Mansfield, Katherine Anne Porter, Eudora Welty, and Carson McCullers” (Hsia 1961, 389). He places The Rice-Sprout Song “among the classics of Chinese fiction” (389) and praises The Golden Cangue as “the greatest novelette in the history of Chinese literature” (398). To bestow such glory on a writer of popular romances (and a woman, no less!) was highly unorthodox, but his judgment proved sound and sparked a lasting

As a fledgling writer, Chang readily appropriated the “Mandarin Duck and Butterfly” formulas and published in some of the leading magazines of the school. See Lee (1999, 267–69). 2 Official publications in the early years of the People’s Republic almost never mention Chang’s name; an exception is Fan Yanqiao’s 范煙橋 (1894–1967)《民國舊派小說史略》(Brief History of Old-Fashioned Fiction of the Republican Era; c. 1961). In this rare document, Fan does justice to Chang and praises her as a prominent writer under the “puppet regime” but wrongly identifies her as a “Hong Kong compatriot” (Fan [1962] 1984, 358–60). The piece’s inclusion in the volume on the “Mandarin Duck and Butterfly School” (initially meant for “internal circulation”) and its (mis)representation of Chang tell us that she was still considered a writer of “old-fashioned fiction” of the “Mandarin Duck and Butterfly School” and that even a veteran writer like Fan who spent the war years in Shanghai knew very little about Chang. 1

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“Eileen Chang fever” in Hong Kong, Taiwan, and overseas Chinese communities in the following decades, which eventually spilled over into mainland China in the 1980s.3 Since then, numerous editions of her works have been published and republished, countless conferences and symposia have been held in her name, many screen adaptations have appeared (most notably Ang Lee’s 2007 feature Lust, Caution), and nearly all of her works have seen translation into English and other languages.4 Chang’s place in the canon of modern Chinese literature is incontestable.5 However, a fundamental aspect of Chang’s writing career has long been neglected and has only recently caught the attention of scholars: her lifelong practice of bilingualism—and self-translation in particular. Self-translation (or autotranslation) happens when “a writer who can compose in different languages […] translates his or her texts from one language into another” (Hokenson and Munson 2007, 1). Once thought to be a marginal phenomenon, the practice of self-translation has attracted much interest of late. While major Western self-translators such as Samuel Beckett and Vladimir Nabokov have received their fair share of critical attention, each featuring in dozens of studies, their Chinese comrades have been largely overlooked. In fact, modern Chinese literary history abounds in self-translators, not to mention bilingual or multilingual authors in general. This should not be surprising, since the whole modernization project was to a great extent carried out by what Lydia Liu famously terms “translingual practice” (Liu 1995). With the benefit of hindsight, we realize that modern Chinese writers have been practicing self-translation almost since the beginning of modern Chinese literature itself, and have formed a century-old tradition with its own particularities and raison d’être. Chang is perhaps the most prolific and persistent self-translator in modern Chinese literature. While most other self-translators did so only occasionally, she translated her own works as a regular activity, leaving behind a sizable bilingual corpus and a tangled web of texts. The rest of this chapter offers a sketch of her bilingual writing career, to shed new light on her practice of self-translation. One of Chang’s early essays, significantly titled《必也正名乎》(What Is Essential Is That Names Be Right), begins with a startling confession: “I myself have an unbearably vulgar name, am well aware of the fact, and have no plans to change it” (Chang 2005, 33). It is only toward the end of the piece that she lets us in on her secret: The reason I feel such a fond attachment to my name is tied up with my memory of how I came to be named. When I was ten, my mother proclaimed that I should be sent to school, and my father raised a huge storm of protest and refused to give his consent. Finally, my mother Chang’s comeback in the mainland was a much more arduous process (Su 2017, 42–8). Major English translations include the Eileen Chang special issue of Renditions (Spring 1996); Eva Hung et al., trans., Traces of Love and Other Stories (2000); Andrew F. Jones, trans., Written on Water (2005); Lovell et al., trans., Lust, Caution and Other Stories (2007); Kingsbury et al., trans., Love in a Fallen City and Other Stories (2006, 2007); Karen S. Kingsbury, trans., Half a Lifelong Romance (2014); Jane Weizhen Pan and Martin Merz, trans., Little Reunions (2018); Karen S. Kingsbury and Jie Zhang, trans., Time Tunnel: Stories and Essays (2024). Some of her English works have also been published or reissued, including The Rice-Sprout Song (1955; 1998a); The Rouge of the North (1967; 1998b); The Fall of the Pagoda (2010); The Book of Change (2010); The Young Marshal (2014); Naked Earth (1956; 2015). 5 Her influence is limited beyond the scope of Chinese literature. According to a recent survey of “canonicity as shown by citations in the MLA Bibliography (2008–2017),” she is a “minor author” with only 102 listings, in contrast to Lu Xun 魯 迅 (256), a “major author,” and James Joyce (2,297), a “hypercanonical author” (Damrosch 2020, 226; see also Hoyan 2019, 7–32). 3 4

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personally carried me to school over his loud protests, like a kidnapper. As she filled out the school registration card, she hesitated, uncertain what name to write down. My childhood name had been Zhang Ying, but that sounded a bit too reedy and dull. She propped her head against her hand and thought for a moment before saying: “Let’s transcribe your English name into Chinese for the time being.” She always planned to change it someday but never did; now, I wouldn’t want to change it anyway. (Chang 2005, 38; my emphasis) The year was 1930, and the school she entered was called Huang’s School for Girls 黃氏女塾, a newly established Western-style institute (Zhu 2013, 48–51). One year later she enrolled at St. Mary’s Hall, an elite Christian boarding school for wealthy girls in Shanghai’s International Settlement. The six years she spent there (1931–1937) witnessed her first forays into literature. From 1932 to 1937, she published thirteen short essays and stories in two school publications, including three in English (Xu 2014, 28–31).6 She was already writing deftly in Chinese and English—thanks to her mother’s insistence that she receive a modern education. Symbolically, her very registration for school involved an important act of self-translation—Zhang Ailing, the name by which she was to be known throughout the Chinese-speaking world, was a transliteration of her English name Eileen. For her readers, Chang first emerges into articulate being during these formative years. In this sense, she was born translated. In all likelihood Chang’s English name was also a gift from her mother, Huang Suqiong 黃素瓊 (1893–1957). Born into an illustrious family, Huang had an arranged marriage with Zhang Zhiyi 張志沂 (1896–1953), scion of an equally prosperous household, in 1915. A strong-minded “new woman” of independent means, Huang resented her husband and yearned for freedom. In 1924, she departed for Europe with her sister-in-law to study art, leaving her four-year-old daughter Zhang Ying 張瑛 behind. She returned to China in 1928 shortly after the family had moved from Tianjin to Shanghai. It seemed to little Ying that her parents represented drastically different ways of life. On one hand was her father’s world: I looked down on everything there [in his house]: opium, the old tutor who taught my little brother to write his “Discourse on the First Emperor of the Han Dynasty,” old-style linkedchapter fiction, languorous, ashen, dust-laden living. […] Whatever belonged to my father’s side was bad […] My father’s room was a perpetual afternoon, and when I sat there for a long time, I would always feel that I was sinking deeper and deeper into its meshes. (Chang 2005, 156) In sharp contrast was the world created by her mother: [E]verything was different! My father bitterly repented of his past mistakes and was sent to the hospital [to rehabilitate from drug abuse]. We moved into a western-style garden villa, with a dog, flower beds, children’s books full of fairy tales, and an abrupt infusion into our home of Of these juvenilia, the two stories are reprinted in Jin and Yu (1992, 1–12); ten essays, including two in English, are reprinted in Lai (1992, 491–513); a facsimile of a third English essay is found in Xu (2014, 30).

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lovely and elegant relatives and friends. My mother sat with a plump auntie on the piano bench, imitating the love scene in a movie. Sitting on the floor watching, I burst into peals of laughter and rolled back and forth across a wolfskin blanket. (Chang 2005, 154; slightly adapted) She was convinced that when her mother lived with them, “everything about our house stood at the very summit of beauty” (Chang 2005, 154). It was also around this time that she started learning English, no doubt at her mother’s behest. Her parents soon fell out again and eventually agreed to divorce. Not long after, her mother moved to France, returning in 1937, before Chang graduated from St. Mary’s Hall. As the story of her struggle to break away from her father’s household and live with her mother has been discussed as an archetypal experience that would underlie much of her later writings, it is worth recounting these events briefly: after her mother returned to Shanghai in 1937, Chang could not help warming up to her, much to the indignation of her father and step-mother. Things finally came to a head when the step-mother made an ugly scene out of jealousy toward her predecessor and Chang’s protests were taken by her father as signs of ingratitude and disobedience. As a result, she was locked up in a barren room for months and even denied medical care; she nearly died from a serious case of dysentery. Eventually, with the help of her nurse, she managed to escape to her mother’s home, never going back to her father’s. She soon wrote an account of these events in English, published under the title “What a Life! What a Girl’s Life!” in 1938, in the Shanghai Evening Post and Mercury, a local English-language newspaper. She signed herself “Eileen Chang” for the first time. Six years later, this short piece was reworked into a lengthy Chinese essay entitled《私語》(Whispers). In the late 1950s, these essays, alongside other early autobiographical works, provided the basis for her English novels The Fall of the Pagoda and The Book of Change and their Chinese counterpart《小團圓》(Little Reunions). As David Der-wei Wang puts it, the fact that the essay was originally written in English anticipated the “bilingual shuttling” in Chang’s career (Wang 2010, v). It is important to note that it was her mother who initiated her into Western culture. Under her guidance, Chang had learned English and received a modern education. More importantly, it was the prospect of living with her mother that prompted her act of rebellion, which resulted in her months-long incarceration and a near fatal disease, and it was this very experience that ushered in a bilingual writing career that would ultimately span almost six decades. All her girlhood dreams were instilled in her by her mother: I was full of vast ambitions and expansive plans. After high school, I would go to England to study […] I wanted to wear only the most exquisite and elegant clothing, to roam the world, to have my own house in Shanghai, to live a crisp and unfettered existence. (Chang 2005, 156) All her life she strove to live up to the model of her mother, who was her epitome of femininity. Her admiration and love were not reciprocated, however; her mother could barely conceal her impatience and disappointment.7 Chang’s failure to meet the expectations of her often-absent 7

For a detailed account of her relationship with her mother, see Yu ([1993] 2018, 12–36).

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mother planted in her such a deep and lasting anxiety that she wrote and rewrote the same experiences over and over again. Thus began decades of “bilingual shuttling” and self-translation. It is noteworthy that from 1937 to early 1943, Chang wrote mainly in English. In 1937, she published three English articles in Phoenix, a school publication of St. Mary’s Hall.8 During her first sojourn in Hong Kong (1939–1942), where she studied at the University of Hong Kong, she resolutely refused to write in Chinese unless absolutely necessary. She even answered her mother’s and aunt’s letters in English (Yu [1993] 2018, 72).9 After returning to Shanghai, her first English article appeared in January 1943, yet her first Chinese story was published four months later, and her first Chinese essay still three months later.10 She was slowly acclimating herself to writing in Chinese again. From January 1943 to June 1944, Chang contributed no less than nine pieces to the Shanghaibased English journal The XXth Century (launched in 1941 and financed by the German Foreign Office). Her Chinese adaptations of five of these articles were published between November 1943 and October 1944.11 Her first Chinese essay of this period, titled “Shanghainese, After All” 到底是 上海人, was published in August 1943. By then she had already published a series of seven highly popular short stories in Chinese and had finally mustered enough confidence to address the local audience: I have written a book of Hong Kong romances for Shanghainese readers, including the seven stories […] The entire time I was writing these stories, I was thinking of Shanghainese people, because I wanted to try to observe Hong Kong though Shanghainese eyes. Only people from Shanghai will be able truly to understand the parts where I wasn’t able to make my meaning clear. I like Shanghainese people, and I hope the Shanghainese will like my book. (Chang 2005, 55) Her essays of the same period reflect this complicated process of self-adjustment. In all five cases, the English version preceded the Chinese version. More importantly, the time gap between the two versions decreased progressively (from eleven months to two months), showing Chang slowly but steadily adjusting to the pace of writing in two languages over a period of about two years. After June 1944 she mainly wrote in Chinese, until she fled the mainland and relocated in Hong Kong in 1952. She soon started sporadically translating for the United States Information Service

See note 12. Her only Chinese publication during this time is a short article titled《天才夢》(Dream of Genius) (DC, 11:8–10), written in 1939 for a writing competition. She took part in it mainly for the prize money. The circumstances surrounding this competition are recounted in the late essay《憶《西風》》(Remembering The West Wind) (DC, 13:95–8). 10 《第一爐香》(Aloeswood Incense: The First Brazier) (DC, 1:6–60) and《到底是上海人》(Shanghainese, After All) (DC, 11:11–12), respectively. 11 These English essays include “Chinese Life and Fashion” (January 1943), “Wife, Vamp, Child” (May 1943), “Still Alive” (June 1943), “Educating the Family” (November 1943), and “Demons and Fairies” (June 1944). The five corresponding Chinese essays are, respectively,《更衣記》(A Chronicle of Changing Clothes) (December 1943),《借銀燈》(By the Light of the Silver Lantern) (January 1944),《洋人看京戲及其他》“Peking Opera through Foreign Eyes and Other Matters” (November 1943),《銀宮求學記》(Schooling at the Silver Palace) (February 1944), and《中國人的宗教》“The Religion of the Chinese” (August–October 1944). 8 9

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(USIS).12 She also wrote two novels for the same institute. The Rice-Sprout Song was originally written in English; she had already finished several chapters when she started translating for the USIS. The finished novel was later translated into Chinese as《秧歌》, which was first serialized in《今日世界》(The World Today), a journal published by the USIS, then printed in book form, both in 1954. The English version, though written first, was published the following year by the American publisher Charles Scribner’s Sons.《赤地之戀》, on the other hand, was first written in Chinese in 1954, on the basis of an outline provided by the USIS, and was later translated into English as Naked Earth, which came out in 1956. Both versions were published in Hong Kong (see Wang 2015, 73–137; Shan 2020, 1–80).13 Emboldened by the warm reception of The Rice-Sprout Song, she emigrated to the United States in 1955, in hopes of building a successful career as an English writer, only to be repeatedly disappointed. Throughout the last four decades of her life, she only managed to publish in English one short novel, two stories, and one essay. The novel, The Rouge of the North (1967), only made it to press after nearly a decade of arduous peddling. Leafing through Chang’s correspondence with Mae Fong Soong 鄺文美 (1919–2007) and Stephen C. Soong 宋淇 (1919–1996) in the 1950s and 1960s, one cannot help noticing the initial enthusiasm and optimism slowly giving way to dejection, self-pity, and eventually, nonchalance. But she continued to translate her own works, which seems to have developed into an obsession. Chang’s practice of self-translation may have started as a way to hone her bilingual writing ability. She once explained to her younger brother: A very good way to improve your writing skills in English and Chinese is to translate a piece of your own writing from Chinese into English, then from English back into Chinese. Repeat this process several times and try your best not to reuse the same expressions. If you can practice in this way on a regular basis, you are bound to make great progress in both Chinese and English. (Zhang 1996, 117) This was exactly what she did. While it is evident, as discussed above, that the events first captured in “What a Life! What a Girl’s Life!” went through a complicated process of rewriting and selftranslation, Chang’s experience as a bilingual writer and self-translator was much more intricate. All three versions of the aforementioned story have been published and are therefore definite, but this neat picture obscures the fact that every act of rewriting and self-translation was highly volatile and complex, and that there existed or still exist different versions of each published version as well as many more intermediate versions. Perhaps the most typical example is the sequence of fictional works that started out as the Chinese novella《金鎖記》(The Golden Cangue): 1. It was first serialized in the Shanghai-based journal《雜誌》(Miscellany) in late 1943. 2. It went through the first round of revision when it was included in her first collection of short stories,《傳奇》(Romances), published in 1945 and in an enlarged edition in 1946.

These translations are collected in DC, vols. 17–18. Earlier studies usually assume that both novels were commissioned by the USIS, but clearly The Rice-Sprout Song was written on her own initiative. See, for example, Wang (1998, viii).

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3. A plan to rewrite the novella into an English novel, tentatively titled Pink Tears, was conceived during her second sojourn in Hong Kong (1952–1955). Some preliminary chapters seem to have been written during this time (Soong 2010, 48, 53). The writing continued after her emigration to America. The first half was finished by April 1956. The publisher Scribner’s expressed interest in publishing it and even offered her an advance (letters to Mae Fong Soong [henceforth MFS], February 10, March 14, and April 18, 1956; WLSXJ, 1:38, 41, 46). A rough draft was finished during her stay at the MacDowell Colony in New England (1956–1957) and was sent to Scribner’s for review in March 1957, only to be turned down (letters to MFS, March 24, April 19, and June 5, 1957; WLSXJ, 1:61, 63, 65). 4. A revised version was submitted to her agent Marie Rodell in late 1958, but it remained unpublished (letter to MFS, December 4, 1958; WLSXJ, 1:83). 5. In 1964, Chang retrieved Pink Tears from Rodell and revised it again before sending it to C. T. Hsia in the hope that he might help get it published (letters to Hsia, May 19 and September 25, 1963; April 23, May 11, and October 16, 1964; GWDXJ, 12–24; also her letters to MFS, May 6 and July 11, 1964; WLSXJ, 1:119, 122). 6. Around the same time, the Hong Kong newspaper《星島日報》(Sing Tao Daily) solicited her contributions and she decided to translate Pink Tears into Chinese. Stephen Soong suggested the title《胭脂淚》(Rouge Tears) (letter to Chang, May 13, 1964; WLSXJ, 1:120). Since the English text was still “in a state of flux,” she had to finish the revision before translating it (letter to MFS and Stephen C. Soong [henceforth SCS], May 25, 1964; WLSXJ, 1:120). The first draft was completed in July 1965 and had been revised at least twice when Chang sent a copy to Soong in November. 7. Chang briefly considered the title《錯到底》(Erring to the End). 8. However, she finally settled on《怨女》(Embittered Woman) (letters to MFS and SCS, July 19, August 2, and September 18, 1965; letters to SCS, October 13 and November 4, 1965; WLSXJ, 1:128–32). 9. She then set out to translate it back into English, during which process she found more discontent with the text and made further revisions (letter to Hsia, December 31, 1965; GWDXJ, 37). 10. Naturally, she produced a new Chinese version on the basis of the finished English translation (letters to Hsia, July 1, 1966; GWDXJ, 47). 11. Much to her chagrin, she was informed in August 1966 that the version she had sent to Stephen Soong, which she had believed was lost in transit, was already being serialized in the Taiwan-based《皇冠雜誌》(Crown Magazine). She immediately sent the publisher a stern message by registered mail to make sure that the right version would be used when the novel was published in book form (letters to Hsia, August 31, September 3 and 15, 1966; letter to the publisher, September 14, 1966; GWDXJ, 56–61). The corrected English version was eventually published in 1967 under the title The Rouge of the North by a British publisher, Cassell and Company. In addition, Chang translated the “The Golden Cangue” into English for an anthology edited by Hsia.14 First published in Hsia (1971, 138–91). Reprinted in Lau, Hsia, and Lee (1981, 530–59) and Chang (2007, 169–234). The first version is cited throughout my discussion.

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Altogether eleven discernible versions, with no fewer than six titles—what a tangled web she wove!15 Chang found the whole process daunting and frustrating, complaining more than once to Hsia: I am translating that piece of fiction [Pink Tears] into Chinese. Once the text is restored to its original language, one realizes that so many parts of it are “far from satisfactory,” so changes have to be made […] Once I have finished translating it, I shall shelve the original English text for a few months before translating the Chinese text back into English and retyping the whole thing. A longer interval makes one see more clearly. So much trouble, but in the end nothing but an exercise in futility. Yet it has to be done. (letter to Hsia, February 2, 1965; GWDXJ, 28; original italics) Translating “Embittered Woman” into English again, I found more changes and additions to be made. It is really a bottomless pit! But all I want is to do justice to the original story. Luckily, I am nearly finished. (letter to Hsia, December 31, 1965; GWDXJ, 37) All these years, toiling away. In the end, it was but “an exercise in futility”! Yet it had to be done, because, ultimately, she was loyal only to her art: “it is really not about getting published or not, since even if I revise it there is no guarantee of publication. But I have to meet my own standards” (letter to Hsia, June 16, 1965; GWDXJ, 30).16 This might be an extreme example, but such incessant revision and self-translation seem to be the norm with Chang rather than the exception. This rather unusual characteristic of Chang’s bilingual works has serious implications for the study of her self-translational practice: when a given work has multiple incarnations, the exact sequence must be established before any meaningful comparison can be conducted. In fact, we might as well abandon the idea of “definitive text” altogether. Here I quote Borges’s sonorous statement concerning the “Homeric versions”: To assume that every recombination of elements is necessarily inferior to its original form is to assume that draft nine is necessarily inferior to draft H—for there can only be drafts. The concept of the “definitive text” corresponds only to religion or exhaustion. (2000, 69) Though conceived in a very different context, it holds equally true here. Rather than feeling vexed by this multiplicity of texts, we should consider it a blessing as the “Chang versions” allow us far more insight into her writing process than could ever be gained from the printed word. Vladimir Nabokov wrote the following passage upon finishing his autobiography: For the present, final edition of Speak, Memory I have not only introduced basic changes and copious additions into the initial English text, but have availed myself of the corrections I made

Previous studies seldom take this complex process into consideration. See, for example, Wang (2008, 215–41). Cf. Ha Jin (2008, 60). Wang draws on “the Freudian model” and describes Chang’s incessant rewriting as “a compulsive act that would overcome her own trauma by explaining it away” (1998, x–xi).

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while turning it into Russian. This re-Englishing of a Russian re-version of what had been an English re-telling of Russian memories in the first place, proved to be a diabolical task, but some consolation was given me by the thought that such multiple metamorphosis, familiar to butterflies, had not been tried by any human before. (Nabokov 1999, 6; my emphasis) The whole project was initiated in 1936, in Paris, and was not finished until 1966 (the year Chang finished the final versions of The Rouge of the North and “Embittered Woman”), long after Nabokov had emigrated to America. Little did he know that around roughly the same time, Chang was doing essentially the same thing and was equally frustrated by this “diabolical task”! Indeed, Chang’s struggle far surpassed that of Nabokov in its sheer complexity and intensity. Despite the “futility” of self-translation, she nonetheless jealously guarded the rights to translate her own works. Even though she seems to have taken on the task of translating “The Golden Cangue” for Hsia quite willingly, for instance, she found it a terrible ordeal.17 She complained to Stephen Soong: “It was very off-putting to translate ‘The Golden Cangue,’ but don’t tell C.T. [Hsia] about it—I don’t want to come off as ungrateful. After all, ‘You Can’t Go Home Again’” (letter to SCS, March 24, 1967; WLSXJ, 1:145). On the same day, she also wrote to Hsia, offering a more elaborate explanation: To be honest I am very dissatisfied with my translation of “The Golden Cangue.” In the beginning I was handicapped by my inability to write in the tone of nineteenth-century English novels, so I could not convey the flavour of the times. When it comes to old fiction, I only like Chinese works, so I have read none [of the English ones]. You were surprised how quickly I translated, but in fact it took much time and wasn’t quick at all. (letter to Hsia, March 24, 1967; GWDXJ, 90) Yet she persevered in the project, no doubt “to do justice to the original story” and to “meet [her] own standards”; but there was another important aspect to it. Of the eight authors included in this anthology, five are of an older generation, having made their names before 1949. Among these five, one had been long dead while three were deeply caught up in the political turmoil of Mao’s China.18 Chang alone was present in America, right on the site of the production of this anthology, and was able to interfere in the reception of her work by a foreign audience. Self-translation is the ultimate form of authorial intervention in her/his own reception. In the early 1990s, Joseph S. M. Lau 劉紹銘 (1934–) was editing a new anthology of modern Chinese literature and wrote to Chang to ask if she could provide her own translation of her early story《封鎖》(Sealed Off) (DC, 1:164–76). More than half a year passed with no response. Familiar with Chang’s quirky temperament, Liu turned to Karen Kingsbury, then a PhD student writing her dissertation on Chang, who readily accepted the task. After finishing her translation, Kingsbury wrote to Chang twice for her opinion; again, she did not respond (Lau 2015, 92–3). Not knowing what to do, Liu sought help from Hsia, a senior colleague and one of Chang’s closest She personally chose “The Golden Cangue” to represent her work. See letter to Hsia (July 8, 1966. GWDXJ, 50). These are Yu Dafu 郁達夫 (1896–1945), Shen Congwen 沈從文 (1902–1988), Zhang Tianyi 張天翼 (1906–1985), and Wu Zuxiang 吳組緗 (1908–1994).

