Being an avid podcast listener for a decade has the consequence of pushing them into the background and not paying much attention to the content. Fortunately, this time I was in an exploratory mood and came across a conversation with Tamás Sajó that triggered something.
In addition to being extremely knowledgeable, Sajó is the most humble scholar I’ve ever heard. He can speak on any subject because of his vast knowledge, but he does so with the utmost respect. An art historian by profession, he worked at the Hungarian Academy of Sciences and teaches medieval history and applied information science at CEU. After leaving the Academy, he founded his own publishing house, Studiolum. He translates books, holds online seminars and organizes thematic trips. According to the podcast – Az élet, meg minden – he speaks at least 15 (fifteen!) languages and can make himself understood in 15 more.
In one interview, he talked about a Chinese poem by Xin Qiji and the difficulties of translating it into another language. I was struck by both the poem itself and his interpretation. Before we jump to any conclusions, here is the poem itself, in both Chinese and English, side by side:
| Original | English1 |
|---|---|
| 醜奴兒; | Tune: Chou Nu Er |
| 書博山道中壁 | Written on the Wall on My Way to Boshan |
| 少年不識愁滋味， | While young, I knew no grief I could not bear |
| 愛上層樓。 | I’d like to go upstair |
| 愛上層樓， | I’d like to go upstair |
| 為賦新詞強說愁。 | To write new verses with a false despair |
| 而今識盡愁滋味， | I know what grief is now that I am old |
| 欲說還休。 | I would not have it told |
| 欲說還休， | I would not have it told |
| 卻道天涼好個秋。 | But only say I’m glad that autumn’s cold |
The tension between the two verses culminates at the end. It comes from the similarity and stark contrast between autumn (秋, qiū) and despair (愁, chóu). Autumn is the season of burnbaiting, and that is what the logogram represents. When we reach the end of the natural cadence of things, we come to a clean - yet calm - state. On the other hand, we have the symbol of autumn extended with the character of the heart (心, xīn), which all together means sadness. The first verse is about the “false despair” of youth and the willingness to force oneself to write about it, while the second is about the pure admiration of a cold autumn without the need to talk about anything else. Perhaps this is Xin Qiji’s way of distancing himself from the kitsch of poetry written about false feelings and the inexperienced younger self. Who can blame him? Life is about getting rid of the fluff and focusing on what matters.
About ten years ago I wrote “poems” about sadness, but in retrospect they speak of false despair. I’ve been doing a lot of self-reflection lately, and I’ve come to the same conclusion as Xin Qiji’s words. Maybe that’s why they say that Chinese poems are spot-on.
PS.: I feel I have an obligation to quote the Hungarian version as well:
| Original | Hungarian2 |
|---|---|
| 醜奴兒; | A „Csúnya rabszolga” dallamára. |
| 書博山道中壁 | Boshan felé menet egy falra írtam. |
| 少年不識愁滋味， | Fiatalon nem ismertem még a bánat ízét, |
| 愛上層樓。 | a toronyba vágytam. |
| 愛上層樓， | A toronyba vágytam, |
| 為賦新詞強說愁。 | hogy képzelt bánatomról verset írjak. |
| 而今識盡愁滋味， | Mára a bánat minden ízét megismertem, de már |
| 欲說還休。 | nem vágyom beszélni róla. |
| 欲說還休， | Nem vágyom beszélni róla, |
| 卻道天涼好個秋。 | csak annyit mondok: milyen szép, hideg ősz. |
From the article by Yuan Jiayin and Wang Feng in the European Journal of Applied Linguistics Studies, Volume 5, Issue 1. ↩︎
Translation by Tamás Sajó. A more detailed analysis can be found on his dedicated page. ↩︎