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friends. In November 1992, Hsia wrote Chang a gently worded letter coated with formalities to sound out her attitude. Receiving no reply, he wrote again one month later, and finally managed to elicit an awkward response from Chang (Hsia’s letters to Chang, November 18 and December 19, 1992; GWDXJ, 376–81). She had indeed received all previous messages, but being in poor health she procrastinated, indefinitely: [A]s soon as I received Miss Kingsbury’s letter I wanted to go and search for my own translation of “Sealed Off” in storage, but I still have not done it. I feel rather guilty that she has taken the trouble to finish her translation. I shall send her another letter to apologize. (letter to Hsia, January 6, 1993; GWDXJ, 382)19 In another letter shortly afterwards, she explained her difficulties: A shortcoming of mine is that my ability does not match my high goals, [yet] it is rather painful to let others translate my own works. In my experience, forcing myself to do something against my will never yielded anything good. (letter to Hsia, May 2, 1994; GWDXJ, 388) In the end, she gave her assent to Kingsbury’s translation, though not without putting up passive resistance.20 It was only after her death in 1995 that translations of her works by others started appearing in considerable numbers. In a recent publication, Matthew Reynolds proposes “prism” as an alternative to “channel,” a current dominant metaphor for translation. Unlike a channel, which envisions translation as “an endeavour to find equivalents for a set of given meanings,” a prism could “be seen as opening up the plural signifying potential of the source text and spreading it into multiple versions, each continuous with the source though different from it, and related to the other versions though different from all of them too” (Reynolds 2019, 2–3). Chang’s Sisyphean effort to self-translate and the resulting multiplicity of texts seems to be a perfect example of “prismatic translation”: after all, who is more entitled to open up “the plural signifying potential of the source text and [spread] it into multiple versions” than the author herself? But I would like to venture a third metaphor—that of the “infinity mirror,” namely, a configuration of two parallel mirrors creating a series of reflections that appear to recede to infinity. Since no physical mirror is perfectly planar, any mirrored image would be slightly distorted, and the distortion accumulates as we go ever deeper into the reflections. Chang’s relentless “bilingual shuttling” produces an infinite series of self-images reflected in the two parallel mirrors that are Chinese and English. In this sense, the distinction between source and target languages seems to be irrelevant, as both are indispensable in creating the infinity mirror. The resulting effect, ironically, seems to be just like a channel, or a “time tunnel” (which is the title of a recent translation of Chang’s work), but there is no hope

Her reply to Liu, written on the same day, is reprinted in Lau (2015, 93). Kingsbury’s translation, titled “Sealed Off,” was published in Lau and Goldblatt ([1995] 2007, 188–97). Reprinted in the 2nd edition (2007, 174–83) and Chang (2007, 235–51). A second translation is “Shutdown,” trans. Janet Ng with Janice Wickeri (Chang 1996, 93–100). Reprinted in Chang (2000, 22–36).

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of getting to the other end—much as Chang’s hope of homecoming appeared ever dimmer in her late years: “It is really a bottomless pit!” As long as Chang continues to be read, however, in both Chinese and English, her exercise shall not have been futile.

REFERENCES Borges, Jorge Luis. 2000. Selected Non-Fictions, edited by Eliot Weinberger, translated by Esther Allen, Suzanne Jill Levine, and Eliot Weinberger. New York: Penguin Books. Chang, Eileen. 1955. The Rice-Sprout Song. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons. Chang, Eileen. 1967. The Rouge of the North. London: Cassell and Company. Chang, Eileen. 1996. “Shutdown,” translated by Janet Ng with Janice Wickeri. Renditions 45: 93–100. Chang, Eileen. 1998a. The Rice-Sprout Song. Berkeley: University of California Press. Chang, Eileen. 1998b. The Rouge of the North. Berkeley: University of California Press. Chang, Eileen. 2000. Traces of Love and Other Stories, edited by Eva Hung, translated by Eva Hung et al. Hong Kong: Research Centre for Translation, The Chinese University of Hong Kong. Chang, Eileen. 2005. Written on Water, translated by Andrew F. Jones. New York: Columbia University Press. Chang, Eileen. 2006. Love in a Fallen City and Other Stories, translated by Karen S. Kingsbury and Eileen Chang. New York: New York Review Books. Chang, Eileen. 2007. Love in a Fallen City and Other Stories, translated by Karen S. Kingsbury and Eileen Chang. London: Penguin Books. Chang, Eileen. 2009–2012.《張愛玲典藏》[Complete Works of Zhang Ailing], 18 vols. Taipei: Huangguan chubanshe (cited in text as DC). Damrosch, David. 2020. Comparing the Literatures: Literary Studies in a Global Age. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Fan Yanqiao 范煙橋. (1962) 1984.《民國舊派小說史略》[A Brief History of Old-Fashioned Fiction of the Republican Era]. In 《鴛鴦蝴蝶派研究資料》[Research Materials on the Mandarin Duck and Butterfly School], edited by Wei Shaochang 魏紹昌, 268–363. Shanghai: Shanghai wenyi chubanshe. Ha Jin. 2008. The Writer as Migrant. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Hokenson, Jan Walsh, and Marcella Munson. 2007. The Bilingual Text: History and Theory of Literary Self-Translation. Manchester: St. Jerome Publishing. Hoyan, Carole Hang Fung. 2019. “‘Include Me Out’: Reading Eileen Chang as a World Literature Author.” Ex-position 41: 7–32. Hsia, C. T. 1961. A History of Modern Chinese Fiction. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Hsia, C. T. ed. 1971. Twentieth-Century Chinese Stories, with the assistance of Joseph S. M. Lau. New York: Columbia University Press. Hsia, C. T. ed. and annot. 2013. 《張愛玲給我的信件》[Letters from Eileen Chang]. Taipei: Lianhe wenxue chubanshe (cited in text as GWDXJ). Jin Hongda 金宏達 and Yu Qing 于青, eds. 1992.《張愛玲文集》[Collected Works of Eileen Chang], vol. 1. Hefei: Anhui wenyi chubanshe. Lai Fengyi 來鳳儀, ed. 1992.《張愛玲散文全編》[The Complete Prose of Eileen Chang]. Hangzhou: Zhejiang wenyi chubanshe. Lau, Joseph S. M. 劉紹銘. 2015.《愛玲說》[On Eileen Chang]. Hong Kong: Chinese University Press. Lau, Joseph S. M., C. T. Hsia, and Leo Ou-fan Lee, eds. 1981. Modern Chinese Stories and Novellas 1919–1949. New York: Columbia University Press. Lau, Joseph S. M., and Howard Goldblatt, eds. (1995) 2007. The Columbia Anthology of Modern Chinese Literature, 2nd edn. New York: Columbia University Press. Lee, Leo Ou-fan. 1999. Shanghai Modern: The Flowering of a New Urban Culture in China, 1930–1945. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

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Link, E. Perry. 1981. Mandarin Ducks and Butterflies: Popular Fiction in Early Twentieth-Century Chinese Cities. Berkeley: University of California Press. Liu, Lydia H. 1995. Translingual Practice: Literature, National Culture, and Translated Modernity—China, 1900–1937. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Nabokov, Vladimir. 1999. Speak, Memory: An Autobiography Revisited. New York: Alfred A. Knopf. Reynolds, Matthew. 2019. “Introduction.” In Prismatic Translation, 1–18. Oxford: Legenda. Shan Te-hsing 單德興. 2020.《冷戰 · 離散 · 文人:《今日世界》中的張愛玲》[A Diasporic Writer in the Cold War Era: The Representations of Eileen Chang in World Today].《臺北大學中文學報》[Journal of Chinese Language and Literature of National Taipei University] 28: 1–80. Soong, Roland宋以朗, ed. 2010.《張愛玲私語錄》[Whispered Words from Zhang Ailing]. Hong Kong: Huangguan chubanshe youxian gongsi. Soong, Roland宋以朗, ed. 2020.《張愛玲往來書信集》[Letters of Eileen Chang], 2 vols. Taipei: Huangguan wenhua chuban youxian gongsi (cited in text as WLSXJ). Su Yingying 蘇盈盈. 2017. 《兩岸張愛玲傳播與接受比較 (1949–)》[A Comparative Study of Eileen Chang’s Reception in Taiwan and Mainland China (1949–)]. MA diss., Minnan Normal University, 2017. Wang, David Der-wei. 1998. “Introduction.” In The Rice-Sprout Song by Eileen Chang, vii–xxv. Berkeley: University of California Press. Wang, David Der-wei. 2008. “Madame White, The Book of Change, and Eileen Chang: On a Poetics of Involution and Derivation.” In Eileen Chang: Romancing Languages, Cultures, and Genres, edited Kam Louie, 215–41. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. Wang, David Der-wei. 2010. “Introduction.” In The Fall of the Pagoda by Eileen Chang, v–xix. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. Wang Mei-hsiang 王梅香. 2015.《不為人知的張愛玲:美國新聞處譯書計劃下的《秧歌》與《赤地之戀》》 [Eileen Chang—The Unknown Story: The Rice-Sprout Song and Naked Earth under the USIS Book Translation Program].《歐美研究》[EuroAmerica: A Journal of European and American Studies] 45 (1): 73–137. Xu Rulin 徐如林. 2014.《鳳棲於梧:張愛玲的中學時代》[Eileen Chang’s Middle School Years].《檔案春 秋》[Memories and Archives] 1: 28–31. Yu Bin余斌. (1993) 2018.《張愛玲傳》[A Biography of Zhang Ailing]. (Haikou: Hainan guoji xinwen chuban zhongxin) Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe. Zhang Zijing 張子靜. 1996.《我的姊姊張愛玲》[My Elder Sister Eileen Chang]. Taipei: Shibao wenhua. Zhu Chuanxiang 祝淳翔. 2013.《黃氏小學:張愛玲的西式教育啟蒙》[Huang’s Primary School: Where Eileen Chang Was Initiated into Western Education].《檔案春秋》[Memories and Archives] 9: 48–51.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Exophony, Translation, and Transnationalism in Gao Xingjian’s French/Chinese Plays MARY MAZZILLI

In the year 2000, Chinese-born playwright, director, novelist, and painter Gao Xingjian 高行健 (1940–) won the Nobel Prize in Literature. At that time, Gao had already been living in Europe for about thirteen years having made the decision, in 1987, to live in voluntary cultural exile—after his work had been again censored in the People’s Republic of China (PRC). Since settling in France, Gao has written in both Chinese and French, sometimes with the help of translators and sometimes without, sometimes first writing in Chinese and sometimes first writing in French. Gao Xingjian is an author working across languages and across cultures, like other Sinophone writers such as novelists Dai Sijie 戴思杰, who also writes in French; Lulu Wang 王子逸, and Gong Yuhong, who write in Dutch; and Guo Xiaolu 郭小橹 who writes in English. “Translingual writing” (Kellman 2000) and exophony are the terms being used to define writers writing in a language other than their primary language, and scholars have debated whether translation actually occurs in the writing process itself. Responding to the lack of detailed scholarship on Gao’s bilingualism in the context of translingual/exophonic writing,1 this chapter will contribute to the debate on translation, with the argument that authors writing in more than one language challenge the idea of an original version of a text and promote a form of transnationalism (postdramatic transnationalism), making a political standpoint. Most importantly, it is equating transnationalism (rather than translingualism) and writing/translation processes that will help unveil the volatile nature of cultural and linguistic identity. It will do this by exploring the processes of linguistic and cultural assimilation, and linguistic contamination (De Donno 2021) as embedded in the writing/ translation, questioning whether texts produced in more than one language by the same author are the product and extension of cultural fluidity, which is part of these authors’—in this case Gao’s—transnationalism. I chose to focus mainly on Gao’s post-1997 plays because in theatre there is another level of translation in the staging of the written dramatic text, which has been slightly overlooked in the study of Gao’s plays. Most importantly, theatre in its bringing together and as “imitation of acting” in the world (Morgan 2013, 4) has the potential for political action and social

This is with the exception of Claire Conceison who has been planning a translation of his French plays (Wasserstrom 2013) and talks at length about his bilingualism (Conceison 2009).

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change. This chapter will investigate the main debates and features of translinguism and exophonic writing, also within the context of translation studies and migration, which will then be brought in to assess Gao’s position as a writer in exile, finally to focus on his post-1997 French/Chinese plays.

CONTEXT: TRANSLINGUAL WRITING, EXOPHONY, AND THE QUESTION OF MIGRATION AND TRANSLATION In The Translingual Imagination (2000), Steven Kellman introduces the term translingualism to define authors writing in a language other than their primary (De Donno 2021, 103), which is presented as a common activity of many writers across the centuries and continents. Yet, the book with its strong interest in twentieth-century literature (and cinema), which has been criticized by some reviews (McCormick 2001; Orr 2002; Pym 2002), does very little to offer a coherent framework or methodology. Furthermore, in his attempt to compile a “roster of translingual authors” (Kellman 2000, 91) from the Sinophone world, only Chinese translator Lin Yutang 林语堂 (1895–1976) and Chinese American author Chin Yang Lee (1915–2018) make the cut. Introduced in the 2007 edited volume Exophonie Anders-Sprachigkeit (in) der Literatur (Exophony: Other languages in/of literature), exophonic writing has been considered a subcategory of translingual writing: “exophony” (from the Greek exo: moving out; phony: sound/voice—i.e., to move out of one’s mother tongue) refers to “translingual writing that takes place in a newly adopted or secondary language—a language often learned as an adult” (De Donno 2021, 104). This term highlights the transformational (moving out) nature and alterity (exo as in outside) as part of the translingual writing process, confirmed in De Donno’s recent article, which surveys the work of contemporary translingual authors: British American writer of Bengali origin, Jhumpa Lahiri, who writes in both English and Italian, and the Japanese-born German author Yoko Tawada. De Donno connects translingual practices to the process of translation and highlights the role that identity plays in these practices and processes: “translingualism is an aesthetic as well as an identity tool,” and “translingual practice, precisely for its reliance on forms of translations and interactions between languages, cultures and identities, can be a tool for an author’s refashioning” (104). The equation of translation—intended as the interaction between languages—and identity reveals that writing in different languages is not merely a linguistic act but a cultural one of identification and exchange between different cultures, underpinning a process of transformation (refashioning); De Donno even talks about an act of freedom and of creativity. This liberating transformative and creative aspect of working across languages as connected to cultural identity hints at the opportunity for cultural encounters, which empowers the writers themselves to become agents of transformations by taking the role of translators. This becomes even more poignant as we talk about the connection between tranlingualism/ exophony/translation and migration. Kellman states that “much of translingual writing … is the literature of immigration” (2000, 23). Loredana Polezzi points out that “migrants can gain the ability to translate, adopting what he [Kellman] calls an autonomous practice of translation,” thus highlighting the agency of migrants who “may also become translators, as well as or instead of requiring (or being posited as requiring) translation” (2012, 348). In some cases, migrant writers, as migrant in a geographical and also metaphorical sense (using a language other than their own,

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“migrating” from one culture to another), can be seen as active agents not only of translation between languages and cultures but also of transformation and change that goes beyond the binary between their mother tongue and their adopted language. This binary position in itself positing languages in a hierarchical order according to backgrounds (where the writers grew up and which language they spoke as they grew up) can be easily challenged when we look deeper into the dynamic and fluid transitions between languages and the role they played in the author’s life and upbringing. In her account of German exophonic writing by migrant writers, Chantal Wright problematizes the binary of one’s own and not one’s own language: “To write in a language which is not one’s mother tongue means that one has already made it one’s own” (2010, 23). The idea of a mother tongue, also, becomes problematic as and when multiple languages are part of one’s upbringing, such is the case of Canada-based author Dan Vyleta, who grew up in Germany with Czech parents, and then completed his higher education in English; and a question to be raised is also on whether any of the exophonic writers can really differentiate between two or more languages without one language interfering with the other(s) (23). Going back to Polezzi, especially in the case of writers/self-translators, even the binary between source text and translation is disrupted because creativity, and transformation, plays a much more prominent role: From a translation studies point of view, it is crucial to note that when migrants act as their own self-translators, the boundary between an “original” and its translation becomes particularly fuzzy, requiring us to broaden the notion of translation. Many cases of self-translation, in fact, do not follow the familiar binary model in which a pre-existing source text moves across linguistic and cultural frontiers in a linear fashion. (Polezzi 2012, 350) As mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, the blurring of boundaries between the original and the translation poses the question of whether there is an original text at all, which will be further explored below. For now, we can contend that self-translation becomes an act of freedom, of “re-fashioning” (using De Donno’s words), of remodeling one’s own identity and one’s own attachment to one or more cultures. It is also a political act where writers as self-translators become political actors, whereby “those acts of translation and self-translation have at least the potential to bear witness not just to the experience of the migrant but also to our understanding of being ‘human’” (Polezzi 2012, 354). Translation “becomes a gesture against the dehumanizing nature of contemporary power and its attempts at containment (of voices, of bodies, of movement, and of ‘civilized conversation’” (354). Wright highlights the potential political significance of the question of identity as exemplified by the act of exophonic writing: [E]xophony itself is a political act: it is an affirmation of the value of the writer’s work and of her struggle. Arguably, though, all translation is a political act, particularly so in cultures where a monolingual paradigm holds sway and where the cultural attitude to difference is one of aggressive assimilation. Here, as elsewhere, exophonic texts exemplify or condense important issues relating to monolingualism, translation and literature. (Wright 2016, 139)

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So, exophonic writing challenges monolinguism. When we talk about migration as part of the writers’ cultural and social experience, to some extent, it also challenges assimilation, here intended as the surrender to another culture and language, particularly in regard to migrant experience and the host culture and language. Migrant writing, in a more negative sense, however, can also suffer from tensions between assimilation and alienation (the sense of otherness toward both the host culture and culture of origin). Talking about high modernism and immigrant literature, Roland Végsö says that immigrant literature “could be said to have been concerned with the impossibility of assimilation. In both their assimilationist and segregationist versions, immigrant texts reflected the modern experience of dislocation as they presented various narratives of assimilation into different national cultures (either that of the New World or of the Old World)” (2010, 26). Dislocation—the impossibility of assimilation—as put forward by Végsö, posits the migrant experience into a marginal space, which is both political and cultural. In this regard, beyond modernism, Polezzi offers a more positive outlook by stressing that migrants have a choice between assimilation and otherness, but one does not reject the other: “they use translation as a strategy of assimilation, attempting to incorporate themselves into the language and the culture of the host group, or as a form of accommodation, trying to negotiate spaces of resistance and of survival for the language and culture of their origins” (2012, 348). It also offers a positive reading of the “outsideness” of migrant writing and of the role it can have within the host culture (Polezzi 2012, 352). This does not mean that migrant writers do not experience dislocation, and as Polezzi suggests, the opportunity to be self-translators is not given to all migrants. However, it is important to acknowledge the cultural and political significance of self-translating (thus exophonic writing), and the empowerment this represents, because it enables migrant writers to create a space for themselves in another culture by, at the same time, disrupting and transforming both the other’s culture and language and their own. Most importantly, by rejecting the binary position between one’s own and one’s adoptive language and culture, such a process of self-translating, remodeling, and transformation can be considered as a fluid loop of negotiations moving back and forth between assimilation and alienation/outsideness, language of origin, and target language. It is in this fluidity, however, where exophonic writing comes to differ from translation, challenging “the conventional notions of source and target in Translation Studies” (Wright 2016, 139). It is not a coincidence that in translation the process of assimilation bears a different meaning than the one used thus far in this chapter and means the same as foreignization: The assimilation of foreign cultures in translation is the same as foreignisation. Depending on the forces of assimilation and their potential impact on a receptor culture, translators are present in their capacity of readers in the (re)production of meaning in another cultural context and in deciding the amount of assimilation needed to introduce the strange and the foreign to targetlanguage audiences. (Sun 2003, 34–5) In translation studies, unlike assimilation of the host country culture and language on the part of the migrant writer, assimilation means the incorporation of a foreign language and cultural references in the target text, and here, like the exophonic/migrant writer, the translator has to

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make a decision. However, caught in a balancing act between preserving the target culture and resembling the original text in the target text (their own translation), such an endeavor makes the processes of translators less transformational and liberating. Having established the difference between exophonic writing/self-translation and translation, can we consider such writing as a form of translation at all? The equation of translation/exophonic writing is still a useful one that opens up the meaning of translation to indicate a fluid process of negotiations between languages and cultures, namely, the idea that communication (verbal or otherwise) is always a form of translation. However, to avoid confusion about the usage of terminologies, such as assimilation, one can look at the actual writing strategies that define the modality of exophonic writing. De Donno distinguishes two writing practices used by exophonic authors, that of contamination and that of separation between languages: The interaction between “multiple verbal systems,” however, occurs in two main ways: through contamination, by creating an explicit hybrid dimension of playful interaction between languages in the surface of the text; or through separation between languages, which are used monolingually in the text, including in translation, and where translingualism occurs in more discreet ways by means of other literary strategies. (De Donno 2021, 104) In her attempt to “challenge the nationalism and patriarchy of Japan, and the stigmatisation of foreignness in Germany” (De Donno 2021, 120), Yoko Tawada’s contamination can be found in the playful usage of both Japanese and German language, whose differences inform both the aesthetics and the narrative of her literary work. In Lahiri’s case, resorting to writing some of her work only in Italian and some others in English (separation), marks her ability to overcome the alienation she experienced as a second-generation migrant in the United States, and represents “the reconciliatory reckoning of the cultural exclusion she felt because English was not the ‘mother tongue’ of her family” (120). By considering these two authors, contamination and separation are useful terms that, almost equivalent to assimilation (intended as foreignization) and alienation, define the kind of translation taking place in exophonic writing. Most importantly, these strategies and practices enhance the liberating transformative nature of this writing, which in addressing issues of identity, responds to the need to subvert (almost at a political level) the restrictions formed and institutionalized in monolingual cultural settings.

GAO XINGJIAN’S THEATRE: HIS EXILE, ESCAPE, AND TRANSNATIONALISM Having considered exophonic writing as being a form of translation that is liberating, transformative, and creative, issues of identity and cultural, and political destabilization of monolinguism, especially as connected to the migrant experience, have come to the fore as positive forces and not as signs of surrender to the hegemony of a monolingual culture. So, how does all this apply to Gao, who like other Chinese writers, such as those mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, has not been considered an exophonic writer? It is also true that Gao’s work has never been considered strictly the work of a migrant writer either, despite the fact that he left China for France in 1987.

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Scholars and Gao himself have talked, instead, about exile as a physical but above all existential condition that finds its way into the creative process. Exile and escape have been motifs that have been present in his work—in his essays. In his Nobel Prize speech, for instance, quoting from a 1990 essay in which he wrote about literature (Gao 2000a, 18–20), he uses the term “cold literature” 冷的文學: Cold literature is literature that will flee in order to survive, it is literature that refuses to be strangled by society in its quest for spiritual salvation. If a race cannot accommodate this sort of non-utilitarian literature it is not merely a misfortune for the writer but a tragedy for the race. (Gao 2000a) This definition stresses the motif of “escape” from a society that might “strangle” and restrict the writer’s creativity and individual freedom. Gao also stresses how literature is all about the “return to the voice of the individual, for literature is primarily derived from the feelings of the individual and is the result of feelings” (Gao 2000a). Moreover, part of his famous “no-isms” 沒 有主義 (Gao 1996), that literature should have little to do with politics or any form of “isms,” is really a reaction against how literature has been used in China to promote political ideologies, as I mention in my book on Gao’s theatre (Mazzilli 2015a, 117). Escape, intended to represent individual freedom and an anti-political stance, can be read also through his personal exile. In 1987, following the censorship of multiple of his literary works in the PRC (which continues to this day), Gao went into voluntary exile and never returned to China. Most importantly, exile as connected to escape resonates in most of his prose and theatre, exemplified by the lonely aloof male character in search of “spiritual salvation” (quoting from his Nobel Prize lecture). In this sense, by choosing the role of the exiled intellectual rather than talking about migration, Gao’s position is highly political, as exile implies a political action of censorship, whereby Gao’s escape becomes an alternative political act of opposition. Scholar Alexa Joubin also sees the paradox of Gao’s self-exile, which has been seen as a “political statement” (2011, 377), and the marginality that he so much advocated has been contradicted by the fame and the recognition he received even before the Nobel Prize in Literature: Gao’s post-exile career is a living example of transculturation that creates a new center of artistic gravity; the configuration of this center may not be based on nationalist sentiments, as it demonstrates an erosion of the collective. However, this new center has not escaped the shadow cast by the cultural and ethnic background of its creator. The paradox arises from the duality of exile: writing in French and Chinese and working to bring elements from more than one culture into his stage works, Gao has to negotiate the interstitial space between different cultural realms, even as he creates a personal voice that is not associated with a nation-state. (Joubin 2011, 377) Written in relation to the staging of Neige en août (Snow in August; 2000c, 2002) in Taiwan, this quote shows the tension between marginality and a cultural center, in which Gao as a selfexiled writer has found himself sited. On one side, Gao’s marginality has created a new cultural center, though, on the other, this center still needs to negotiate between marginal positions, which come from his cultural background but also the fact that he writes in different languages and deals with two different cultural realms. In this regard, his position is not very dissimilar to other

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exophonic writers and migrant writers, negotiating between contamination and separateness, assimilation (intended here in a literary sense) and alienation. What is unique about his position is the success that his career has enjoyed, which has helped create a new center, which is transcultural and transnational. I see this center as a positive necessary outcome from a process of the interplay between transcultural and transnational forces in Gao’s work. Moreover, the above quote also brings attention to terms such as transcultural and transnational (“not associated with a nation-state”), and since transnational better describes this work of transcendence of national boundaries, it carries a political meaning. In particular, I want to refer to my idea of postdramatic transnationalism, which “acknowledges the fluidity of the theatrical discourse that is postdramatic2 in its essence of being post and beyond ideologies, because postdramatic theatre cannot be assigned to an individual nation or culture” (Mazzilli 2015a, 9). In agreement to some extent with Kong Shuyu’s idea of nomadism as connected to Gao, where the stress is on his refusal “to become the subject of any nation-state and suspect of any forms of power formation” (2014, 142), I would argue that his transnationalism is an act of defiance and transcendence, which occurs within the process of translation where translation becomes a transcending and, as mentioned above, liberating act. In regard to his role as self-translator/ exophonic writer,3 which will be explored in more detail with some textual references to his work, it is worth noting that Gao himself stresses the importance of the role language plays in literature and human civilization and its potential to transcend cultural (and national) boundaries: Language is the ultimate crystallization of human civilization. It is intricate, incisive and difficult to grasp and yet it is pervasive, penetrates human perceptions and links man, the perceiving subject, to his own understanding of the world. The written word is also magical for it allows communication between separate individuals, even if they are from different races and times. (Gao 2000a) The emphasis is on the transcendent power of the written word, which albeit “evasive,” can help separate individuals, regardless of their background and the age they live in. I would argue that this is empowering translation, as a vehicle to transcending cultural and linguistic differences, which as it happens quite often in exophonic writing, challenges the idea of a binary between original/source text and target text, and even of an original text.

EXOPHONIC WRITING/SELF-TRANSLATION AND THEATRE IN GAO’S FRENCH/CHINESE PLAYS So, how does transnationalism as cultural national transcendence occur in Gao’s self-translation work? What kind of self-translator/exophonic writer is Gao? The answers to these questions are not straightforward, as we will see. As I said at the beginning of this chapter, I will focus mainly

Postdramatic theatre was coined by Hans-Thies Lehman in his 2006 book, of that name, about postwar theatrical trends in Europe and North America, but I use postdramatic as suffix to transnationalism because of “its essence of being post and beyond ideologies, because postdramatic theatre cannot be assigned to an individual nation or culture” (Mazzilli 2015a, 9). 3 One should not forget that Gao worked as a translator even before his writing career took off. 2

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on his plays, those written and produced after his self-imposed exile in 1987, which also marked the time when his plays started to appear first in French, then in Chinese, and then in English. Furthermore, I chose to focus on his theatre work rather than his prose because of the third level of translation, which is the staging of a piece, discussed below. Having moved to France, Gao wrote his plays in French, but not all of them without the help of a translator. So, for instance, Au borde de la vie (生死界 [Between Life and Death]; 1992), Le Somnambule (夜游神 [Nocturnal Wanderer]; 1993), and Quatre Quatuors our un week-end (周 末四重奏 [Weekend Quartet]; 1995) were originally translated by the author himself in French; La fuite (逃亡 [Escape]; 1990) was translated into French by Michele Guyot in the 1992 edition in the collection Theatre a Vif (later republished by Lansman), Dialoguer et Interloquer (对话与反 诘 [Dialogue and Rebuttal]; 1992) by Anne Curien in the 1994 MEET edition, while Le Quêteur de la mort (Death Collector; 2000), L’Autre rive (彼岸 [The Other Shore]; 1986), and La Neige en août (八月雪 [Snow in August]; 2000c, 2002) were translated, in 2004, by Noël and Lilliane Dutrait.4 It is difficult to know why some plays have been translated by others and some not, even though it is important to know that Gao often shares drafts of his plays with translator Noël Dutrait (Conceison 2009, 319). The Chinese versions are written (translated) by the author himself but, as Conceison notes, in some cases these appear much later in Chinese, which in itself is an interesting fact for two reasons. Firstly, as Conceison suggests that, especially in regard to his latest play Ballade Nocturne, Gao did not want to be identified as a Chinese writer.5 This tells us a lot about his identity: he attempts to escape his Chineseness, even though, as another paradox, in his Nobel Prize speech, he is aware that his Chineseness will inevitably come through his work and a lot of his theatre incorporates a strong Chineseness, which is an aspect that scholars like myself (Mazzilli 2015a) and Todd Coulter (2014) have criticized in our respective studies of his theatre. Secondly, the Chinese version of Gao’s plays are rather a refashioning of his work, as Conceison explains: “Gao first rewrites the plays in Chinese—specifying that this a re-creation of the play not a translation” (2009, 306); they are what she call “double” or “twin” texts (308). In an interview with Conceison, Gao “thought the Chinese version of his first French play (Au bord de la vie) would result from his translating it, but he discovered this task was impossible and chose to rewrite the play instead” (319). This is not at all surprising as in a recent interview he admits that his translation model was Chinese master translator Lin Shu 林纾 (1852–1924) (Wang 2020, 52), who has been “regarded by some critics as an unfaithful translator because during the process of translation, he primarily resorted to such techniques as omission, addition, alteration and abridgment, giving his works a strong personal stamp” (Chen and Cheng 2015, 416). Beyond the influences that Lin Shu might or might not have on his “self-translating work,” I would argue that his approach to self-translating/ recreating in Chinese goes much deeper than that, and in this regard, I concur with Conceison: Gao’s writing in one language (Chinese) was directly informed by his previous authorship of the piece in another language (French), indicating greater hybridity in his bilingualism than he had It is interesting to note that Noël Dutrait has been the French translator for all Gao’s prose into French. Significantly, when Gao granted me permission to seek publication for my translation of Ballade Nocturne, he stipulated that it should not appear in any venue (be it journal, anthology, or edited volume) that would contextualize him as a “Chinese” writer (Conceison 2009, 218).

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previously acknowledged. Gao chooses to emphasize the distinctness of the two languages rather than their coexistence in his bilingual consciousness, and he deliberately shifts his cultural milieu when writing in French rather than Chinese. (Conceison 2009, 309–10) There is a continuous process of negotiation at play between the intention to keep the two languages and cultures separate and to reconcile the one with the other. This is exemplified by the fact that Gao avoids clear references to Chinese cultures in the French version but, at the same time, in his Chinese translation he wants to reproduce the musicality of the French language. To some extent, one could argue that his privileging French culture and language, trying to avoid cross-cultural encounters in his French plays, is contradicted by the fact that he still feels the need to translate them into Chinese, which he wants to embed with French characteristics. This is dissimilar from Lahiri, who does not get involved in the translation of her Italian novels into English. Furthermore, paradoxically, Chinese being a tonal language is highly musical; thus, one could argue that his sensitivity to linguistic musicality is a by-product of his Chinese linguistic background. Talking about language and identity, the complexity of such negotiations, and the desire to translate his own work into Chinese show that despite seemingly embracing his Frenchness, by rewriting and translating his plays into Chinese, unlike Lahiri who found some sort of freedom in embracing an “Italian” identity, Gao’s refashioning is attached to his Chineseness, so much so that he still writes some of his plays first in Chinese. This is the case of Neige en août. This confirms that his attempt to escape his Chineseness is strewn with contradictions, thus adding a political connotation to his cultural exile. However, before jumping to conclusions one needs to look at some textual references. In my past publications on Gao, I have paid little attention to the role translation (or selftranslation) plays in his work to the extent that in my monograph published in 2015, and related academic work, I have used my own translation from the Chinese, unlike Todd Coulter who translated his from the French. However, even then, by comparing some sections of the Chinese texts with the French I noticed some differences. For instance, Au bord de la vie is full of terms and expressions in the Chinese version that are not present in the French translation. In the last part of Woman’s speech, where the fragmentation of the self is mirrored by linguistic fragmentation, the word 混沌 is used twice6 in the Chinese version while she talks about her aimless walking. 混 沌 means chaos in Chinese but also could refer to the Daoist mythological figure of a “featureless deity” or the abstract concept of “featurelessness, shapelessness, and lack of definition” (Mazzilli 2015a, 59). In the French version the expression sans route, sans but (aimless) is used instead (Gao 2000b, 81), in the first case and in the second case, “the French text simply uses the expression ‘… tout s’éteindrait bientôt,’ meaning ‘everything would die soon’” (84), which is further complicated by “Gao’s use of the conditional in place of the future tense” (88), so the French translation of the first sentence would read as follows: Lost in the clouds, SHE wanders aimlessly and appears to fall into the abyss. (Gao 2000b, 81; my emphais) In the first sentence it is used as 混沌, while in the second sentence, it is used as 混混沌沌, which can be connected to the word at the end of her speech, 寂滅, which means “perishable” but also “quiescence” (Mazzilli 2015a, 59).

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In my translation from the Chinese: Surrounded by clouds and fog she walks blindly, in the mist of chaos [my italics], looking hastily for the way but she has no aim, only the awareness that she is sinking into an abyss. (Mazzilli 2015a, 59) The second sentence would read as follows from French: In her heart there is nothing but one glimmer of light. SHE imagines that if she lets herself go, everything would die soon. (Gao 2000b, 88; my emphasis) In my translation from the Chinese: Everything disappears. It is chaos. In her heart there is only a spark of secret light. Possibly also this cannot be stopped from disappearing, and everything will perish (will lead to a state of quiescence). (Mazzilli 2015a, 60) Originally, in my study of Gao, I do not really differentiate between the two versions as I say that they both point to “an inevitable death … also to a primordial stage and a longing for an inner peace—the same Daoist equilibrium … one that transcends materiality and language” (Mazzilli 2015a, 60). Now reconsidering the two versions, we can see that in the French the connection to specific philosophical connotations is lost. In the Chinese version there is a subtle reference to the Dao, where the word “chaos” can also refer to the original prelinguistic state that defines Gao’s idea of the ungendered/originary self, as defined by Yip and Tam (2002) and reiterated in my article on Gao’s stance on gender.7 In the French version the meaning of the play is more generically connected to the fragmentation of the self and of narration. Besides the word chaos, also as you can see from my translation from the Chinese, Gao seems to have added more details with potential philosophical and religious connotations about the state of mind of the character, which is generally the case throughout the Chinese version. Another example where the Chinese shows again some richness is La Neige en août, which presents a slightly different ending to the script. In the French version, the play ends with the group of laymen (la foule des laics) saying: The baby cries when they are born, the old are silent as they depart … The living should learn to live “pleasantly” (contented) The dead sleep with wisdom … So the world goes … “Referring to the mythic figure of the Emperor Hun Dun in the work of modern Chinese writer Lu Ling (1921–1994), Kirk Denton explains that in Daoist terms, ‘chaos’ refers to a primal state, an ‘essential spiritual nourishment,’ part of the sage’s journey in the cyclic regeneration of the Tao and process of rebirth. This primal stage is defined as a ‘state of origins prior to the civilizing divisions of language.’ It is in these terms that ‘chaos’ can also refer to the original pre-linguistic state that defines Gao’s idea of the un-gendered/originary self” (Mazzilli 2015b, 376).

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Even if the mountain Tai curves down, the mountain Jade would not fall. Men bring trouble onto themselves. Those who sink the stilts day after day will still sink the stilt. But if the bridge decays, a new one can be built. Do not say that the night rain hits the banana trees, a car has passed by, as light as carried by a breeze. Men attract trouble onto themselves. Tonight and tomorrow will be also wonderful, wonderful all the same. (Xu 2005, 76) In the Chinese version, the choral singing of the laymen is replaced by the interlocution between the two characters Geisha and Writer, who had been present throughout till the masters join in the conversation, followed by the laymen, forming a similar choral ending to the piece: Geisha (Sings.) The small child cries. Writer (Sings.) Just born. Geisha (Sings.) The old man is quiet. Writer (Sings.) He’s gone. Geisha (Sings.) A bright lamp brings in a rattling open fire […] Masters (Sing.) When old bridges crush, new ones are built. Writer (Sings.) This is the way the world goes. Geisha (Sings.) Even if the mountain Tai falls, or the Jade mountain does not, people will continue to self-inflict their own troubles. Writer (Sings.) The night rain falls on the banana leaves. A red carriage passes by and the wind mourns. Masters and laymen (Sing.) Tonight and tomorrow morning, all the same, all the same, all the same; tonight and tomorrow morning, all the same; it will be wonderful; still wonderful all the same. (Mazzilli 2015a, 202) Considering that the French version followed, in this case, the Chinese version, and was not translated by the writer himself (as mentioned above), one could consider the French version as a simplification of the Chinese. Despite another translator’s involvement, this seems to follow a trend where simplification is generally found in the French versions of the plays in comparison with the Chinese. This is confirmed, yet also further complicated when we look at the author’s recommendations on the staging of the plays. On the one hand, Gao, even in his French version of Au Borde de la vie, recommends the play should be staged according to a modern dramatic expression inspired by the Chinese traditional theatre (Gao 2000b, 60).8 On the other, in both the notes to direction of the He is not very specific about what he means by that, and for that one would need to read the countless essays he wrote about his theatre which point to a cross-cultural encounter between Chinese theatrical traditions and Western modern traditions.

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play, Le Somnambule, in the French version and in a separate essay on the direction of the play, Gao says that in a Chinese representation of the play, the character of Le Sans-abri (流浪汉 Tramp) should not be like a god or a tramp, but rather should be molded on the character Ji Gong 济公, a popular figure of Chinese folklore, and the character of the prostitute should not wear a Chinese dress, whilst there are no constraints for productions in a Western language (Gao 2000b, 40). Looking at actual productions of the plays in Europe, Alan Timar’s 2001 production of Au Borde de la vie, exploits such freedom: even though in the Copat DVD of the production, Timar celebrates and acknowledges Gao’s Chineseness, there is no recognizable Chinese idiosyncrasy on stage, thus exploiting the freedom given to Western productions but not totally embracing Gao’s recommendations. Great freedom is also enjoyed the SourouS Company 2010 production of Gao’s latest play Ballade Nocturne (2010), where two female players take the place of the male performer playing an instrument and a puppet master takes the place of the two female dancers. In this regard, by not having a male presence on stage the production “removes the explicit gender tensions that are intrinsic to the text and to the original conception of the play” (Mazzilli 2015a, 210).

CONCLUDING REMARKS Looking back at these examples within the context of Gao’s overall oeuvre, in relation to the translingual/exophonic writing strategies of contamination and separation, one could argue that Gao’s liberties in the Chinese self-translations point to separation, namely, his attempt to keep the French and the Chinese as separate as possible, which would make his exophony quite similar to Lahiri. However, beyond the main differences, there are many similarities between the Chinese and French versions, and it would be totally far-fetched to call them two separate works. Furthermore, the intention to reproduce the musicality of the French and the attempt in some cases to recommend Chinese theatrical tradition as source for inspiration in the staging of this work can be seen as a form of contamination between the two cultures and versions of the same play. In fact, it is not surprising that much of the theatre scholarship on Gao has emphasized the transcultural nature of his theatre and has highlighted the Chineseness of the work (Zhao 2000; Quah 2004). It is also very important to note that the English translations of Gao’s works (mainly by Gilbert Fong) are from the Chinese versions of the plays and retain the Chinese essence in the translation, whilst others such as Conceison, in her translation of Ballade Nocturne, has looked both at the French and Chinese versions of that play. Following suite from Conceison, it is only the more recent scholarship of Gao (Mazzilli 2015a, b; Coulter 2014; and Fusini 2020, to mention a few) that has attempted to see his theatrical work outside a Chinese paradigm. However, as he said in his Nobel Prize lecture and as is evident in his essays, Chinese culture is part of his DNA. As mentioned above, unlike Lahiri, the fact that Gao wants to write in Chinese to see his work still published and produced in Taiwan and Hong Kong signifies his own attachment to Sinophone culture, which should not be seen merely as the failure to fully escape his Chinese identity but as part of his fluidity, the fact that he is comfortable to see himself as a writer in exile and, by doing so, unknowingly, making a political stand, creating, as Joubin suggested, his own cultural center. Nomadism, exile/escape, and postdramatic transnationalism are not a total abandonment of the culture of origin but just the opposite. Gao’s ability to inject and confuse and cross-references between cultures demonstrates the creative transformative potential of contamination and

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assimilation (here intended as foreignization), which is enabled by using the cultural elements of one’s choosing. Finally, it is through the theatrical medium that such a freedom is further enhanced because, as demonstrated by Gao’s productions of his plays, staging is another form of translation, and transformation, which challenges the idea of one dominating “original text,” one monolingual cultural setting of one’s nation, thus transcending national boundaries. It is theatre as potentially a political forum that reinforces the political stance of Gao’s postdramatic transnationalism.

REFERENCES Chen, Weihong, and Xiaojuan Cheng. 2015. “A Preliminary Probe into Lin Shu’ s Creative Translation.” Journal of Language Teaching and Research 6 (2): 416–22. Conceison, Claire. 2009. “The French Gao Xingjian, Bilingualism, and Ballade Nocturne.” Hong Kong Drama Review 8: 303–22. Coulter, Todd. 2014. Transcultural Aesthetics in the Plays of Gao Xingjian. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. De Donno, Fabrizio. 2021. “Translingual Affairs of World Literature: Rootlessness and Romance in Jhumpa Lahiri and Yoko Tawada.” Journal of World Literature 6 (1): 103–22. Fusini, Letizia. 2020. Dionysus on the Other Shore. Leiden: Brill. Gao Xingjian 高行健. 1996.《沒有主義》[No-isms]. Hong Kong: Cosmos Books. Gao Xingjian 高行健. 2000a. “Gao Xingjian – Nobel Lecture.” The Nobel Prize. Available online: https:// www.nobelprize.org/prizes/literature/2000/gao/25532-gao-xingjian-nobel-lecture-2000-2 (accessed November 20, 2021). Gao Xingjian 高行健. 2000b. Gao Xingjian, théâtre 1 (La fuite, Au bord de la vie, Le somnambule, Quatre quatuors pour un week-end [Gao Xingjian, theatre 1 (Escape, Between Life and Death, Nocturnal Wanderer, Weekend Quartet)]. Carnières: Lansman. Gao Xingjian 高行健. 2000c.《八月雪》[Snow in August]. Taipei: Lianjing. Gao Xingjian 高行健. 2004. Le Quêteur de la mort suivi de “L’Autre rive et La Neige en août” [Death Collector, followed by The Other Shore and Snow in August], translated by Noël Dutrait and Lilliane Dutrait. Paris: Seul. Gao Xingjian 高行健. 2010. Ballade Nocturne: Libretto for a Dance Performance, translated by Claire Conceison. London: Sylph Editions. Joubin, Alexa (Huang, Alexa). 2011. “The Theatricality of Religious Rhetoric: Gao Xingjian and the Meaning of Exile.” Theatre Journal 63 (3): 365–79. Kellman, Steven G., 2000. The Translingual Imagination. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Kong, Shuyu. 2014. “Ma Jian and Gao Xingjian: Intellectual Nomadism and Exilic Consciousness in Sinophone Literature.” Canadian Review of Comparative Literature/Revue Canadienne de Littérature Comparée 41 (2): 126–46. Mazzilli, Mary. 2015a. Gao Xingjian’s Post-Exile Plays: Transnationalism and Postdramatic Theatre. London: Bloomsbury Methuen Drama. Mazzilli, Mary. 2015b. “Gender in Gao Xingjian’s Between Life and Death: The Notion of Originary Self and the Use of Tripartition.” Frontiers of Literary Studies in China 9 (3): 369–94. McCormick, John. 2001. “The Translingual Imagination.” Sewanee Review 109 (2): lviii–lx. Morgan, Margot. 2013. Politics and Theatre in Twentieth-Century Europe: Imagination and Resistance. Critical Political Theory and Radical Practice. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Naguschewski, Dirk, Robert Stockhammer, and Susan Arndt. 2006. Exophonie: Anders-Sprachigkeit (in) der Literatur [Exophony: Other languages in/of literature]. Berlin: Kulturverl. Kadmos. Orr, Mary. 2002. “Review of The Translingual Imagination, by Steven G. Kellmann. Modern Language Review 97 (2): 524–5. Polezzi, Loredana. 2012. “Translation and Migration.” Translation Studies 5 (3): 345–56.

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Pym, Anthony. 2002. “The Translingual Imagination by Steven G. Kellman.” Translation and Literature 11 (1): 139–41. Quah, Sy Ren. 2004. Gao Xingjian and Transcultural Chinese Theater. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. Sun, Yifeng. 2003. “Translating Cultural Differences.” Perspectives: Studies in Translatology 11 (1): 25–36. Végsö, Roland. 2010. “The Mother Tongues of Modernity: Modernism, Transnationalism, Translation.” Journal of Modern Literature 33 (2): 24–46. Wang, Mingxin. 2020. “Translation as Creation: Interview with Gao Xingjian.” TranscUlturAl 12 (2): 50–2. Available online: http://ejournals.library.ualberta.ca/index.php/TC (accessed November 20, 2021). Wasserstrom, Jeffrey. 2013. “A Transnational, Translingual Writer: Claire Conceison on Gao Xingjian” Los Angeles Review of Books. Available online: https://lareviewofbooks.org/article/claire-conceison-on-gaoxingjian/ (accessed November 20, 2021). Wright, Chantal. 2010. “Exophony and Literary Translation.” Target: International Journal of Translation Studies 22 (1): 22–39. Wright, Chantal. 2016. Literary Translation. Routledge Translation Guides. London: Routledge. Xu Shuya (Gao Xingjian). 2005. Le Neige en août [Snow in August]. Arles: Actes Sud. Yip, Terry Siu-han, and Kwok-kan Tam. 2002. “Gender and Self in Gao Xingjian’s Three Post-Exile Plays.” In Soul of Chaos, edited by Kwok-kan Tam, 219–23. Hong Kong: Chinese University Press. Zhao, Henry. 2000. Towards a Modern Zen Theatre: Gao Xingjian and Chinese Theatre Experimentalism. London: School of Oriental and African Studies. Available online: https://eprints.soas.ac.uk/1337 (accessed November 20, 2021).

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Born Translated? On the Opposition Between “Chineseness” and Modern Chinese Literature Written for and from Translation LUCAS KLEIN

Rebecca Walkowitz’s Born Translated celebrates novels that are not only “written for translation” but also “written from translation,” literature that takes “translation as a spur to literary innovation” (Walkowitz 2015, 3–4). With respect to China, however, the charge has often been that literature influenced by translation—and with an eye to being translated into other languages—is somehow less “Chinese.” This criticism is nearly as old as modern Chinese literature itself, and it has remained perennial. In 1927, Dutch sinologist J. J. L. Duyvendak read a poem by Li Jinfa 李金髮 (1900–1976) and asked, “Is there anything Chinese about this any longer?” (Is hier nog iets Chineesch aan?). He continued: [A] horror clutches one to be reading these things in Chinese. It is a madness born of resistance to tradition, animal cries that have been suppressed for too long: a well-bred child’s pathological urge for unseemly words. The soil of the soul has been upturned in China, and her most precious cultural goods have become unbearable to her. (Duyvendak 1927, 133–34; thanks to Maghiel van Crevel for the reference and translation) And, in 1938, Pearl Buck began her Nobel Prize acceptance speech with a swipe at “modern Chinese writers who have been too strongly under foreign influence while they were yet ignorant of the riches of their own country” (Buck 1939, 12). And, in 1990, both W. J. F. Jenner and Stephen Owen made similar claims about the poetry of Bei Dao 北岛 (1949–), as translated by Bonnie

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McDougall. Why is it, Jenner asks, “that a culture that once produced so much outstanding poetry cannot do so any more [sic]?” Not that this is the poet’s fault: “it was bad luck,” he says, to be born into a period when the resources of China’s literary tradition were out of reach, and the culture was left with a written code that while purporting to reflect living speech could in fact only be used to its full effect by people soaked in the concise but daunting written code of the past. (Jenner 1990, 194) For Owen, the poetry’s distance from being Chinese is so extreme that, he states, most of these poems translate themselves. These could just as easily be translations from a Slovak or an Estonian or a Philippine poet. It could even be a kind of American poetry, though in this final hypothesis a question arises that must trouble us … We must wonder if such collections of poetry in translation become publishable only because the publisher and the readership have been assured that the poetry was lost in translation. But what if the poetry wasn’t lost in translation? What if this is it? This is it. (Owen 1990, 31) This last comment shows the proximity between criticisms based on the kind of writing Walkowitz calls from translation with the assumption that the writing is what she would call for translation, rather than being written for Chinese readers. Owen’s most memorable question in the review is, “is this Chinese literature, or literature that began in the Chinese language?” (1990, 31). It is not that different from Duyvendak’s “Is there anything Chinese about this any longer?” It is worth considering why the above judgments are about Chinese literature, where the transition to modernity seems starker than in European languages because it involves a switch from the classical language 文言 to the vernacular 白話. Not that people never mourned their imagined bygone cultural purity elsewhere: as Wiebke Denecke, writing about classical Japanese and Roman literature, mocks, Once upon a time people’s customs were undisturbed and pristine, simple and uncorrupted. Native poetry and populations flourished in an age of divine marvels. Then came intruders who destroyed the paradise of blissful simplicity: Chinese writing and literature, Greek letters and physicians. (Denecke 2013, 82) She quotes Cato the Elder (234–149 bce) on the Greeks, and the preface to the Collection of Ancient and Modern Poetry (Kokinshū 古今歌集) by Ki No Yoshimochi 紀淑望 (?–919 ce): “When that race gives us its literature it will corrupt all things, and even all the more if it sends hither its physicians” (quandoque ista gens suas litteras dabit, omnia conrumpet, tum etiam magis, si medicos suos hoc mittet); “They imported those Chinese characters and transformed those customs in our Japanese land. All at once the ways of the people were changed, and Japanese poetry gradually declined” 移彼漢家之字。化我日域之俗。民業一改。和歌漸衰 (Denecke 2013, 81–2). But she is

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able to afford her mocking tone because so few of us today think of Greek or Chinese writing as impositions on Roman and Japanese culture, respectively, but rather as essential components to the hybridities that are Roman or Japanese culture as we understand them. With China, then, the question is whether literary modernity showed up as a Western imposition or as an opening up into hybridity. The response from writers of modern Chinese literature has been that of emphasizing, and praising, the hybridity of modern China and modern literature’s being born in translation. Bei Dao countered the claim that his poetry was insufficiently Chinese by explaining that he does indeed write in a “translation style” 翻译文体, which, like translation, occupies “the strip between two languages, and carries the inspiration of the two languages without belonging to either … translation is an attack on Chinese, which is a severely closed language system, and thus translation has promoted the turn toward modern forms” (1993, 61). In 1953, Ji Xian 紀弦 (1913–2013) had defined modern poetry as being about “horizontal transplantation, not vertical inheritance” 新詩乃橫的移植, 而非縱的繼承 (Ji 1953, 92). Earlier, Lu Xun 魯迅 (1881–1936) advocated “hard translation” 硬譯, or what Lawrence Venuti would call “foreignisation,” with the aim not of creating an “ethics of difference” (as per Venuti 1998 and 2008), but of revolutionizing Chinese. He admitted that though you may have to “trace your way through the syntax” at first, “once you are used to this, you assimilate these expressions into your own language” 開初自然是需“找尋句 法的線索位置” …… 但經找尋和習慣, 現在已經同化, 成為已有了 (Lu Xun 1981, 199; translated by the Yangs, 1980, 78). And he has been proven correct: translations by him and others reshaped Chinese literature, making both its forms and content very different from what had been known to Chinese literature before. Most of the critical responses to Owen’s review have followed Lu Xun’s, Ji Xian’s, and Bei Dao’s praise of modern Chinese literature’s translational incorporation of the intercultural. Judging by the number of publications devoting space to it, Owen’s review launched one of the most productive debates in the study of Chinese literature. There were discussions of translation, whether from Yunte Huang (2002, 164–82) arguing for more foreignization, in Venuti’s terms, or David Damrosch (2003, 19–23) for more domestication. Many responses dismantled Owen’s logic—Rey Chow asserting that “Owen’s real complaint is that he is the victim of a monstrous world order in front of which a sulking impotence like his is the only claim to truth” (1993, 4; emphasis in original); Leo Lee noting Bei Dao’s linguistic localism, arguing that what the poet is after “is not simply Chinese, but rather … the Beijing dialect” 北島的鄉音非但是中文, 而且是 …… 北京 話 (1992, 203–04); Cosima Bruno noting that Owen’s imagination of translation as “as a process of estrangement … an antinomy of ‘mother culture’ and ‘other culture’” becomes paradoxical when the search “for authenticity … generates anxiety around the work’s cultural genealogy, ending up flattening cultural details in stereotypes and multifarious range in mono-dimensional selections” (2012, 270); Eric Hayot observing that though Owen faults contemporary Chinese poetry for being “merely a ‘version’ or Anglo-American or French modernism, he follows a logic of innovation in which the ‘version’ of something cannot take precedence over its original” (2012, 158); Jessica Berman noting that while for Owen “‘international modernism’ stands as a clear sign of the absence of the local and a priority on the new,” for writers such as Bei Dao, the “choice between local and international, community member and cosmopolitan, is a false dichotomy” (2009, 56) (not to mention, “the matter of being local depends upon the reader’s vantage point” [62]). And there have been historicizations of Owen’s argument itself, such as Jacob Edmond

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pointing out that Bonnie McDougall’s translation of Bei Dao emphasized “the translatability and universal images of Bei Dao’s poetry” in the context of the Cold War, whereas in “the post-Cold War world, Owen connected translatability to globalisation and the end of history” (2012, 113). There have also been passing references in books by Emily Apter (2006, 101–02), Julia Lovell (2006, 135), Maghiel van Crevel (2008, 155), Alexander Beecroft (2015, 280–82), and Rebecca Walkowitz (2015, 270n1–2). Mostly, though, the responses have argued for an international aspect to Chinese modernity that Owen seems to disparage. Michelle Yeh asked, “How do we draw a clear and distinct border between ‘national’ and ‘international’ poetries? More important to consider would be: does this border need to be drawn?” 我們如何在“民族”和“國際”詩歌間 劃一條清楚固定的界限?更重要的考慮是:這條綫必須劃嗎? (1991, 95). Rey Chow said that “the historical context essential to the writing and reading of contemporary Chinese poetry is not taken seriously” (1993, 2) in Owen’s review. Zhang Longxi wrote that Owen’s “views tend to ghettoize Chinese literature” (1993, 84). Gregory Lee said, “Owen articulates a distaste for the chimaera which is twentieth-century poetry that is equal only to the fear of the hybrid expressed by the cultural custodians of China’s own conservative regnant authority” (1996, 99). Yeh, writing again, points out that Owen’s “disappointment with and disdain for modern Chinese poetry stems from” his “subscription to … ‘the myth of purity,’ ‘the myth of authenticity,’ or, borrowing from Julia Kristeva, ‘the cult of origin’” (2000, 118), which only premodern Chinese literature can fulfill. If Owen believes only premodern literature can satisfy his desire for the purely Chinese, it is because premodern literature comes before the era of “world poetry,” which for Owen, turns out, unsurprisingly, to be a version of Anglo-American modernism or French modernism, depending on which wave of colonial culture first washed over the intellectuals of the country in question. This situation is the quintessence of cultural hegemony, when an essentially local tradition (Anglo-European) is widely taken for granted as universal. (Owen 1990, 28) In this vision, what matters about modernity is not that it opened up China to a hybridity, but that it entered China as a response to Christian missionaries from Europe, the Qing dynasty’s defeat in the Opium Wars (1839–1842, 1856–1860) and the First Sino-Japanese War (1894–1895), the coup d’état that ended the Hundred Days’ Reform (1898), the looting of Beijing and other cities by the Eight-Nation Alliance after they suppressed the Boxer Rebellion (1900), and the Treaty of Versailles offering up Chinese land to Japan (1919). Seen this way, literary modernity is a European imposition, and Chinese efforts to modernize are based on premises that internalize Chinese cultural inferiority. But alleging the internalization of cultural inferiority comes with an emphasis on cultural particularity. In his defense of Owen, Andrew Jones focuses on the structural inequalities Owen describes in his discussion of modernity: Modern Chinese literature … is itself a creation of China’s encounter with the West, of the absorption (through the medium of translations of Western texts) of Western literary forms necessitated by China’s “humiliation” at the hands of Western “cultural self-confidence” and “military and technical power.” (Jones 1994, 176, quoting Owen 1990, 29–30)

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Following up in 2003, Owen considers inequalities in the “international structure of value” via an equivalent to world literature, the mall food court: “Chinese food stalls in food courts, like most Chinese restaurants catering to an American clientele, serve neither steamed bread buns (mantou, which are, indeed, just bread) nor shredded pig’s belly nor seasoned jellyfish” (2003, 535–37). Good point. (On the translatability of bread and mantou, see Klein 2018a.) But when he turns to the literary equivalent of seasoned jellyfish, Owen discusses contemporary Chinese poetry in classical forms (2003, 543–48), as if it were not part of the modern Chinese literature that is “a creation of China’s encounter with the West”—as if rejecting the influence of the West was not also a result of that same encounter (on the modernity of modern poetry in classical forms, see Wu 2013). Owen has a good analysis of the power dynamics surrounding Chinese literature’s being in the world, but he is less interested in the world’s being in Chinese literature. The critics who wrote in opposition to Owen’s review are not blind to the structural inequalities of modernity or even world literature, even if they do not necessarily emphasize it here. Rather, their underlying concern is on tactics of poetics, or how a poet such as Bei Dao should write in a Chinese and global modernity defined by translational hybridity and international inequality. Problem was, they left that underlying, rather than explicit. The debate around Owen’s review could have been a discussion within postcolonialism, some focusing on the “positional superiority” (Said 1978, 7) of the West over China in the field of literature, others arguing for cultural translation’s ability to create a “Third Space” that might “elude the politics of polarity” (Bhabha 1994, 39). Instead, the debate became one about contested definitions of modernity, reifying its opposition to Chineseness. As Michelle Yeh wrote in a 2008 article that does not mention Owen’s review but which seems aggravated by its unspoken presence nonetheless, “‘modernity’ clashes with ‘Chineseness’” (2008, 14). If that is the case, then the answer to Duyvendak’s and Owen’s questions is: no, modern Chinese poetry is not really that Chinese, after all. Is that the best we can do? In his reaction to Owen, Henry Y. H. Zhao writes that in contrast to finding it “a typical subversion of national tradition by Western influence,” he prefers “to see New Poetry as a more effective continuation of Chinese tradition—its transformation, not its disruption” (Zhao 1994, 163; see Zhao 1991 for the Chinese version). Similarly, Yeh has written, “However radical it may seem, modern Chinese poetry is very much part of Chinese tradition, which is going through its latest phase of transformation and being subjected to the latest round of reinterpretations” (2000, 118). (How different from her later statement that “‘modernity’ clashes with ‘Chineseness’”!) In contrast, Ji Xian defining modern poetry in Chinese as being about “horizontal transplantation, not vertical inheritance” (my emphasis) implies that premodern Chinese poetry knew only vertical inheritance, never horizontal transplantation. Bei Dao’s calling Chinese “a severely closed language system” is even more extreme than Owen describing the “intense conservatism of Chinese literature” (1990, 30): they both contrast modern Chinese poetic openness to the closed, conservative past of the China of their imaginations. Both Owen and Bei Dao were born in the 1940s, on the eve of the establishment of the PRC; in the early 1990s, when they were writing the pieces in question, China had in fact been closed off to much of the world for most of their lives, because of the US-led embargo from 1949 to 1971, and the Sino-Soviet split from 1956 to 1989. They were both naturalizing their historically contingent vision of what made China “China,” projecting it backwards onto the past. But the history of a prehybrid China is just as much a fantasy as Ki No Yoshimochi’s and Cato the Elder’s fantasies of prehybrid Japan and Rome. As Carla Nappi writes, looking at translation

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in early modern China, or the Ming (1368–1644) and Qing (1636–1911) dynasties, “we must keep in mind that the body of a historical ‘China’ is a hybrid and Frankensteinian creation stitched together from many languages, peoples, and empires” (2015, 220; see Nappi 2021). Earlier, the ci 詞 became one of Chinese poetry’s most beloved subgenres by featuring lyrics written to foreign music; Stuart Sargent writes that with its popularization, China “finally caught up with the rest of the world” by “participating in the culture that stretche[d] all the way across Central Asia, from Persia to Japan” (2001, 314). Two of the scholars who have been most thorough and vocal about translation and cross-cultural hybridity in premodern Chinese literature are Victor Mair and Haun Saussy. Mair has argued for the many cultural and literary exchanges from Indic into Sinitic languages: he has demonstrated that the early vernacular “transformation texts” 變文 of the Tang dynasty (618–907) and Five dynasties (907–960) periods had as antecedent “a type of picture storytelling transmitted to China through Central Asia from India” (1983, 5; see Mair 1989); he also showed, in a long article written with Tsu-lin Mei, that regulated verse 律詩 was developed in the Six Dynasties (220–589) “to reproduce, in Chinese, the same euphonic effect achieved by meter in Sanskrit” (Mair and Mei 1991, 379–80; for a study bringing regulated verse to bear on modern Chinese poetry, see Klein 2018b). Saussy has focused on broader historical narratives to renarrate the idea of Chinese exclusivity that gives us “Chineseness.” His 2018 Translation as Citation looks at how the history of translation in China has been intertwined with canonical Chinese texts, focusing in one book on “episodes in which something new came into Chinese culture from outside through translations-as-citations,” he calls them, of the Zhuangzi 莊子 (dated to the fourth or third century bce), which designate the book of Daoist philosophy as a “gateway text through which unknown and exotic ideas … could first become citable and speakable in Chinese” (Saussy 2018, 5–6). His following book, The Making of Barbarians (2022), focuses on East Asia’s overlapping literary histories in exploration of Chinese literature’s reception of foreign literary impact alongside consideration of Chinese influence on other Sinosphere idioms. After Nappi, Mair, and Saussy (and the many Chinese scholars whose work they draw on, such as Chen Yinque 陳寅恪, Jao Tsung-i 饒宗頤, and Ji Xianlin 季羨林), and an understanding of the history of the ci, the idea that there could be a premodern “Chineseness” independent of foreign influence is hard to sustain. Much of premodern Chinese literary culture was, like modern Chinese literature, born in translation. Comments such as Sargent’s that China “finally caught up with the rest of the world” by participating in international literary culture should offer some perspective on the worries about modern China’s belatedness. Owen writes of modern Chinese poetry: “as in any cross-cultural exchange that goes in only one direction, the culture that receives influence will always find itself in the secondary position. It will always appear slightly ‘behind the times’” (1990, 30). Hayot criticizes narrating “the passage of modernism from Europe to the globe” as “merely another history of capitalist development,” as it makes “‘other’ modernisms” seem “belated, secondary, or imitative” (2012, 156). But the influence from India on medieval China was mostly monodirectional, too (monks went to China from India to propagate Buddhism, for instance, and from China to India for more authoritative scriptures), and I am not aware of any writings from premodern China that imply belatedness in the same way that multicultural hybridity inspires the kind of fantasy for a prehybrid purity seen in Ki No Yoshimochi or Cato the Elder—or Han Yu 韓愈 (768–824), for that matter. Belatedness with respect to modernity in China should also be so outlandish a concern: as Andre Gunder Frank has made the case, because of the global silver trade to Ming China from South

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America under Spanish colonialism, “the entire world economic order was—literally—Sinocentric” from the fifteenth to the seventeenth century. “It was only the nineteenth-century Europeans who literally rewrote this history from their new Eurocentric perspective” (1998, 117). We who study Chinese literature can, if we want, cast off or write against this Eurocentric imposition. As David Wang writes, “Belated modernity is a self-imposed torture by those aware of the hegemony of Western modern discourse who choose nevertheless to dwell within it” (1997, 7). One way to write against the idea of belated modernity and the fantasy of a prehybrid purity it often engenders is to write about born-translated works of premodern or early modern literature. One such text is《西遊記》(The Journey to the West; c. 1592): published at the time of Chinese centrality to the world economy (see Handler-Spitz 2017 and Ma 2017), it has been popular and influential not only in China but also in Korea and Japan for its fabulous narrative of the pilgrimage to India of translator and monk Xuanzang 玄奘 (fl. c. 602–664). But even scholars of modern and contemporary Chinese literature can choose not to dwell within the hegemony of Western modern discourse. In addition to allegorizing translation, Journey to the West rewrites earlier Chinese literature, from folktales to Xuanzang’s《大唐西域記》(Great Tang Records on the Western Regions; 646). This interface of (noncanonical) texts of the Chinese past with translation finds a reincarnation of sorts in the Roots-seeking 寻根 literature of the 1980s, whose most notable figures were Han Shaogong 韩少功 (1953–), Mo Yan 莫言 (1955–), Jia Pingwa 贾平凹 (1952–), and Ah Cheng 阿城 (1949–). As Jing Wang writes (1996), Roots-seeking literature has opened inquiry into Chinesenesses via their “interest in marginal cultures as alternatives to the mainstream,” though there has been some discussion of whether its “magic realism” has been more “influenced by its Latin American counterpart or derived from indigenous roots.” Some have pointed to “China’s rich, persistent tradition of tales of the supernatural and the fantastic, the zhiguai [志怪] (records of anomalies) and the chuanqi [傳奇] (accounts of the extraordinary),” while others have honored their indebtedness to the Chinese translations of Gabriel García Márquez, which started being published in the 1980s (Wang 1996, 536–37). But why pick between either Chinese or foreign sources? Roots-seeking writing can lay out what Lydia Liu says May Fourth literature reveals about “translated modernity,” that it allows us “to identify and interpret those contingent moments and processes that are reducible neither to foreign impact nor to the self-explanatory logic of the indigenous tradition” (1995, xix). The potency of Roots-seeking literature’s investigation of Chinesenesses is, in part, its blending of the translational with the traditional, to suggest that Chinese culture was never as cut off from the rest of the world as some have imagined it to be, and at any rate we cannot now access the past as if the foreign had not affected us. Yet at times acknowledging something as written from translation does not rescue it from the implications that come with its being written for translation. Even in blending the native with the foreign, writers of Roots-seeking literature have been blamed for their presentation of a historical China as China. Poet Ouyang Jianghe 欧阳江河 (1956–) is quoted by Julia Lovell as critiquing the poetry of Yang Lian 杨炼 (1955–), a poet whose work has often been called Roots-seeking, for writing “a China that comes from the Western understanding of China, the China that the West is willing to understand, a classical, imperial, exotic China,” which is “not written for Chinese readers” (149). This is an intricate kink in the arguments we have been tracing. Usually Chinese writers accused of writing from and for translation are accused of dumbing-down or universalizing (read westernizing) their imagery and rhetoric for easy digestibility. Here, though, Ouyang saying

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Yang’s China “isn’t the China of Chinese people, it’s the China of Westerners” docks it for being “classical, imperial, exotic” (Lovell 2006, 149). But Ouyang’s writing, too, often alludes to high Chinese culture of the past, and he is associated with “Intellectual” writing 知识分子写作, where the view of intellectuals, as Dian Li explains, both “borrowed heavily from the West” but “is not foreign to the Chinese shi (scholar/official) 士 tradition” (2008, 186; see Lovell 2006, 151–52; for a reading of some of Ouyang’s work, see Admussen 2016, 133–50). Intellectual writing’s critics on the “Popular” 民间写作 side often accuse it of being too westernized and detached from the concerns of everyday Chinese people (see van Crevel 2008). So where Ouyang might be faulted for his poetry’s construction of a China that is bookish, he faults Yang for his poetry’s construction of a China that is insufficiently rigorous. Such criticisms point to how specious critiques based on Chineseness can be: no one has a very good definition of Chineseness, they just sense that writing from or for translation is not it! But grant for a moment that the China called forth by Yang’s poetry is a China of Westerners, rather than a China of Chinese people—so? Yang Lian has lived outside China since 1988, and went into exile after the massacre following the Tiananmen Square protests of 1989; though he travels back frequently, much of his audience is indeed an audience that reads his work in translation. Writing for translation may affect a change in his audience, but it does not necessarily make his poetry worse in absolute terms. The fact of exile, though, and of censorship in the mainland publishing industry more broadly, does add to the discussion of Chinese literature’s being born in translation. Owen looks askance at “international readers of translated poetry” who are “hungry for political virtue, which is always in short supply,” but writers such as Ma Jian 马建 (1953–), who writes political fiction about China and also lives in exile, have little choice but to write for translation. Owen is right that the “suffering of oppression … does not guarantee good poetry, anymore [sic] than it endows the victims of oppression with virtue” (1990, 29). But to fault Chinese writers who write in Chinese about Chinese politics for not being Chinese enough is to offer very narrow parameters for Chineseness. Readers read for many reasons. We do not always read poetry in search of transcendent beauty; sometimes we want to read “a unique, factual account of an experience in historical time, a human consciousness encountering, interpreting, and responding to the world” (how Owen described Tang poetry in 1985, 15). Sometimes we want to learn about a place, or people’s experiences in that place, and read nonfiction to fulfill that need. Works such as《十个词汇里的中国》(China in Ten Words; 2011) by Yu Hua 余华 (1960–) and《武汉日记》(Wuhan Diary; 2020) by Fang Fang 方方 (1955–) are works non-Chinese readers have turned to for such news, Yu Hua for his witty explanations of Chinese society and Fang Fang because of her chronicling of life under Covid-19. Chinese censorship—and the fact that Yu Hua and Fang Fang knew they would be censored—has meant that their works were written for translation (as well as the smaller book markets in Hong Kong and Taiwan); Michael Berry’s translation of the Diary was available for preorder only weeks after Fang Fang finished writing it. Both author and translator have been criticized by netizens for publishing work that might make China look bad (see Berry 2020, 2022)—but the “Chineseness” of Fang Fang’s writing for translation has, to my knowledge, never come under question. The further we get from poetry, the less we hold onto the expectation that there was a Chinese essence that existed prior to translation. I began by saying that the criticism that Chinese literature is somehow less Chinese if it is inspired by translation has remained perennial—but will it return? Is the modernity that makes

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China part of such international circulations of literary prestige still so shocking? Owen complains that, by “writing a supremely translatable poetry, by the good fortune of a gifted translator and publicist,” a poet may well attain in the West the absolute pre-eminence among contemporary Chinese poets that he cannot quite attain in China itself. And the very fact of wide foreign (Western) recognition could, in turn, grant him pre-eminence in China. Thus we would have the strange phenomenon of a poet who became the leading poet in his own country because he translated well. (Owen 1990, 32) Are the criticisms of China’s modernity as derivative or belated still so easy to relate to? A year after Owen’s review Jonathan Spence published his textbook The Search for Modern China (1991), implying that China was still trying to find its modernity; today we have Klaus Mühlhahn’s Making China Modern (2019), which takes for granted that modernity in China is already here. So will the criticism that Chinese literature inspired by translation is less Chinese return? At the moment of writing, policies in the PRC seem to be turning inward, promoting suspicion of the foreign. If this continues, we may see new attempts to wrest the definition of both modernity and the Chinese past away from translation and hybridity. On the other hand, if the modernity of China catches up with the modernity of Chinese literature, we will no longer see “Chineseness” as clashing with modernity, and as awareness spreads of how much premodern Chinese literature was born translated, as well, we will see China both now and in the past as being as hybrid as Ki No Yoshimochi’s Japan and the Rome of Cato the Elder. The disparagements of works of Chinese literature written for and from translation will fade away.

REFERENCES Admussen, Nick. 2016. Recite and Refuse: Contemporary Chinese Prose Poetry. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. Apter, Emily S. 2006. The Translation Zone: A New Comparative Literature. Translation/Transnation. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Beecroft, Alexander. 2015. An Ecology of World Literature: From Antiquity to the Present Day. London: Verso. Bei Dao 北島. 1993. “Translation Style: A Quiet Revolution” [翻譯文體:一場悄悄的革命]. In Inside Out: Modernism and Postmodernism in Chinese Literary Culture, edited by Wendy Larson and Anne WedellWedellsborg, translated by Wei Deng, 60–4. Aarhus: Aarhus University Press. Berman, Jessica. 2009. “Imagining World Literatures: Modernism and Comparative Literature.” In Disciplining Modernism, edited by Pamela L. Caughie, 53–70. London: Palgrave Macmillan. https://doi. org/10.1057/9780230274297_4. Berry, Michael. 2020. “I Translated ‘Wuhan Diary’ to Amplify the Author’s Voice of Courage.” Washington Post, June 26, sec. Opinion. Available online: https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/2020/06/25/itranslated-wuhan-diary-amplify-authors-voice-courage/ (accessed May 3, 2023). Berry, Michael. 2022. Translation, Disinformation, and Wuhan Diary: Anatomy of a Transpacific Cyber Campaign. Cham: Springer International. Bhabha, Homi K. 1994. The Location of Culture. London: Routledge. Bruno, Cosima. 2012. “The Public Life of Contemporary Chinese Poetry in English Translation.” Target: International Journal of Translation Studies 24 (2): 253–85. Buck, Pearl Sydenstricker. 1939. The Chinese Novel: Nobel Lecture Delivered Before the Swedish Academy at Stockholm, December 12, 1938. New York: John Day Co.

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Chow, Rey. 1993. Writing Diaspora: Tactics of Intervention in Contemporary Cultural Studies. Arts and Politics of the Everyday. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Damrosch, David. 2003. What Is World Literature? Translation/Transnation. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Denecke, Wiebke. 2013. Classical World Literatures: Sino-Japanese and Greco-Roman Comparisons. New York: Oxford University Press. Duyvendak, J. J. L. 1927. China tegen de westerkim [China against the Western Horizon]. Haarlem: Bohn. Edmond, Jacob. 2012. A Common Strangeness: Contemporary Poetry, Cross-Cultural Encounter, Comparative Literature. New York: Fordham University Press. Fang Fang 方方. 2020. Wuhan Diary: Dispatches from a Quarantined City, translated by Michael Berry. New York: HarperCollins. Frank, Andre Gunder. 1998. ReOrient: Global Economy in the Asian Age. Berkeley: University of California Press. Handler-Spitz, Rivi. 2017. Symptoms of an Unruly Age: Li Zhi and Cultural Manifestations of Early Modernity. Seattle: University of Washington Press. Hayot, Eric. 2012. “Chinese Modernism, Mimetic Desire, and European Time.” In The Oxford Handbook of Global Modernisms, edited by Mark A. Wollaeger and Matt Eatough, 149–70. New York: Oxford University Press. Huang, Yunte. 2002. Transpacific Displacement: Ethnography, Translation, and Intertextual Travel in Twentieth-Century American Literature. Berkeley: University of California Press. Jenner, W. J. F. 1990. Review of The August Sleepwalker, by Bei Dao. Australian Journal of Chinese Affairs 23: 193–95. Ji Xian 紀弦. 1953.《現代派的信條》[The Tenets of Modernism].《現代詩季刊》[The Modern Poetry Quarterly] 13 (February): 92–3. Jones, Andrew F. 1994. “Chinese Literature in the ‘World’ Literary Economy.” Modern Chinese Literature 8 (1/2): 171–90. https://doi.org/10.2307/41490729. Klein, Lucas. 2018a. “Our Daily Bread.” Metamorphoses: A Journal of Literary Translation 26 (1): 14–20. Klein, Lucas. 2018b. The Organization of Distance: Poetry, Translation, Chineseness. Sinica Leidensia 141. Leiden: Brill. Lee, Gregory B. 1996. Troubadours, Trumpeters, Troubled Makers: Lyricism, Nationalism and Hybridity in China and Its Others. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Lee, Leo Ou-fan 李歐梵. 1992.《狐狸洞詩話》[Poetry Talks from the Fox Burrow].《今天》 [Today] 1: 201–04. Li, Dian. 2008. “Naming and Antinaming: Poetic Debate in Contemporary China.” In New Perspectives on Contemporary Chinese Poetry, edited by Christopher Lupke, 185–200. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Liu, Lydia H. 1995. Translingual Practice: Literature, National Culture, and Translated Modernity—China, 1900–1937. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Lovell, Julia. 2006. The Politics of Cultural Capital: China’s Quest for a Nobel Prize in Literature. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. Lu Xun 魯迅. 1980. Lu Xun: Selected Works, translated by Yang Xianyi and Gladys Yang, 2nd edn. Beijing: Foreign Languages Press. Lu Xun 魯迅. 1981.《「硬譯」與「文學的階級性」》[“Hard Translation” and the “Class Character of Literature”]. In 《魯迅全集》 [The Collected Works of Lu Xun], 4: 195–222. Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe. Ma, Ning. 2017. The Age of Silver: The Rise of the Novel East and West. Global Asias. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Mair, Victor H. 1983. Tun-Huang Popular Narratives. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Mair, Victor H. 1989. T’ang Transformation Texts: A Study of the Buddhist Contribution to the Rise of Vernacular Fiction and Drama in China. Harvard-Yenching Institute Monograph Series 28. Cambridge, MA: Council on East Asian Studies, Harvard University. Mair, Victor H., and Tsu-lin Mei. 1991. “The Sanskrit Origins of Recent Style Prosody.” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 51 (2): 375–470. https://doi.org/10.2307/2719286.

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Mühlhahn, Klaus. 2019. Making China Modern: From the Great Qing to Xi Jinping. Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. Nappi, Carla. 2015. “Full. Empty. Stop. Go.: Translating Miscellany in Early Modern China.” In Early Modern Cultures of Translation, edited by Karen Newman and Jane Tylus, 206–20. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Nappi, Carla. 2021. Translating Early Modern China: Illegible Cities. Global Asias. New York: Oxford University Press. Owen, Stephen. 1985. Traditional Chinese Poetry and Poetics: Omen of the World. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Owen, Stephen. 1990. “What Is World Poetry? The Anxiety of Global Influence.” New Republic 203 (21): 28–32. Owen, Stephen. 2003. “Stepping Forward and Back: Issues and Possibilities for ‘World’ Poetry.” Modern Philology 100 (4): 532–48. Said, Edward W. 1978. Orientalism. New York: Pantheon. Sargent, Stuart. 2001. “Tz’u.” In The Columbia History of Chinese Literature, edited by Victor H. Mair, 314–36. New York: Columbia University Press. Saussy, Haun. 2018. Translation as Citation: Zhuangzi Inside Out. Global Asias. New York: Oxford University Press. Saussy, Haun. 2022. The Making of Barbarians: Chinese Literature and Multilingual Asia. Translation/ Transnation. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Spence, Jonathan D. 1991. The Search for Modern China. New York: W. W. Norton. van Crevel, Maghiel 2008. Chinese Poetry in Times of Mind, Mayhem and Money. Sinica Leidensia 86. Leiden: Brill. Venuti, Lawrence. 1998. The Scandals of Translation: Towards an Ethics of Difference. New York: Routledge. Venuti, Lawrence. 2008. The Translator’s Invisibility: A History of Translation, 2nd edn. New York: Routledge. Walkowitz, Rebecca L. 2015. Born Translated: The Contemporary Novel in an Age of World Literature. Literature Now. New York: Columbia University Press. Wang, David Der-wei. 1997. Fin-de-Siècle Splendor: Repressed Modernities of Late Qing Fiction, 1849–1911. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Wang, Jing. 1996. High Culture Fever: Politics, Aesthetics, and Ideology in Deng’s China. Berkeley: University of California Press. Wu, Shengqing. 2013. Modern Archaics: Continuity and Innovation in the Chinese Lyric Tradition 1900–1937. Harvard-Yenching Institute Monograph Series 88. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center. Yeh, Michelle 奚密. 1991.《差異的憂慮——一個回響》[The Anxiety of Difference—A Rejoinder].《今天》 [Today] 1: 94–6. Yeh, Michelle 奚密. 2000. “Chinese Postmodernism and the Cultural Politics of Modern Chinese Poetry.” In Cross-Cultural Readings of Chineseness: Narratives, Images, and Interpretations of the 1990s, edited by Wen-Hsin Yeh, 100–127. China Research Monographs 51. Berkeley: Institute of East Asian Studies, University of California. Yeh, Michelle 奚密. 2008. “‘There Are No Camels in the Koran’: What Is Modern about Modern Chinese Poetry?” In New Perspectives on Contemporary Chinese Poetry, edited by Christopher Lupke, 9–26. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Yu Hua 余华. 2011. China in Ten Words, translated by Allan Barr. New York: Knopf Doubleday. Zhang, Longxi. 1993. “Out of the Cultural Ghetto: Theory, Politics, and the Study of Chinese Literature.” Modern China 19 (1): 71–101. https://doi.org/10.2307/189329. Zhao, Henry Y. H. 赵毅衡. 1991.《新潮文學:文化轉型期的純文學》[New-Wave Literature: Pure Literature in an Age of Cultural Transformation].《今天》[Today] 1: 83–93. Zhao, Henry Y. H. 赵毅衡. 1994. “Sensing the Shift: New Wave Literature and Chinese Culture.” In Undersky, underground, edited by Henry Y. H. Zhao and John Cayley, 155–68. London: WellSweep.

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Afterword

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CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Teaching Modern Chinese Literature in/and Translation MICHEL HOCKX

In this chapter, I look back on my experience teaching modern Chinese literature for more than three decades at universities in the Netherlands, the United Kingdom, and the United States. I taught my first course in modern Chinese literature at Leiden University in the spring of 1990, and I have continued to teach such courses almost every academic year since. Translation is and always has been an integral part of the teaching of such courses. Yet the role and status of translations is not frequently made explicit in the pedagogical process, even on courses where the main aim is to produce translations of Chinese texts. I draw on my experience in three discrete educational systems to discuss different ways in which translation features in the teaching of modern Chinese literature. I start with the time-honored grammar translation method, in which I was taught myself when I was a student, and which aims at producing translations that reflect as closely as possible the linguistic structure of the source text. I also discuss a variant of this method in which the approach is similar but the aim is different, namely, to train students’ ability to translate (or paraphrase) previously unseen texts without the help of a dictionary. Finally, I look at the pitfalls that occur when teaching modern Chinese literature solely on the basis of English translations to students who are used to reading closely and critically but who have no way of recognizing unconventional or dubious choices made by the translators of the texts they are reading. Below, I first briefly introduce the courses I taught and the programs that they were part of. That will be followed by a discussion of the canon of texts that are typically read on such courses. I will then return to talk about the different courses, focusing specifically on how they were taught and what approaches to translation they adopted.

LEIDEN UNIVERSITY, 1990–1996 As a PhD student and later a postdoctoral fellow at Leiden University, I had the opportunity to teach two or three iterations of a course called Short Stories in Modern Chinese. I had taken this course myself as an undergraduate at Leiden in 1985. It was a third-year level undergraduate course that was part of the four-year program in “Languages and Cultures of China” (commonly referred to in those days as “Sinology”). The program consisted of an intensive language program in modern and classical Chinese, with an optional year abroad in China, as well as content courses that mainly dealt with Chinese history, literature, politics, and economics. At the higher levels,

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such content courses would often involve working with Chinese-language materials as part of discipline-based research. The “short stories” course was considered part of the language program and fulfilled the traditional function of literature courses in many language programs, namely, to expand vocabulary and enhance reading ability. (Of course there were also other classes that taught speaking and listening ability, but the emphasis of the program was mainly on reading and research skills.) Students on the course would all be roughly at the same level of language proficiency and could be assumed to have strong background knowledge of Chinese culture, history, and society, as presented in the various survey courses that were part of the program. The vast majority of students taking the course would not yet have done the year abroad in China. Texts were read in both fullform 繁體 and simplified 简体 characters, depending on when and where they were published.

SOAS UNIVERSITY OF LONDON, 1996–2016 The “BA Chinese” program at SOAS was a four-year language and literature program that included a compulsory year abroad at Beijing Normal University in the second year. Apart from a first-year survey course of Chinese history and culture, the program consisted exclusively of modern and classical language and literature courses. Modern literature was originally taught in both the third and fourth years, with the third-year course focusing on contemporary texts (the language of which would be more familiar to students as they came back from their year in Beijing) and the fourthyear courses dealing with Republican-period writing. I taught two fourth-year level courses, one in modern Chinese fiction and one in modern Chinese drama. Later, following a restructuring of the program, the third-year course was replaced by a course in modern Chinese film, while the two fourth-year courses were replaced by a single course offering a mixture of text reading (in Chinese) and analysis and discussion (based in part on English translations, and also reading of anglophone scholarship). Compared to the Leiden students, the SOAS students on my modern literature courses had strong language proficiency, due to the full year spent in China, but limited background in Chinese history, politics, economics, and so on. Although all students had some reading proficiency in full-form characters, their experience living and studying in China meant that they were considerably better-versed in reading simplified characters, which I used exclusively on the literature courses. SOAS also offered master’s courses on Chinese literature that were available to students on a range of programs, not all of which required Chinese language skills. Students on the MA Chinese Studies or the MA Comparative Literature could have no familiarity with Chinese language at all, or could be native speakers, or anything in between. These courses were therefore taught entirely on the basis of English translations and focused mainly on analysis and discussion, as well as substantial amounts of reading in English-language scholarship, as would be expected of master’s students.

UNIVERSITY OF NOTRE DAME, 2016–PRESENT At the University of Notre Dame, as at most US universities, undergraduate students do not follow a tailor-made program in a single subject, instead, they divide their attention across several majors, minors, and core curriculum requirements. A “major” in Chinese requires students to take a

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minimum of ten semester-long courses, namely, an average of a little bit more than one course per semester. In comparison, when I taught at SOAS, the single-subject bachelor’s in Chinese consisted of at least fourteen year-long courses, an average of 3.5 courses per semester. Moreover, those majoring in Chinese at Notre Dame are required to take only three “content courses” and devote the rest of their time to studying language. Only the most advanced students have the option of studying an introduction to classical Chinese (taught in Mandarin using a modern Chinese textbook) and none of the courses feature full-form characters. Content courses, such as the courses on modern Chinese literature and culture that I teach, are open to all students and not just to Chinese majors, mainly to boost enrollment. The courses are advertised with the phrase “NO KNOWLEDGE OF CHINESE REQUIRED” prominently printed on the promotional posters. The students on these courses therefore do not have a homogenous background: for some this will be the only course on China they intend to take throughout their career at Notre Dame, for others the course meets a “literature requirement” in the undergraduate curriculum, for yet others it ticks a box toward their majors or minors. Some are native speakers of Chinese and some have never engaged with the language at all. Even those who follow the Chinese major program generally have no broader background in the historical, political, and economic contexts of modern China, so a lot of context needs to be provided. On the plus side, the diversity of their backgrounds means that students often make unique individual contributions based on knowledge and skills that they have gathered elsewhere in the university, which makes for a lively and less predictable class atmosphere. And the exclusive use of English translations means that it is possible to put entire novels on the syllabus and generally read many more texts than would typically be read in text-reading courses at Leiden or at SOAS, with the exception of the master’s courses at SOAS, which as mentioned, also featured a diverse student body. Finally, where Notre Dame is somewhat different from many other US universities is that it has relatively few undergraduate students of Chinese descent and relatively few international students from China. Whereas some US universities run Chinese literature courses that are taught completely in Chinese, to native or near-native speakers, this is not feasible at Notre Dame. It had also not been feasible at Leiden or at SOAS, where literature was taught as part of the language program and therefore aimed at learners, rather than native or near-native speakers. (Both Leiden and SOAS have diversified their curricula since I taught there.) This means that I have no experience teaching modern Chinese literature exclusively in Chinese, and all my experience involves translation in some form or other. Toward the end of this chapter, I will come back to these points.

THE TEACHING CANON The canon of texts I have taught on my modern Chinese literature courses over the years has not undergone as much change as one might expect, nor am I aware of many major innovations by teachers of such courses at other universities. The main change I recall took place when I moved from Leiden to London in 1996, and for the first time became solely responsible for a modern Chinese fiction course. I made a conscious decision to strive for better gender balance among the writers we read, introducing authors such as Ling Shuhua 凌叔華 (1900–1990), Xiao Hong 蕭紅 (1911–1942), and Zhang Ailing 張愛玲 (1920–1995) into a male-dominated canon that had previously only included Ding Ling 丁玲 (1904–1986). I also made a conscious decision

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to incorporate writers from the New Sensations school 新感覺派 of the 1930s. Although I was aware of the significance of late Qing fiction, as well as of the many different styles of Republicanera writing that are often labeled as “old” or “popular” literature but are in fact an integral part of Chinese modernity, I did not introduce any of the original texts in these genres to my students, simply because the language was too different from what they were learning in their language classes. I did at times use translations of such works, but there were then, and continue to be now, very few such translations to choose from. Clearly there is something of a vicious circle at work here: students who are actually learning to translate modern Chinese literature are not encouraged to translate works that are not written in more or less standard modern Chinese. And so fewer people end up with the skills to make and publish such translations, leading to less variety of content in courses based on English translations as well. For my courses at Notre Dame, I use the Columbia Anthology of Modern Chinese Literature (2007) by Howard Goldblatt and Joseph S. M. Lau as the main textbook. This widely used text represents the standard teaching canon for undergraduate classes in the US system. It features a large selection of texts in three genres (short story, poetry, essay). It does not include the late Qing, nor the noncanonical genres of the Republican period, but its selection of writers is otherwise diverse and representative. It also includes the post-1949 period, represented by writers from mainland China, Taiwan, and Hong Kong. The most important omission is that the entire Mao period on the mainland is not represented. Presumably this was done because the editors felt that Mao-era literature was not “literary” enough. I have always found this unfortunate, because whatever the conventional aesthetic merits of socialist realism, it was what people were often enthusiastically reading and writing at that time. Students need to understand it, if they are to make any sense at all of what comes after it. Much of the literature of the 1980s, including the early work of Nobel Prize winners Gao Xingjian 高行健 (1940–) and Mo Yan 莫言 (1955–), or the poetry of Bei Dao 北島 (1949–), is hard to understand without realizing that they were trying to break away from socialist realism. Arguably, some understanding of socialist culture is especially important for students in the United States, because it is so far remote from their own culture and because the way in which the term “socialism” is used in US political debates has little to do with what it represented in China fifty years ago. In short, I make sure to always select one or two texts from the Mao period to complement the Columbia Anthology readings for my students, and over the years I have spent increasing amounts of time trying to explain to students what the culture of that period was all about.

THE GRAMMAR TRANSLATION METHOD The standard method for teaching modern Chinese literature in my student days was the so-called grammar translation method. I recall how, as an undergraduate, I found this method especially pleasant because it reminded me of the many hours I had spent as a high school student working my way through texts in Latin and Ancient Greek. I had developed a learning disposition that found real enjoyment in sitting at a desk with a text and a dictionary and figuring out the structure and meaning of sometimes very long and complex sentences. In class, we would take turns reading through the text out loud and then we would translate, sentence by sentence, into Dutch. During a two-hour class session we would typically be able to read three or four pages in this way. On average it would take us three weeks to finish a short story.

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The translation style that was instilled in me through these teaching methods was described by one of my high school Latin teachers as “zo letterlijk als mogelijk en zo vrij als onvermijdelijk” (as literal as possible and as free as inevitable). Most important was that translations would show understanding of the structure of the sentences. Knowledge of vocabulary was of course important, but we were always allowed to bring dictionaries to exams, where we would be asked to translate both “seen” and “unseen” texts—as in, texts we had been able to read before, and those which would be new to us, respectively. The evaluation of our performance thus did not rely on how many words or characters we knew, but on our understanding of the grammar and our skill in using the dictionary. In my undergraduate days, the dictionary we used for Republican-era Chinese texts would be Mathews’ Chinese–English Dictionary (the revised 1943 edition, published by Harvard University Press). For contemporary texts in simplified characters, we would use A Chinese–English Dictionary, published in 1982 by the Foreign Languages Institute in Beijing. There were at the time no adequate Chinese-Dutch dictionaries, so in practice we were carrying out a double translation. We would read Chinese, look up words in our dictionary to find out their English meaning, and then present a Dutch-language translation in class. The teacher had an important role in helping us understand subtle differences between words with similar meanings by discussing potential Dutch synonyms. For most of us, our knowledge of English was not sufficient to discuss such nuances on the basis of the English words we got from our dictionaries. In fact, when I started teaching at SOAS in an English-language environment, with most of my students being native speakers of English, my command of English improved greatly through discussing translations with students. I would explain a certain Chinese word or phrase to them by describing some of the nuances as best I could, based on my understanding of Chinese, and then they would come up with the most appropriate English words for the translation. However, during these classroom discussions I also became aware of some more fundamental differences in approach toward translation between the Dutch and the British educational systems, to which I now turn.

THE SEEN/UNSEEN METHOD AND THE RISE OF ELECTRONIC DICTIONARIES The prevailing teaching style for text-reading courses at SOAS (and at most UK universities) was a version of the grammar translation method, but with less emphasis on grammar, since that subject no longer featured very strongly in UK education. I recall my initial surprise when British students would translate simple grammatical patterns in a way that I had been taught to be completely wrong. Take, for instance, a sentence like this: Ni zuotian mai de shu gui bu gui? 你昨天買的書貴不貴? Students would translate this as something like: “Yesterday, you bought a book. Was it expensive?” And I would counter by saying: “No, look, it’s a single sentence. Shu is the subject and Ni zuotian mai de is a relative clause describing shu. So the correct translation is: ‘Is the book that you bought yesterday expensive?’” I would receive a blank stare in response, and often a comment such as: “There’s no difference, Dr. Hockx. What I said means the same thing. And it sounds better

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in English.” Such discussions began to make more sense to me when I encountered Lawrence Venuti’s comments on “foreignisation” and “domestication,” and his observation that anglophone translators by and large are much more inclined to “domesticate” the source text than continental European translators (Venuti 1995). I became aware that a predilection for a particular style of translation, which I had previously considered obviously and naturally correct, was in fact part of my academic genealogy.1 Evaluation of students’ progress was assessed through written exams, for which both previously “seen” and previously “unseen” texts had to be translated, but without the help of a dictionary. Translating “unseen” texts without dictionary assistance requires a strong ability to make intelligent guesses about the potential meaning of words one has never seen before. Students would often be frustrated by having to hand in translations that they knew to contain mistakes or omissions. The rationale for this method of assessment was that it would show which students had a more advanced reading comprehension, gained not so much from studying the “seen” texts but from doing additional reading and vocabulary study on their own or in other classes. Needless to say, this type of examination also further encourages a translation style that is based on approximation and domestication of meaning, rather than analysis of structure and subtleties of expression. When grading such translations, my colleagues and I would also be very tolerant of minor mistakes or misinterpretations and generally satisfied with attempts that managed to grasp the general meaning of the texts. About halfway through my twenty years of teaching in London, I started to notice that students were coming to my translation classes less well prepared than before. Often they would have only looked up the vocabulary on the pages that we were meant to read, but they would not have tried very hard to actually read the text and prepare draft translations, either on paper or in their heads. This was around the same time when students began to ask for electronic rather than photocopied versions of the texts we were reading. It took me a while to put two and two together, but eventually I realized that students were increasingly using a kind of dictionary software that would show them the meaning of Chinese characters on screen as they hovered across it with their mouse pointer. This saved them considerable time in preparing for my classes, since they no longer needed to look up vocabulary in dictionaries. But it also meant that “reading” the text had now become a question of moving your computer mouse and writing down whatever appeared on screen, without pausing to figure out how it fit into the sentence. Often, the first time they attempted to understand a whole sentence would be when they were sitting in class and were asked to translate. Later still, the development of Google Translate posed further challenges, and I recall that toward the end of my time in the United Kingdom, I was confronted for the first time with a student who questioned the need to teach translation, because “Google can do all that.” I don’t think Google can, at least not when it comes to literary texts, but it is undeniable that the nature of textual work has changed. Consequently, the method of incorporating translation into modern Chinese literature courses should also change. Since students undeniably require less time to look up vocabulary, more should be expected of them in terms of time spent to prepare actual translations. Alternatively, one can

Venuti (1995, 20–1) described the distinction between European and Anglo-American practices in ethical terms, suggesting that foreignizing translation could help “restrain the ethnocentric violence” that he associated with the hegemonic, domesticating style of English-language translation. My description here implies no such ethical judgment.

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dispense with practical translation altogether, which I feel diminishes opportunities for students to engage critically with the texts and hampers their ability to become sophisticated readers of Chinese. In addition to this, as I shall argue below, the incorporation of some element of translation, or at least discussion of translation, in courses on modern Chinese literature at anglophone universities can ultimately benefit cross-cultural understanding and dialogue among diverse groups of students.

THE “NO KNOWLEDGE OF CHINESE REQUIRED” METHOD In anglophone university settings, there are several undeniable advantages to teaching modern Chinese literature on the basis of English translations. Some of these have already been mentioned in passing above. More students will register for a course that does not require Chinese language skills. Compared to the slow, line-by-line progress of grammar translation method courses, many more works, including full-length novels, can be put on the syllabus when no knowledge of Chinese is required. Students then gain more familiarity with a range of different writers, and as long as translations are available, it is possible to include subcanonical or even noncanonical texts. This in turn will enable students to draw on more knowledge and examples during classroom discussion and in their written work. The main drawback is also obvious: translated texts lend themselves less readily for discussions of subtleties of the language used in the source text. The assumption is that such things are “lost in translation.” There is theoretically no reason why a literature class using translations could not focus on the subtleties of the language used in the target text, considering it to be a creative accomplishment by the translator, but in practice this is rarely done. Translated texts are presented as creative achievements by their original authors and often texts are read at least in part against the background of what is known of the authors’ oeuvre, biography, and historical context. It is, after all, Chinese literature that is being taught and so the assumption is that something is being learned about China, or Sinophone communities, not about the culture of the translator.2 My students are often most concerned about things getting lost in translation when we are reading poetry. The (reasonable) assumption is that poetry relies more on aural qualities of the language than fiction and that those qualities are difficult to reproduce in translation, although this is not necessarily the case.3 In comparison, poems are brilliant teaching material for working with students who know both languages. They are short and require slow reading and close attention to the potential meanings of every single word, as well as constant reflection on one’s own translation choices, which in turn often guide one’s interpretation of the poem itself.

Here, too, it is worthwhile to point to the work of Lawrence Venuti for an important counterbalance to what I am saying. His book chapter on “The Pedagogy of Literature,” especially, makes a strong case, supported by many practical examples, for teaching translated literature through concentrated emphasis on the target language (Venuti 1998, 88–105). 3 A good example is Wilt Idema’s massive Dutch-language anthology of classical Chinese poetry (Idema 1991), in which the rhythm of the original Chinese poems is reproduced by means of “beats” in the Dutch translation. Perhaps in part because of this successful “domestication” of the aural effect of classical Chinese poems, Idema’s anthology was an instant bestseller and went through multiple print runs. It also won the Martinus Nijhoff Prize, the highest honor for literary translators in the Netherlands. (One disgruntled newspaper critic commented that “from now on, the Nijhoff Prize should be called not a prize for translation, but for re-creation.” See Evenhouse 1992). 2

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In addition to things getting lost in translation, even in fiction, a more serious problem is posed by translators’ choices that have the capacity to lead student-readers astray, at least when the assumption is that they are reading the texts to learn something about its source author, source culture, or source context. I hesitate to speak of “mistakes,” since the choices in question are often motivated by reasonable considerations and position-takings somewhere along the line that leads from foreignization to domestication. But I want to mention some examples, based on my own teaching experience, where a translator’s choice caused some problems for my student-readers with no, or little, knowledge of Chinese. These problems occur mainly because student-readers are not just reading for enjoyment but are expected to practice close reading and critical analysis. This requires them to highlight specific sentences or passages as part of an intelligent argument, and sometimes translators’ choices can throw a wrench into that process.

CHOICES The first time I realized the potential for unintended misunderstandings of this nature was about twenty years ago, when I was teaching a master’s course in modern Chinese literature at SOAS. As mentioned above, the master’s courses at SOAS were offered to students who were not required to have knowledge of Chinese. I vividly recall how one very bright comparative literature student wrote a really interesting short essay about biblical influences on modern Chinese fiction, comparing it to similar influences on English fiction. A worthy topic, for sure, but his case was built in part on an analysis of the story《黑旋風》(Black Whirlwind) by Mu Shiying 穆時英 (1912–1940). In the only existing English translation of that story, by Siu-kit Wong and Wan-hoi Pak, published in Renditions in 1992, the main female character, whom the narrator accuses of infidelity and immorality, is referred to in one instance as “that Jezebel, that Yan Poxi among women.” In the Chinese original, the biblical Jezebel does not appear, and the woman in question is only referred to as Yan Poxi 閻婆惜, a reference to the Water Margin, rather than the Bible, which makes more sense given the fact that the whole story is about a group of individuals who compare themselves to the famous outlaws of the marsh. In the same passage, the translators add a footnote to explain who Yan Poxi was, which seems the correct thing to do in such cases. But for the student-reader working on a close reading, footnotes present their own challenges. Some of the translations in the Columbia Anthology come with footnotes and over the years I have learned that it is important to explain to students that these footnotes were not part of the original texts, but were added by the translators. Prior to doing that, it had happened to me a few times that students presenting an analysis of Lu Xun’s《狂人日記》(A Madman’s Diary) would bring the footnotes, added by translators Yang Xianyi and Gladys Yang, into their interpretation, assuming they were part of Lu Xun’s original. Since “A Madman’s Diary” famously features a narrator providing a “scientific” introduction to the text of the diary itself, it is in fact quite logical to assume that the footnotes to the diary were put in by that same narrator, and this assumption can lead to interesting narratological analysis, which, however, has no basis in the source text. 《封鎖》(Sealed Off) is a super-canonical short story by Zhang Ailing. It describes a flirtatious conversation, and some stolen moments of intimacy, between a man and a woman who are stuck on a tram in wartime Shanghai. The tram is not moving because of a roadblock; traffic has

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been halted to allow for a military convoy to pass. (There is a scene in the movie Lust, Caution that shows exactly what such a temporary blockade looked like.) However, Karen Kingsbury’s English translation of the story in the Columbia Anthology explains the “sealing off” by inserting a reference to an air raid at the very start of the story: “If there hadn’t been an air raid. If the city had not been sealed.” If it were really an air raid that was going on, namely, if bombs were about to drop, then why would anyone stay on that tram, halted in the middle of the road? Why would the protagonists, and many of the people around them, engage in leisurely conversation or small talk? Why would nobody be anxious or afraid? These are logical questions that any close reader of the translation would come up with as a result of the translator’s choice to insert an “air raid” to contextualize the title of the story.4

OPPORTUNITIES The most notable development over the course of my thirty years of teaching modern Chinese literature has been the change in student demographic. As mentioned above, the first classes I taught, at Leiden, were made up for at least 90 percent of students who had no Chinese heritage, who had not studied Chinese prior to going to university, and who had never been to China. Today my classrooms are infinitely more diverse. In addition to students of Chinese heritage and international students from China, there are also plenty of students who have been studying Chinese since high school, while pretty much everybody, regardless of linguistic ability, has been to China at some point. In courses taught solely on the basis of English translations, there are opportunities to involve students who do know Chinese and have them bring that knowledge into the classroom. I routinely make the Chinese source texts available to students who want to read them, and this has created some good opportunities for enriching our discussions. The most interesting opportunity, in my view at least, is the discovery of different versions of the same text. I became aware of this more or less by accident, when I provided students with source texts taken from authoritative Chinese anthologies, which they were then reading alongside the English translations in the Columbia Anthology. Before long, the students alerted me to some interesting discrepancies. Zhang Ailing’s “Sealed Off,” for instance, comes in two different versions with two different endings. The two existing English translations choose one version, which is not the version most frequently encountered in Chinese anthologies, although it was the version that Zhang Ailing herself seems to have preferred.5 Having students paraphrase the alternative ending for the benefit of students with no knowledge of Chinese can lead to good discussions. Another super-canonical short story, 《狗》(Dog), by Ba Jin 巴金, also comes in at least two versions. Of course all scholars of modern Chinese literature know that Ba Jin revised all his prePRC work after 1949, but if it had not been for me teaching the story to a diverse classroom, I probably would not have looked into it. Even without access to the source text, students often pick

In fact, Karen Kingsbury herself removed the reference to the air raid in her revised translation of the story, published in a book collection of her translations of Zhang Ailing’s stories (Chang 2007, 237). 5 As mentioned, the Columbia Anthology has a translation by Karen Kingsbury, with the title “Sealed Off.” The same story was also translated into English by Janet Ng and Janice Wickeri, under the title “Shutdown,” in Renditions 45 (1996). Both translations, and also Kingsbury’s later revised translation, have the same ending. 4

446

THE BLOOMSBURY HANDBOOK OF MODERN CHINESE LITERATURE IN TRANSLATION

up on the fact that “Dog” revolves around a national allegory (the protagonist is presented as a kind of Chinese Everyman, who eagerly denigrates himself in the face of Western imperialists roaming the streets of Shanghai), but also includes some obvious references to sexual submissiveness. These sexual references are much more obvious in the original 1930s version than in the canonical PRC version, which is the one translated in the Columbia Anthology. One of the passages that Ba Jin later deleted is one where the protagonist, who sees himself as a dog, lowers himself in front of the legs of a woman on the street, and proceeds to embrace them and lick them. I first read this story back in 1985, as an undergraduate student taking Leiden’s “short stories” class, translating it line by line using the grammar translation method, and I can still recall that one of the new characters I learned at the time was shi 舐, meaning “to lick.” Only many years later, when preparing to teach the story in English to a diverse classroom, did I realize that the version of the story that I had read when I was a student was not the one most commonly encountered by readers today. Having a diverse classroom of course also creates more opportunities for discussing things such as wordplay. In the case of Ba Jin’s story, I am fairly sure that the crucial passage, where the protagonist becomes very happy because one of the foreigners called him a “dog,” is actually based on a pun. The foreigner, obviously not knowing Chinese, most likely told him to go away, and somehow “go” in English became gou (“dog”) to the protagonist’s ears. Similarly, Lu Xun’s famous “Madman’s Diary” is also full of puns, the most obvious one (in my reading anyway) is the fact that the key phrase吃人 (“eating people”) is homonymous with痴人 (“madmen”). Such wordplay is challenging for translators and will either get lost in translation or explained in footnotes. Discussion of such passages in a diverse classroom can enrich readings and interpretations of the text for those focused on the source, and spark debate about translation strategies for those interested in the target. And, perhaps most importantly, it aids dialogue between students from divergent linguistic and cultural backgrounds.

AFTERTHOUGHTS This account is anecdotal and based entirely on my own teaching practice, which may or may not be representative of the field as a whole—though I expect most modern Chinese literature pedagogues will recognize some of the examples I have raised. There is a lot of looking back in what I have written, and so it seems appropriate to finish by looking forward. How will the teaching and learning of modern Chinese literature at university level change in the coming years? For a long time, whenever I was asked that question, or asked it of myself, I would arrive at the same answer. It seemed obvious to me that, eventually, Chinese language programs at university would come to resemble programs in more commonly taught languages such as English (in the Netherlands), French (in the United Kingdom), and Spanish (in the United States). The vast majority of students entering the program would already have advanced ability in the language, picked up at home, in high school, or both. Just like university classes in English, French, and Spanish literature are predominantly conducted in English, French, and Spanish, with students writing their essays and dissertations in those languages as well, Chinese would become the main language of instruction for modern Chinese literature courses. This may still happen, although the craze for learning Chinese that characterized the past decade or so seems to have come to an end. I am less optimistic that university entry levels of

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Chinese-language proficiency will rise any further, or even stay at the same level where they are now. I also think that enrollment on Chinese language courses will start to decrease and that participation in total immersion programs in China will decline even more. But even in places where the proficiency levels are high enough to teach Chinese literature exclusively in Chinese (as is the case, as mentioned, in a number of universities in the United States), then I am no longer sure if I would see this as the desired goal. Just as there are things that get “lost” in translation, there are also things that get lost when no translation takes place, especially between two languages spoken by the citizens of two superpowers that are in urgent need of better mutual understanding and dialogue.

REFERENCES Chang, Eileen. 2007. Love in a Fallen City, translated by Karen Kingsbury. New York: New York Review Books. Evenhouse, Arand. 1992. “De Chinese rat wentelt zich in z’n weelderige garderobe.” Trouw, February 20. Available online: https://www.trouw.nl/nieuws/de-chinese-rat-wentelt-zich-in-z-n-weelderigegarderobe~bbdf108d/ (accessed April 28, 2023). Idema, W. L. 1991. Spiegel van de klassieke Chinese poëzie van het Boek der Oden tot de Qing-dynastie [Mirror of Classical Chinese Poetry from the Book of Odes to the Qing Dynasty]. Amsterdam: Meulenhoff. Lau, Joseph S. M., and Howard Goldblatt, eds. 2007. The Columbia Anthology of Modern Chinese Literature, 2nd edn. New York: Columbia University Press. Venuti, Lawrence. 1995. The Translator’s Invisibility: A History of Translation. London: Routledge. Venuti, Lawrence. 1998. The Scandals of Translation: Towards an Ethics of Difference. London: Routledge.

INDEX

actor-network theory (ANT) 8, 194, 206–7 adaptation 9, 20, 22, 24, 34, 39–40, 43, 47, 52, 58, 66, 81, 105–7, 113, 118, 132, 176, 196, 211, 221, 243, 265–8, 293, 307–8, 311, 314, 319, 324, 335, 357, 389–90, 394–5, 398, 401 Adorno, Theodor W. 84 aesthetic 1–2, 8–9, 18–19, 23, 49, 55, 57, 60, 84–9, 108, 117–20, 125, 130–8, 147–9, 177, 193–5, 230, 253–62, 307, 314, 321, 328, 353, 371, 410, 413, 438 afterlife 185 agent 3, 8, 52, 107, 119, 131, 184–9, 194–215, 267, 273, 304, 315, 330, 403, 410–11 Ah Cheng 阿城 429 Alai 阿來 349–54 alienation 55, 70, 87, 187, 253, 378, 412–15 Akamatsu Miwako 71 Akutagawa Prize 75 Amdo 347–8, 352 Analects Group 論語派 118, 120, 124 ancient Greek 7, 146, 265, 438 Anderson, Benedict 65, 207, 210, 267 anthology 17, 58–62, 70–1, 75, 87, 96, 102, 109–10, 124, 141–2, 145, 151, 188, 244–7, 251–2, 257, 260, 263–4, 338, 357–67, 371–5, 381–3, 403–7, 416, 438, 441–5 anti-corruption novel 反腐敗小說 208–9 Anti-spiritual Pollution Campaign see Campaign Against Spiritual Pollution Antoinette, Marie 393 Appiah, Anthony 189 Apter, Emily 92–3, 307, 426 Asian American Writers’ Workshop, The 74 Asiatic despotism 386 assimilation 39, 183, 305, 308, 313, 316, 357, 363, 380, 409–15, 421, 425 Associação Promotora da Instrução dos Macaenses 澳 門土生教育協進會 340 Association of Stories in Macao 澳門故事協會 337–42 Auden, W. H. 149, 256 Aunt Lute Books 72

authenticity 9, 39–40, 45–7, 54–7, 62, 84, 89, 95, 99–100, 138, 224, 263, 350, 382, 425–6 autobiography 6, 129–31, 134–40, 146–7, 159, 166, 179, 183, 246, 257, 260, 311–16, 320, 326, 328, 388, 392, 395, 400, 404, 408 avant-garde 5, 2, 6, 49–63, 73, 77, 79–80, 82, 85–90, 255, 261–2, 307, 346 Ba Jin 巴金 443–4 Báez, Frank 259 Báez, Joan 43 bagua (eight trigrams) 八卦 281 Bamboo Hat Society 笠詩社 362 Bao Tianxiao 包天笑 91 Baodiao movement 保釣運動 361 barbarian 291, 295, 358, 428 Battle through the Heaven《鬥破蒼穹》281, 284 Baudelaire, Charles 16–18, 143, 145, 150, 184 BDSM (bondage, discipline [or domination], sadism [or submission], masochism) 74–5 Beckett, Samuel 398 Beecroft, Alexander 426 Bei Dao 北島 31, 50, 79, 87, 335, 346, 423–7, 438 Bell, Julian 7, 129–35 Bergson, Henri 118–24 Berman, Jessica 425 Berry, Michael 110, 430 Bhabha, Homi K. 427 Bialais, Olivier 70 Bibliography of Hong Kong Literature in Translation, A《香港文學外譯書目》335–7 Bibliography of Macao Literature 1600–2014, A《澳門 文學書目初編 1600–2014》 337–8 biculturality 373, 382 bilingual 8, 10–12, 42–3, 52, 59, 82, 185, 222–6, 267, 284, 289, 297, 313, 315, 317, 333, 336–42, 370–83, 398–409, 416–17, 421 bilingual editor 223–4 bilingualism 12, 315–17, 370, 372, 382, 398, 409, 416, 421 Bloomsbury Group 6–7, 129–30, 134–5, 138 book cover 229–42

INDEX 449

Book of Odes《詩經》85–86, 445 BooksFromTaiwan.tw 68, 76 Borges, Jorge Luis 49, 51, 59, 326–8 born translated 49, 51, 62, 299, 399, 423–33 Bovarysm 91–102 Bradley, Mary King 341 Bramwell, Colin 74 British Empire 320 British letters 320 Bruno, Cosima 10, 24, 255, 308, 319, 425 Buddhism 2, 6, 59, 83–4, 89–90, 12–25, 136, 351, 428, 432 Buck, Pearl S. 4, 387, 423 Cai, Zhuo-tang 蔡濯堂 (Siguo 思果)185 Campaign Against Spiritual Pollution (Anti-spiritual Pollution Campaign) 清除精神污染 54, 103, 105 canon 2, 6, 22, 52, 58, 69, 79, 85–6, 104, 110–11, 183–4, 297, 207, 210–12, 217–18, 227, 286, 330, 335, 349, 357–8, 363, 372, 372, 374, 397–8, 428–9, 435, 437–8, 441–4 Cantonese 3, 85, 321, 326–7, 333, 369, 378 Capote, Truman 184 Casa de Portugal em Macau 澳門葡人之家協會 340 Cather, Willa 184 Cato the Elder 424, 427–8, 431 Catullus 142–3 Censor 5–6, 19, 41–3, 46, 72, 88–9, 195, 199–202, 305, 308, 357, 409, 414, 430 century of “humiliation” 292, 295, 426 circulation 4, 7–8, 11, 15–16, 29, 35, 50, 66, 73, 104–5, 108, 163, 166, 169, 177–8, 205–15, 226, 231, 320, 330, 357, 366, 397, 431 Chan 禪 83–4 Chan, Mary Jean 10, 319–21, 330 Chaotic Lightning Cultivation《混沌雷修》283 Chang, Eileen (Zhang Ailing) 張愛玲 2, 11, 185–6, 188, 305–13, 315, 397–408, 437, 442–3 The Book of Change《易經》398, 400 Romances《傳奇》402 The Fall of the Pagoda《雷峰塔》398, 400 “Sealed Off”《封鎖》405–6, 443 “The Golden Cangue”《金鎖記》311, 313, 397, 402–3, 405 Naked Earth《赤地之戀》398, 402 Pink Tears 402–4 The Rice-sprout Song《秧歌》397–8, 402 The Rouge of the North 398, 402–4, 405 “Shanghainese, After All” 到底是上海人 401 “What a Life! What a Girl’s Life” 400, 402

“What Is Essential Is That Names Be Right” 必也正 名乎 398 “Whispers” 私語 400 Little Reunions《小團員》311, 398, 400 “Rouge Tears”《胭脂淚》403 “Embittered Woman”《怨女》403–5 Chang, Gigi 289–99 Chang Hsi-kuo 張系國 361 Chang Kuei-hsing 張貴興 363 Chang Ta-chun 張大春 361 characters 22, 32–3, 67, 95, 237, 248, 250, 286, 322, 326, 380, 424, 436–7, 439–40, 444 full-form 繁體字 322, 436–7 simplified 簡體字 322, 436, 439 Chekov, Anton 96, 129, 131–2 Chen Bo-ching 陳栢青 74 Ch’en, David Y. 247 Chen Hsiu-hsi 陳秀喜 362 Chen Li 陳黎 364 Chen Ke-hua 陳克華 44, 75, 362 Chen Qiufan 陳楸帆 105, 108, 232–3 Chen Ran 陳染 72 Chen Shao-peng 陳紹鵬 185 Chen Tsang-to 陳蒼多 185 Chen Xiying 陳西瀅 132 Chen Xue 陳雪 70–1, 74 Chen Ying-chen 陳映真 361 Chen Yinque 陳寅恪 428 Chen Yu-hung 陳育虹 364 Chen Zu-wen 陳祖文 185 Cheng Ching-wen 鄭清文 361 Cheng, Gaaya 賀綾聲 338 Cheung, Dominic張錯 362, 366 Cheung, Leslie 張國榮 66 Cheung, Sue 10, 319, 325, 330 Chi Pang-yuan 齊邦媛 359–60 Chi Ta-wei 紀大偉 70, 74, 363–4 Chiang, Howard 74 Chie, Tarumi 71 China Communist China 3, 182 Free China 11, 42, 181, 358–65 New China 167, 169, 173, 211, 292 People’s Republic of China 2–3, 15, 27, 41, 117, 168, 181, 209, 230, 336, 358, 397, 409 Republican China 158, 390 Red China 181, 359 China Forum 244–5 China Writers’ Association 中國作家協會 58 Chinese Communist Party (CCP) 4, 7, 18, 35, 41, 67, 106, 120, 158–9, 167, 181, 199, 334, 345

450 INDEX

Chinese Fiction Book Cover Archive 8, 229–42 Chinese Literature Today 110, 222 Chinese native 289 Chinese University Press 15, 68, 335 Chineseness 10, 12, 24, 278, 292–8, 306, 313, 315, 359–60, 371, 374, 383, 394, 416–17, 420, 423, 427–33 Chiu Miao-chin (Qiu Miaojin) 邱妙津 68–71, 75, 363, 365 Chou Meng-tieh 周夢蝶 364 Chow, Rey 周蕾 328, 425–6 Chu Limin 朱立民 185 Chu Hsi-ning 朱西甯 360 Chu Tien-hsin 朱天心 363 Chu Tien-jen 朱點人 361 Chu Yen 朱炎 185 Chung Chao-cheng 鍾肇政 361 Chung Li-he 鍾理和 361 ci 詞 (lyric song) 78, 81, 85–6 Cixi 慈禧 118, 393 Cixous, Hélène 71 classical Chinese 4, 8, 43, 78, 80–2, 87, 118, 129, 134, 146, 222, 244, 274, 333–4, 338, 435, 437, 441 code-switching 12, 321, 326 Cold War 3, 6, 8, 24, 41–4, 66–8, 168, 181–90, 312, 334, 358–9, 363–6, 408, 426 colonialism 2–3, 30, 38, 71, 127, 139, 157–62, 166, 183, 189, 190, 213, 274, 304, 313, 320–1, 330, 333–4, 341, 358, 361–2, 367, 391, 426–9 Columbia University Press 70, 72, 110, 363, 366 community 5–6, 8–10, 17, 23, 25, 32, 44, 65, 68, 75–6, 86, 103–18, 134, 158, 168, 182, 193, 197, 206, 210, 213, 256, 265–9, 273–5, 289, 292, 304, 308, 323–4, 329, 338, 341, 346, 346, 369–71, 374, 379, 398, 425, 441 comrade 67, 72–3, 388 concubinage 66, 70, 78, 135, 137, 386 Confucianism 33, 309, 386, 389–90, 393–4 consensus literary English 196, 199 containment policy 8, 181 contamination 409, 413, 415, 420 Contemporary Review Group 現代評論派 129 cosmopolitan 11, 52, 117–20, 124–7, 251, 319, 357, 370, 374, 377, 425 Crane, Stephen 184 creative license 220–1 creolization 320 Crown Magazine《皇冠雜誌》403 crime fiction 8, 205–18

Cui Jian 崔健 39, 45–7 culture cultural diplomacy 181–209, 216 cultural hegemony 182, 188–9, 426 cultural heritage 9, 163, 271–4, 353, 380 cultural identity 32, 48, 303, 315, 344, 355, 362, 378, 410 cultural imperialism 188 cultural politics 38, 118, 181, 334, 433 cultural studies 37, 61, 111, 266, 432 cultural transfer 157, 161, 205, 207, 306 cultural translation 3, 5–6, 49, 52, 60, 62, 117–20, 155, 240, 263, 314, 320, 344, 427 intercultural dialogue 395 mass culture 50, 58, 60, 104, 112, 218 Tibetan culture 345–56 Cultural Revolution 2, 4, 28, 31, 42, 45–6, 50, 69, 72, 103, 108, 159–61, 171–4, 177, 345, 360, 366 cultureme 306–17 Dai Wangshu 戴望舒 148 Dalí, Salvador 82 Damrosch, David 207, 357, 398, 425 Daoism 59, 84, 270, 417–18, 428 database 9, 229–31, 240–1, 277, 288 degree of node 194–201 Denecke, Wiebke 424 Design 4, 22, 38, 51, 58, 131, 143, 193, 197, 229–42, 246–7, 253, 255, 281, 284, 297, 391, 428 deterritorialization 10, 303, 306, 308, 313, 315 Ding Ling 丁玲 437 Ding Naifei 丁乃非 71 dislocation 303, 305, 307, 321, 351, 412 domestication 125, 187–9, 221–22, 225, 230, 240, 281, 308–9, 389, 425, 440–2 double alterity 304 Dreiser, Theodore 147–8, 183 Du Pan Fang-ke 杜潘方格 362 Duan Xiaosong 段小松 (Xutang 噓堂) 83–4, 88 Duara, Prasenjit 158 Duyvendak, J. J. L. 423–4, 427 dynamic equivalence 221 editability 220 editing 8, 87, 108, 197, 199–200, 219–28 retro-editing 220 Edmonds, John Maxwell 146 Ellison, Ralph 183 Emerson, Ralph Waldo 184, 188, 385

INDEX 451

English Decadence 141, 144 environment 3, 32, 39, 67, 111, 142, 169, 183, 206, 267, 271, 278, 286, 297, 323–5, 329, 351, 439 Epoch of Twilight《紀元黎明》283 ethos 67, 70, 84, 373 Eurocentrism 11, 87, 357–8, 365–6, 429 Exile 10, 78, 120–1, 125, 135, 303–4, 308, 311, 313, 316–17, 351, 390, 409–22, 430 self-exile 307–8, 313, 414 existentialism 83–4, 89 exophony 409–11 exoticism 10, 119–20, 126, 130, 137, 224 Fan Yanqiao 范煙橋 307 Fan, Iris 樊星 338 fandom 9, 113, 115, 265, 277 Fang Fang 方方 430 fast media 183 Faulkner, William 50, 184 Fei Ming 廢名 129 Feminist Press 72 Feng Menglong 馮夢龍 390 Feng Xuefeng 馮雪峰 246 Feng Youlan 馮友蘭 121 Feng Yu-sing 馮餘聲 244 fidelity 16, 187–8, 220, 293, 442 filial piety 98–9 Fitzgerald, F. Scott 149, 184, 187, 225 Flammarion 70 Flaubert, Gustav 6, 55, 92, 94–5 folklore 9, 268–9, 271, 273–6, 420 footbinding (bound feet) 386–7, 390 Foreign Languages Bureau 7, 167 Foreign Languages Press 28, 156, 159–61, 164–5, 168–9, 171–2, 174, 176–7, 246–7 Forty Millenniums of Cultivation《修真四萬年》281 Chinese Literature (magazine) 167, 169–79 foreignization 17, 34, 37, 125, 187, 222, 230, 240, 311–12, 412–13, 421, 425, 440, 442 Free Speech《自由譚》149 fu 賦 (rhymeprose) 85 Full-time Master-hand《全職高手》283 Gaffric, Gwennaël 70, 106, 109, 113, 358, 364 Gao Xingjian 高行健 409–22 cold literature 冷的文學 414 Soul Mountain《靈山》231 García Márquez, Gabriel 50, 358, 429 Gautier, Théophile 142–5 Gay Sunshine Press 68

Ge Fei 格非 50–1, 53, 59, 346 gender 10, 74, 111, 138, 157, 163–4, 258, 260, 290, 292–3, 297, 319, 329–30, 418, 420–2 Genghis Khan 294–6 genre 1, 5, 8–9, 40–1, 60, 78, 80, 84, 87, 94–5, 103–14, 118, 130–1, 133, 135, 138, 172, 174, 184, 187, 195, 205–18, 231, 233–4, 241, 246, 253–7, 260, 262, 268–71, 278–87, 294, 311, 317, 320, 323, 335, 363, 393, 408, 428, 438 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 357, 388 Sorrows of Young Werther 388 Geyang 格央 350 Goldblatt, Howard 15–16, 19, 67–8, 70, 194, 201–2, 220, 224–5, 363, 406, 438 going global 212, 308 Google Translate 440 Golden House Monthly《金屋月刊》141–50 Goodman, Eleanor 256, 258–9, 261–2 Grammar Translation Method 435, 438–9, 441, 444 Green, Frederik H. 6, 119 Grave Robber’s Chronicles, The《盜墓筆記》281 Gu Cheng 顧城 79 Guo Moruo 郭沫若 88 Guo Xiaolu 郭小橹 409 Guo Youshou 郭有守 145, 147 Ha Jin 哈金 75, 246, 323, 404 Haizi 海子 79 Han Chinese 11, 67, 158, 271, 291, 295–6, 303, 346, 350–1 Han, Lili 韓麗麗 338 Han Shaogong 韓少功 429 Han Yu 韓愈 428 Hardy, Thomas 142, 145 Hawthorne, Nathaniel 184 Hayot, Eric 54–6, 425, 428 He Jiahong 何家弘 209 Hee Wai Siam 許維賢 67 Hemingway, Ernest 184, 188, 225 Heinrich, Ari 69–70, 73–4 Henry, O. 184 heritage 9, 27, 163, 271, 273–4, 319, 321, 326, 330, 353, 380, 443 Hermans, Theo 155, 165 Hesse, Hermann 126 heteroglossia 10–11, 319–20, 322, 329, 336, 376–7 Hioe, Brian 35–6 Ho, Tammy Lai-Ming 何麗明 341 Holmwood, Anna 289–90, 293, 297–8 Holton, Brian 194, 259

452 INDEX

Hong Kong 2–4, 8, 10–11, 44, 65–8, 71, 75, 110, 117–21, 124–6, 158, 182–3, 185–6, 189, 200, 213, 230, 274, 292, 308, 320–1, 325–7, 333–42, 360, 366, 397–8, 401–3, 420, 430, 438 Hong Kong Literature Translation Project 香港文學外 譯計劃 334–6 Horne, James A. 184 House of Translations, the 外譯坊 69 Howard-Gibbon, John 72 Howe, Sarah 10, 319, 326–9 Hsia, C. T. 夏志清 68, 185, 359, 397, 403–6 Hsia, Tsi-an 夏濟安 185, 187 Hsia Yü 夏宇 44 Hsieh Ping-ying 謝冰瑩 387 Hsu Chia-tse 徐嘉澤 71 Hsu, Francis Xavier, Chen-Ping 徐誠斌 185 Hsu, Shengchi 74 Hsu Yu-chen 74 Hsu, Yuk-kwan Amanda 許旭筠 336–7 Hu Lancheng 胡蘭成 397 Hu Shi 胡適 79, 132 Huang Chong-kai 黃崇凱 364 Huang Chun-ming 黃春明 360, 363 Huang Hsin-chyu 黃新渠 247 Huang, Jade 黃岡 75 Huang, May 黃鴻霙 341 Huang, Yunte 黃運特 425 Huie, Bonnie 69, 73 Hull, David 292, 297, 325 Hu-Moore, Shou-fang 胡守芳 70 Hung Hung 鴻鴻 364 hybridity 53, 60, 81, 83, 85, 165, 207–8, 210, 291, 312, 315, 333, 363, 413, 416, 425–31 I Shall Seal the Sky《我欲封天》281 Ibau, Dadelavan 達德拉凡.伊苞 74 Identity 1, 10–11, 19, 32, 48, 65, 74, 88, 97, 99–100, 130, 147, 149, 159, 162, 166–7, 207, 216, 226–7, 244, 262, 282–3, 290–2, 297–8, 303– 19, 325, 329, 344–5, 351, 353–6, 359, 361–3, 371–80, 383, 409–13, 416–17, 420 cultural identity 32, 48, 303, 315, 344, 355, 362, 378, 401 ethnic identity 353 linguistic identity 353, 380, 409 Imbot-Bichet, Geneviève 70 incorporation 6, 52–3, 412, 425, 441 Indiana University Press 68 indigenous 74, 94, 363–4, 429 infanticide 386–7, 394 Ing, Nancy Chang 殷張蘭熙 359, 363

Inge, William 184 Instituto Português do Oriente 東方葡萄牙學會 340 intellectual writing 知識分子寫作 5, 27–9, 430 intended readership 290 intercultural dialogue 395 intertextuality 1, 93–4, 101, 326, 432 Ip, Joshua 289 Isaacs, Harold 245, 249 Intrigo a Shanghai [An intrigue in Shanghai; French Concession] 213–14, 217–18 Iron Curtain 40, 44, 181 J. W. 夏簷 339 Jaffee, Valerie 67 James, Henry 184 Jamphel Gyatso 降邊嘉措 348–9 Jao Tsung-i 饒宗頤 428 Jenner, W. J. F. 173, 175–7, 247, 423–4 Jezebel 442 Ji Xian 紀弦 425, 427–8 Ji Xianlin 季羨林 428 Jia Pingwa 賈平凹 429 Jiang Kui 姜夔 82 Jiang Rong 姜戎 365 Jin, Serena 金聖華 185 Jin Yong 金庸 289–99 A Heart Divided 292 A Hero Born 289, 292 Demi-Gods and Semi-Devils《天龍八部》284 Legends of the Condor Heroes《射雕英雄傳》 289–9 Jing pai 京派 129 Jing Xianghai 鯨向海 75 Johnson, Barbara 31 Jones, Andrew 426 Jortay, Coraline 70 jottings 筆記 242, 247, 252, 335 Journey to the West 西遊記 173, 363, 429 June Fourth 72 Kalmer, Joseph 246 Kao, George 喬志高 16, 185, 187 Kelen, Christopher (Kit) 338–9, 341 Kennan, George F. 181 Kennedy, George 244–5, 249 Kham 348, 352 Ki No Yoshimochi 424, 427–8, 431 King, Evan 15–16, 19 Kingsbury, Karen 398, 405–6 Kingsley, Sidney 184 Klein, Lucas 12, 260–1, 341, 427–8 Kowallis, Jon Eugene von 17, 246–7

INDEX 453

kungfu 288, 291, 297 Kuo Chiang-sheng 郭強生 71 Kuo Pao Kun 郭寶崑 376–8 Kuomingtang (KMT) 42, 46, 172, 244, 359–61 Kwock, C. H. 245 Kyabchen Dedrol (Tib. Skyabs chen bde grol) 350, 353–4 Kyn Yn Yu, J.B. (Jing Yinyu 敬隱漁) 244 Lai He 賴和 361 Lam, Edward 林奕華 67 Lambda Literary Awards (the Lammys) 75 language central language 209, 213 peripheral language 209, 214 language policy 168, 350, 355, 360, 372–3, 379 language politics 11–12, 381 Tibetan language 345, 349–50, 355 Lao She 老舍 5, 15–22 Laots’an 老殘 390 L’Asiathèque 70, 364, 366 Latin 282, 379–80, 429, 438 Latour, Bruno 194, 206–7 Lau, Joseph S. M. 劉紹銘 183, 185, 360, 366, 405, 438 Le Moulin Poetry 風車詩社 362 League of Left-wing Writers 中國左翼作家聯盟 144, 244 Lee, Ang 李安 398 Lust, Caution《色戒》398, 443 Lee, Gregory 426 Lee, Hikaru 李屏瑤 74 Lee, Ju-tung 李如桐 183 Lee, Lilian 李碧華 66 Lee, Leo Ou-fan 李歐梵 188, 335, 425 Lee, Jessica J. 李潔珂 328–30 Lee, Yuk-ying Esther 李玉瑩 335 Lefevere, André 7, 11, 186, 338, 340, 357, 371, 389 legal system novel 公安法制小說 208 Legge, James 341 Leiden University 435 Leong, Lee Yew 75 Leung Ping-kwan 梁秉鈞 (Ye Si 也斯) 335–8, 341–2 Leung, George Kin 梁社乾 243 Lévy, André 70 Lewis, Sinclair 184 Lhasa 345–51 Li Ang 李昂 74, 363, 365 Li Chiao 李喬 361 Li Jinfa 李金髮 16–23, 423 Li Kotomi (Li Qinfeng) 李琴峰 75 Li, Sean Y. 75

Li Shangyin 李商隱 81–2 Li Siyi 李思怡 85 Li Tuo 李陀 31–3, 50, 57 Li Wen-chi 利文祺 11, 74 Li Yingqing 李影青 (Tianxue 添雪) 85, 88 Li Yiyun 李翊雲 10, 305, 313–16, 323 Li Yung-p’ing 李永平 67 Liang Shih-ch’iu (Liang Shiqiu) 梁實秋 185 Liao Hung-chi 廖鴻基 364 Lin Hsin-Hui 林新惠 76 Lin Huai-min 林懷民 360 Lin Shu 林紓 22, 91, 416 Lin, Sylvia Li-chun 林麗君 67, 70 Lin Yi-chin 244 Lin Yu-hsuan 林佑軒 74 Lin Yutang 林語堂 11, 117–19, 124–6, 245, 323, 385–95 Ling King 74 Ling Shuhua 凌叔華 6–7, 129–38, 437 lingua franca 81, 320 Literature Research Society 文學研究會 144 literary literary filter economy 197 literary institution 79 literary commodity 198–9 literary community 104, 267 literature cold literature 414 court case literature 208 Hong Kong literature 334–7, 339–40 immigrant literature 412 Macao literature 10, 334, 337–42 new worker literature 254 proletarian literature 254 queer literature 6, 65–75 Singapore literature 369–82 subaltern literature 253 Taiwanese literature 11, 66, 68–9, 71, 74, 357–66 Tibetan literature 11, 345–54 tongzhi literature 67–8, 70, 74–5 Liu Cixin 劉慈欣 18, 70, 103–9, 111, 113 Liu E 劉鶚 390 Liu, Lydia H. 31, 157, 398, 429 Liu Ke-hsiang 劉克襄 364 Liu, Ken 18–19, 103–4, 108–13, 233 Liu Na’ou 劉呐鷗 147 Liu Ta-jen 劉大任 361 Liu Yichun 74 Livraria Portuguesa 葡文書局 340 Lo Ching 羅青 360 London 99, 112, 129, 134, 210, 259, 305, 307, 319–31, 388, 436–37, 440

454 INDEX

London, Jack 184 Loos, Anita 149 Louÿs, Pierre 143 Lovell, Julia 247, 250, 398, 426, 429–30 Lu Shaofei 魯少飛 148 Lu Xun 魯迅 3, 9, 17, 25, 30, 37, 87–8, 91, 96, 120, 124, 132, 134, 143, 171, 174, 178, 213–14, 216, 243–52, 398, 425, 432, 442, 444 Lu, Ye Odelia 74 Lung Ying-tzung 龍瑛宗 364 Luo Fu 洛夫 364 Lü He-jo 呂赫若 364 Lyell, William 247, 250 Ma, Yahia 74 Ma Yi-Hang 馬翊航 74 Macao 10–11, 333–4, 337–42, 366 Macao Foundation, The 澳門基金會 338–40 MacKaye, Percy 184 MacLeish, Archibald 188 Mai Jia 麥家 8, 207, 209–15 Mai Ke 邁克 (Michael Lam) 67 Mair, Victor 428 Malamud, Bernard 183–4 Malay 321, 369–73, 378 Malaysia 2, 65, 67, 267, 363–4 Malay-Chinese 321, 373 Malmqvist, N. G. D. 75, 362–3 Mandarin 3, 44, 77, 80–1, 222, 224, 270, 290, 322, 328, 351, 361–2, 369–70, 376–83, 437 Mandarin Ducks and Butterflies School 鴛鴦蝴蝶派 98, 102, 397, 407–8 manipulation 11, 57, 166, 190, 257, 308, 343, 367, 382, 389, 396 Mansfield, Katherine 129, 132, 140, 397 Mao Dun 茅盾 143, 211–12, 244 Mao style (Maoist writing style) 毛文體 31, 57, 62 Mao Zedong 毛澤東 57, 79, 81, 88, 158, 170, 174, 199, 323, 326 “Talks at the Yan’an Forum on Literature and Art” 在延安文藝座談會上的講話 158, 170, 173, 199, 202, 323 Maori 321–2, 329 Marijnissen, Silvia 259 martial arts fiction 270, 285, 292–4 Martial Law 42–4, 47, 68, 189, 363 Martin, Fran 70 Masefield, John 147 mass culture 50, 58, 60, 104, 112, 218 Mattison, Christopher 335, 341 McCullers, Carson 184, 397

McDougall, Bonnie S. 7, 155–65, 169, 199, 247, 424, 426 Medici, Catherine de 393 Medon 梅卓 349–50, 352 Melville, Herman 184 memory 53, 67, 81, 100, 121, 123, 126, 130–1, 137, 142, 150, 189, 214, 258, 283, 307, 319, 322, 327, 329, 340, 366, 372, 374, 382, 391–2, 398, 404, 405, 408, 424 collective memory 189, 307 Merz, Martin 341, 398 metafiction 59, 62–3, 94, 101 Mi Fu 米黻 133 Mi:Lu 麋鹿 364, 366 migration 2, 9–10, 12, 158, 303–5, 310–11, 315–17, 320–5, 329, 403, 410–14, 421 Miller, Arthur 184 Mills, E. H. F. 244, 248 Ming Pao《明報》292, 295 miscellaneous notes and trivial anecdotes 筆記小說 325 Misu Yusuke 71 Mo Yan 莫言 8, 9, 18, 50, 196, 199–202, 208, 214, 225–6, 229–31, 234–41, 429, 438 morbus litterarius 95 Modern Miscellany《時代畫報》148–9 modern woman 388–9 modernism 2, 6, 24, 30, 37, 49, 52–63, 79–82, 87, 89, 90, 117, 126–7, 129–31, 138–9, 263, 359–60, 362, 364, 412, 422, 425–6, 428, 431–3 antimodern modernism 79 Mongol 11, 291–2, 295–7, 363 monolingual editor 224, 226 monolingualism 315, 329, 411 Moore, George 145–6 mother tongue 10, 16, 187, 279, 282, 285–6, 305, 313, 314, 317, 320–1, 347, 351, 370, 375, 381, 410–11, 413, 422 Morand, Paul 147 Moule, Arthur Christopher 146 Mu Cao 墓草 73 Mu Shiying 穆時英 442 Mu Wei 木維 339 Mulan 322 multiauthorship 200 multilingual 8, 10–12, 101, 222, 226, 319–23, 325, 327, 329, 331, 334, 341–3, 369, 371–3, 378, 381–3, 398, 433 multilingualism 319–20, 322, 371–2, 382 multiplicity 89, 156, 205–6, 304, 321, 404, 406 multitranslatorship 200 Myers, Scott E. 72–3

INDEX 455

Nabokov, Vladimir 398, 404–5 Speak, Memory 404–5 Naipaul, V. S. 323 An Area of Darkness 323 Miguel Street 323 Nappi, Carla 427–8 National Institute for Compilation and Translation 國 立編譯館 359–60 National Security Council 182 naturalization 187, 189, 372 negative assessment labor 197–8 Netherlands 437, 443n3, 446 New Left 28–9, 31, 35, 36 New Sensations School 新感覺派 147, 440 networkedness 網絡性 278 New Masses 244, 245 Ng Kim Chew 黃錦樹 363 Ng Yi Sheng 黃毅聖 380 Nichols, Beverley 147, 148 Nida, Eugene A. 221 Nieh Hua-ling 聶華苓 358, 359 Nishimura Masao 71 Nobel Prize 4–5, 121, 184, 188, 208, 210, 214, 225, 234, 236, 237, 239–41, 323, 409, 414, 416, 420, 423, 440 NüVoices 292, 293 O’Connor, Flannery 184 O’Hara, John 184 O’Neill, Eugene 184 Oates, Joyce Carol 184 old cadre style 老幹體 88 online fiction 9, 265–74 online magazine 74, 75 Outer Out 鷗外鷗 336 Ouyang Jianghe 歐陽江河 429, 430 Ouyang Xiu 歐陽修 391 Owen, Stephen 79, 87, 423–8, 430–1 Pai Hsiao-Hung 323 Chinese Whispers 323 Pai Hsien-yung 白先勇 6, 66, 68, 359 Paiwan 74 Pak Wan-hoi 444 parataxis 84, 249 paratext 16, 21, 94, 96, 99, 109, 188, 189, 245, 257, 262 Patrick, John 184 patronage 10, 11, 72, 160, 184, 185, 186, 201, 209, 333, 334, 337–40, 342, 357–66 Patton, Simon 75 Péchenart, Emmanuelle 70, 214

Pema Nordon 白瑪娜珍 350 PEN 70, 73, 198 Chinese PEN Quarterly 70, 363 Taipei Chinese PEN Quarterly 363n2 PEN/Heim fellowship 73 Penguin 200, 211, 247 People’s Tribune, The 244, 249 Petit 夏慕聰 74 Phoenix《鳳凰》(school publication of St. Mary’s Hall) 401 pictorial magazines 141, 149, 150 Picun Literature Group 皮村文學小組 260 Pink Dot 66 Pinuyuma 74 Pocock, J. G. A. 34, 35 poetry 4–9, 16, 17, 23, 24, 27, 31, 39–41, 43–5, 47, 49, 54, 75, 77–89, 118, 123–5, 137, 141–3, 146, 149, 150, 164, 184, 188, 193, 195, 202, 246, 253–62, 320–3, 326, 330, 335, 338, 359, 362, 364, 373, 423–31, 440, 443 battler poetry (worker poetry, migrant worker poetry) 9, 253–62 classicist 6, 77–89 migrant worker poetry  see battler poetry menglong poetry      see obscure poetry misty poetry  see obscure poetry obscure poetry (menglong poetry, misty poetry) 31, 54 “popular” poetry 民間詩歌 430 worker poetry  see battler poetry Poe, Edgar Allan 184 postdramatic transnationalism 12, 409, 415, 420 Porter, Katherine Anne 184, 397 Powles, Nina Mingya 10, 319, 321–3, 328–30 Magnolia《木蘭》322 “Maps”《地圖》322 precarious labor 9, 253, 254 Pre-Raphaelites 146 Propp, Vladimir 268, 271, 274 Qin Xiaoyu 秦曉宇 256 Qinghai 青海 348–52 “Qinghuang” 青黃 52, 53 Qiu Xiaolong 裘小龍 213 Qu Qiubai 瞿秋白 80n3 Quah Sy Ren 柯思仁 67, 374, 377, 420 quality of personality 196 quality of system 196, 199 Rawlings, Majorie K. 184 Read, Herbert 149 realism 2, 50, 54–7, 81, 103, 120, 169, 173, 314, 335, 429, 440

456 INDEX

reception 1, 7, 9, 18, 21, 29, 52, 56, 94, 103, 135, 160, 167, 168, 172, 174, 177–8, 194–6, 201, 206, 207, 209–12, 214, 215, 230, 241, 250, 251, 284–6, 308, 402, 405, 428 recognition 65, 72, 87, 111, 206, 208, 219, 211, 222, 264, 340, 414, 431 Release That Witch《放開那個女巫》281 Renditions《譯叢》110, 398n4, 444 Resonate《迴響》333n1 revolution 3, 4, 6, 15, 27, 28, 31, 36, 45, 46, 50, 54, 55, 60, 78, 79, 81, 86, 87, 97, 98, 103, 108, 120, 158, 169, 170, 172–4, 213, 247, 277, 292, 310, 311, 323, 388, 425 revolutionary model operas 革命样板戏 171 rewriting 11, 20, 22, 92, 174, 175, 208n2, 223, 226, 307, 310–15, 340, 357, 389, 394, 402, 404n16, 417 Reynolds, Matthew 145, 146, 406 Richter, Conrad 184 Riggs, Lynn 184 Rivet, Pierrick 70 Robertis, Carolina De 69 rock music 5, 39–47 rock poetry 39, 41, 43–5, 47 Rodell, Marie 403 Rogers, Hoyt 259 romanticism 2, 40, 41, 43, 91–101, 123, 125, 202, 319, 388 Romantic poets 143 romantic space 6, 91, 92, 98–101 roots-seeking literature 尋根文學 346, 429 Rossetti, Christina 142, 146 Rossetti, Dante Gabriel 142, 143, 146 Rowman & Littlefield 71 Rushdie, Salman 220, 224, 304, 358 Sager, Juan C. 187 Said, Edward 182, 336, 427 Sargent, Stuart 428 Saussy, Haun 53, 428 Sappho 7, 141–50 School Beauty’s Personal Bodyguard《校花的貼身高 手》283 science fiction(sf) 6, 9, 18, 70, 103–13, 195n2, 231, 233, 234, 241, 280, 283, 286 Sebo 色波 350 selection 1, 2, 4, 7–9, 11, 15, 17, 21, 167, 171–3, 178, 183, 211, 212, 229, 241, 245–8, 251, 256, 257, 260, 271, 285, 286, 359–62, 364, 387, 425, 440 Senna Fernandes, Henrique de 飛歷奇 340, 341 Nam Van: Contos de Macau 南灣:澳門故事 340, 341

Shao Xunmei 邵洵美 7, 141–50 Every One a Rose《一朵朵玫瑰》142–5, 150 Flower-like Evil《花一般的罪惡》143, 145, 150 “To Sappho”《致莎茀》150 “To Swinburne”《致史文朋》144, 145 Shanghai Sketch《上海漫畫》148 Shanghainese 321, 327, 401 Shen Congwen 沈從文 124, 129, 137, 149, 405 Border Town《邊城》149 “New and Old”《新與舊》137 Shernuk, Kyle 74 Shih Shu-ching 施叔青 360 Shirouzu Noriko 71 Shu Hong-sing 舒巷城 336 Shui Ching 水晶 359 sixiang 四象 (four phenomena) 282 sixiang 思想 (thought) 5, 27–36 skopos theory 186, 187 Sieber, Patricia 70, 71 Singapore 2, 4, 11, 28, 65–7, 70, 230, 259, 267, 289, 290, 369–82, 394 Singapore Writers Festival 289 Sinocentrism 11, 257–66, 429 Sinology 358, 437 Sinophone 10, 11, 12, 28, 30, 65–9, 71, 74, 81, 86, 183, 185, 186, 189, 303–16, 330, 333n1, 346–8, 350–3, 370, 371, 374, 376, 377, 380, 409, 410, 420, 443 Sinosphere 4, 10–12, 65–8, 70, 71, 75, 428 Smedley, Agnes 244 Smollett, Tobias 143 Snow, Edgar 249 SOAS University of London 58, 438, 439, 441, 444 soft power 106, 181, 183, 268, 273, 274, 363 Sommer, Jason 72 Song, Chris 宋子江 10, 338, 341 Soong, Mae Fong 宋鄺文美 402, 403 Soong, Stephen 宋淇 185, 187, 188, 402, 403, 405 Soviet Union 3–5, 7, 32, 39–47, 158–9, 161, 167, 181, 182, 427 Spence, Jonathan 431 Speak Mandarin Campaign 369, 379, 381 Sphinx Society 獅吼社 143 Sphinx 141n1, 143, 144, 146, 150 spy fiction 211, 212, 214 Ssu-ma Chung-yuan 司馬中原 360 St. Mary’s Hall 399–401 Stalin, Joseph 41, 393 Stalling, Jonathan 8, 241, 259 state sponsorship 169 State University of New York Press 72 Steinbeck, John 184

INDEX 457

Stember, Nick 289 stereotype 10, 11, 60, 82, 104, 229, 240, 292, 294, 324, 325, 328, 358, 374, 385, 387, 395, 425 Sterk, Darryl 226, 341 Straits Times, The 289, 290 Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio《聊齋誌異》335 Su Manshu 蘇曼殊 91 Su Shi 蘇軾 78 Su Wei-chen 蘇慧貞 70 subvention 207 Sun Fuyuan 孫伏園 387 Sun Yat-sen 孫中山 158 Swinburne, Algernon Charles 142–6, 150 symbolic capital 189, 206–8, 210, 212, 213, 315, 372, 373 Symonds, J. A. 143 Symons, Arthur 143, 145 Taipei 43, 66–74, 184, 185, 211, 359, 362, 363n2 Taiwan 2–6, 8, 11, 12, 39, 41–7, 65–75, 118, 181, 182, 185, 186, 189, 230, 274, 278, 279, 303, 308, 328, 357–66, 397, 398, 403, 414, 420, 430, 440 Taiwan Tongzhi Hotline Association 75 Taiwanese 5, 6, 11, 39, 41–3, 45–7, 66–71, 73–5, 279, 303, 328, 357–66 tales of the remarkable (chuanqi; accounts of the extraordinary) 傳奇 325, 429 Tan Dan Feng 陳丹楓 67 Tang, Jenna (Chieh-lan Tang) 74 Tang Xin-mei 湯新楣 185 target reader 174, 176–8, 240, 285, 375 Tashi Dawa 扎西達娃 346, 349n, 350, 353n23 Tay, William 鄭樹森 183, 185 Teale, Edwin Way 184 Teasdale, Sara 142 The Savoy 145, 149 The Yellow Book 144, 149 Thoreau, Henry David 184, 385 Thurber, James 184 Tiananmen Square 32, 46, 49, 72, 88, 310, 430 Tiang, Jeremy 70, 75 Tibet 4, 11, 51, 308, 345–54 Tibet Autonomous Region (TAR) 345, 346, 351n22, 352 Tibet, Central 348, 352 Tibetan culture 345, 346, 353 Tibetan language 345, 346, 349, 350 Tibetan literature 11, 345–51, 353, 354 Tibetan protest 351 Tibetan readership 353 Tibetan writers 10, 11, 346–53

Tibetanness 345, 352 Tibetophone writers 347, 350, 353 T’ien Hsia Monthly 149, 244 Tien Wei-hsin, Morris 田維新 185 TikTok 66 Ting Chen-wan 丁貞婉 185 Tipografia Salesiana 慈幼印書館 337 tongzhi 67–70, 72, 74, 75, 388 tongzhi literature 67–70, 74, 75 Trackless Train《無軌列車》147, 148 transcription 6, 17, 52, 53, 352, 377 transcultural 17, 43, 87, 124, 125, 155, 224, 226, 227, 311, 336, 415, 420 translatability 6, 9, 117, 122, 220, 426, 427 translation agents of translation 304 authoritarian model 7, 161, 164, 165 cultural translation 3, 5, 6, 49, 52, 60, 119, 120, 240, 314 dialect and translation 8, 30, 33, 222, 247, 320, 329, 369, 379, 425 fidelity 16, 187, 188, 220, 293 gender 10, 74, 111, 157, 163, 164, 258, 260, 290, 292, 293, 297, 319, 329, 330n13, 418, 420, 439 gift-exchange translation 7, 161, 162, 165 inbound translation 內譯 10, 333, 334, 337, 339–42 indirect translation 210, 231, 237 interlinguistic translation 306 intralingual translation 6, 52, 334 macro translation 319–21 micro translation 319, 320 outbound translation 外譯 10, 333, 334, 336, 337, 339–42 prismatic translation 11, 406 pseudotranslation 1, 6, 91–101 power relations 155, 157, 206, 321, 334, 372 race 10, 319, 324, 327, 329, 414, 424 seen translation 398 self-translation 1, 10, 11, 60, 132, 135, 303–16, 376, 377, 382, 398, 399, 401, 402, 404, 405, 411, 413, 415, 417, 420 sociology of translation 205, 206 translation alterity 52, 131, 304, 321, 410 translation belief 168, 178 translation history 157 translation management 168, 169, 173, 178 translation of names 10, 290 translation policy 168–70, 178 translation strategy 137, 138, 187, 188, 308, 395

458 INDEX

translation style 翻譯體 29–32, 34, 35, 125, 283, 286, 425, 441, 442 translation zone 7, 156 translational 4, 5, 10, 21, 53, 54, 94, 187, 189, 205, 213, 249, 261, 304, 305, 307, 310, 311, 319, 320, 327, 341, 352, 371, 377, 379, 380, 382, 425, 427, 429 translated being 10, 304, 305, 307, 315 translatee 155, 156, 159, 161–3, 165 transnationalism 12, 409, 413, 415, 420 Truman, Harry 181 Truth Beauty Goodness《真善美》143 Tsoi, Viktor 39, 45–7 Tsang, Riley 75 Tsao Li-chuan 曹麗娟 69, 74 Tse, Jamie 74 Tsui, Aurora 徐晞文 340 Tu Kuo-ch’ing 杜國清 363 Twain, Mark 184 Tyrmand, Leopold 184 United States Information Service (USIS) 8, 11, 182, 183–5, 359, 402 universalism 394, 395 University of Hawai’i Press 70, 245 University of Hong Kong 401 University of Notre Dame 438–9 Vai Si 維絲 338 value-added economics 193 value-added literary labor economy 8, 193–202 van Crevel, Maghiel 9, 49, 87, 253–62, 423, 426, 430 Van Jan《萬象》149 Vanity Fair 148, 149 Venuti, Lawrence 20, 23, 29, 187, 188, 425, 442, 443n2 Verlaine, Paul 16, 23, 142, 145 Vermeer, Hans J. 187, 248 version 4–7, 15–24, 28, 30, 33, 34, 36, 42, 60, 77n1, 109, 117, 136, 137, 143, 145, 149, 150, 156, 171, 175, 176, 201, 211, 212, 221, 225–7, 241, 243–5, 248–50, 267, 271, 289, 294, 297, 308, 313, 322, 352, 358, 360, 363, 376, 377, 387, 389, 391–3, 401–3, 405, 409, 416–20, 425–7, 441, 445, 446 Voltaire 385 Vong, Agnes 黃勵瑩 338 Vuong, Ocean 69 Wade, Thomas Francis 341 Wales, Nym (Helen Foster Snow) 245 Walis Nokan 瓦歷斯諾幹 364

Walker, Lawrence A. 72 Walkovitz, Rebecca L. 49n1, 51, 423, 424, 426 Wang Anyi 王安憶 200n7 Wang Chen-ho 王禎和 361, 363 Wang Chi-chen 王際真 244, 245 Wang, David Der-wei 王德威 2n1, 358, 360, 363, 364, 400, 429 Wang Hui 汪暉 28–36 Wang, Jing 60, 429 Wang Jing-xi 王敬羲 185 Wang, Kevin 74 Wang Shuo 王碩 292 Wang Tao 王韜 341 Wang Xiangchen 王向辰 390 Wang Xiaobo 王小波 72 Wang Xiaoni 王小妮 335 Wang Wei 王維 133 Wang Zhaoshan 王兆山 88 Wark, McKenzie 35, 36 Warren, Robert Penn 184 Washington, Booker T. 183 Up From Slavery 183 Water Margin《水滸傳》444 Way of Choices《擇天記》281, 284 web novel 網絡小說 9, 10, 265, 267–71, 273, 274, 277–87 Webnovel (website) 265, 269, 270, 277, 280, 283 WeChat 微信 78, 86, 89, 105, 109 Weise 唯色 350, 351, 353 Weltliteratur 357 Welty, Eudora 184, 397 Whampoa Military Academy 387 Wharton, Edith 184 Wharton, H. T. 143, 145 widowhood 386, 392 Wilder, Thornton 147, 184 Williams, Raymond 55n7, 189 Williams, Tennessee 184 Wolfe, Thomas 184 Wong Bik-wan 黃碧雲 71 Wong, Siu-kit 王兆傑 444 Wong, Su-Ling 136 Wong, Nicholas Yu-bon 黃裕邦 75, 340 Crevasse《天裂》75, 340 Woolf, Leonard 7, 136 Woolf, Virginia 7, 129n1, 130, 131, 134, 135, 138 Words Without Borders 69, 75, 209 World Today 8, 183, 402 World Today Press 今日世界出版社 8, 181–4 Wu Cho-liu 吳濁流 361 Wu, Gabriel 吳耀宗 67 Wu Juntao 吳鈞陶 247

INDEX 459

Wu Lucian 吳魯芹 185, 358 Wu Ming-yi 吳明益 363–5 Wu Sheng 吳晟 365 Wu Xia 鄔霞 260–2 Wu Zetian 武則天 393, 394 wuxia (martial arts) 武俠 270, 271n3, 280, 281, 284, 286 Wuxiaworld (website) 9, 10, 265, 269, 270, 277, 279–84 Xi Chuan 西川 335 Xi Ni Er 希尼爾 372, 374, 379 Xi Xi 西西 335 The Teddy Bear Chronicles《縫熊誌》335 Xiao Bai 小白 8, 207, 213–15 Xiao Hai 小海 262 Xiao Hong 蕭紅 439 Xining 西寧 348, 350 Xizang (Tibet) 西藏 352 Xu Guangping 許廣平 247 Xu Lizhi 許立志 258–60 Xu Xu 徐訏 6, 117–26, 146, 185 “Bird Talk” 鳥語 6, 117, 121–6 “Hallucination” 幻覺 120, 121 “The Goddess of the Arabian Sea” 阿拉伯海的女 神 119–21 “The Jewish Comet” 猶太的彗星 119, 120 The Rustling Wind 風蕭蕭 120 Xue Yiwei 薛憶溈 226, 227 Xue Yue 薛岳 43–5 Xu Zhimo 徐志摩 145, 149 XXth Century, The 401 Yan Geling 嚴歌苓 71, 346n3 Yang Chih-chang 楊熾昌 362 Yang Fu-min 楊富閔 365 Yang, Gladys 戴乃迭 169, 171, 173, 174, 246, 444 Yang Hua 楊華 362 Yang Jiang 楊絳 219, 220, 227 Yang Kuei 楊逵 361 Yang, Leah 楊隸亞 74 Yang Lian 楊煉 79, 82, 87, 319, 346, 429, 430 Yang Mu 楊牧 (Ye Shan 葉珊) 185, 186, 360, 363 Yang Shuang-zi 楊双子 74 Yang Xianyi 楊憲益 169, 171, 173, 174, 176, 246, 444 Yangdon 央珍 349n13, 350 Yao Ke 姚克 185, 187, 245n8 Yasin, Patricia 68, 69 Ye Lingfeng 葉靈鳳 148

Ye Qianyu 葉淺予 148 Ye Shan 葉珊  see Yang Mu 楊牧 Yeh Chun-chan 葉君健 169 Yeh, Michelle 奚密 2n1, 75, 169, 362, 366, 426, 427 Yeh Shih-tao 葉石濤 361, 364 Yen Yuan-shu 顏元叔 185 Yeshi Dolma 益希卓瑪 348 Yeshi Tenzin 益希單增 348–50 Yidam Tsering 伊丹才讓 348, 352 Yip, Wai-lim 葉維廉 185, 194, 362 yiqi 逸氣 133–5, 138 Young Companion《良友畫報》148 Yu Hua 余華 49n2, 50, 53, 58, 59, 430 Yu Kwang-chung 余光中 185, 186n2, 187 Yu Lihua 於梨華 185 Yu Xiuhua 余秀華 87, 335 Yuan Chia-hua 袁家驊 245 Yuan Zhen 元稹 392 zawen 雜文 245n10, 246 Zeng Pu 曾樸 147 Zeng Shaoli 曾少立 (Lĭzilìzilízi李子栗子梨子) 78 Zeng Xubai 曾虛白 147 Zeng Zheng 曾崢 (Dugu Shiroushou 獨孤食肉獸) 81, 82, 88 Zhang Hongling 張洪凌 72 Zhang Jie 張潔 175 Zhang Jingyuan 張京媛 71 Zhang Kebiao 章克標 143, 147 Zhang Longxi 張隆溪 326, 426 Zhang, Louie 75 Zhang Zhenyu 張振宇 148 Zhao, Henry Y.H., or Zhao Yiheng 趙毅衡 52, 58–60, 345, 427 Zheng Chenggong (Koxinga) 鄭成功 362 Zheng Xiaoqiong 鄭小瓊 257–9 Zheng Egoyan伊格言 364 zhiguai 誌怪 (records of anomalies) 429 Zhong Yilin 鍾宜霖 10, 319, 325, 330n15 Chinatown 唐人街 323–5, 330n14 London Love Story 倫敦愛情故事 323 Dear New York 323n4 Zhou Shoujuan 周瘦鵑 6, 91–101 “Roses Are Thorny”《玫瑰有刺》92, 99, 100 “The Broken Heart”《心碎矣》92, 98–100 Zhou Xiaojing 258, 259 Zhou Xiaotian 周嘯天 88 Zhou Zuoren 周作人 91, 92, 146, 243 Zhu Weiji 朱維基 146 Zhuangzi (Chuang Tzu) 莊子 8, 81, 219, 227, 314, 428

460

461

462