轉載：An enchanting journey up Mount Qilai
An enchanting journey up Mount Qilai
Poet Yang Mu's collection of autobiographical essays provides an evocative look into his formative years in Hualien while painting a picture of life in the 40s and 50s
By Han Cheung / Staff reporter
If there were one word to describe acclaimed Taiwanese poet Yang Mu’s (楊牧) collection of superbly translated autobiographical essays, Memories of Mount Qilai, it would simply be “beautiful.”
From the first few lines, one can tell that the author is a poet. Starting from his childhood in sleepy, sun-baked Hualien near the end of World War II, the writing is evocative and rich with lyrical descriptions, interspersed with personal memories, thoughts and observations. Yet, the book is more than just an autobiography. It’s also a lesson in history, in politics, in culture, in anthropology — and in life itself. Not only do we learn about Yang’s formative years, we finish the book with a greater understanding of daily life in Hualien in those days, as well as the transformation of Taiwanese society from the departure of the Japanese through the first decades of Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT) rule.
The text mostly consists of prose but sometimes shifts to poetry, and often it feels like a bit of both, especially in the use of sentence repetition and short stanzas. Sometimes he takes a break and provides detailed background information, such as when he delves into the history and traditions of Amis Aborigines. There’s a little bit of everything here — even some figments of his imagination — which is what makes this book so satisfying to read.
Originally called The Former Book of Mount Qilai (奇萊前書) in Chinese, it consists of three parts, which were originally separate books published between 1987 and 1997: Mountain Wind and Ocean Rain (山風海雨), Return to Degree Zero (方向歸零) and Long Ago, When We Started (昔我往矣).
Wind and Ocean Rain begins through the eyes of an introspective yet adventurous six-year-old Yang. “The flames of war burned in the distant sky, but hadn’t reached my ocean, my small city and my courtyard,” he writes, as he explores his surroundings as a carefree and very curious child.
Despite his age, Yang appears to always be yearning for something, with a strong thirst for life and knowledge that carries on through the book. The importance of the geography of Hualien is established from the very beginning. The mountains and ocean take on a life of their own. “The mountains were staunch guardians and the sea was the starting point of imagination,” he writes.
The author manages to touch on a multitude of topics in this 89-page section — ranging from the belief in ghosts to suddenly having to learn Mandarin — but, told through the lens of a precocious child in a world where time seems to stop, none of it is overwhelming.
We see events that gradually change Yang’s life: taking refuge from US airstrikes in an Aboriginal village, a crying, soon-to-be-slaughtered water buffalo, exploring the meaning of love, realizing that “humanity stank” for the first time … and finally an earthquake which symbolized the end of his childhood and the awakening of a spiritual, mythical “inkling of poetry” in his heart, a desire to create.
“There was a greater universe and that universe would naturally send me on my way ... It would be hard to say if it would be a strange and distant place, to explore, search and create, without regret,” he writes.
Another interesting part in this section is the transition to China-centric education — when Yang notices that the textbook mentions a dog running in the snow despite the lack of snow in Taiwan, and how he and his classmates have problems pronouncing the “F” sound in Mandarin.
In Back To Degree Zero, we leave the endless, hazy summers of childhood. “A 12-year-old boy, one who thought he was able to grasp love and beauty, mysterious symbols, the expression in the eyes of heaven and earth, close to poetry but lukewarm, a boy who was quiet and odd,” Yang writes.
The White Terror was in full swing, tensions were high and slogans and propaganda were the way of life. Yang has become more withdrawn, still searching, still passionate and imaginative as ever, but also growing up. “I looked at the sea with my eyes, but what I thought about in my mind was abstract ideas, one by one shaped between pictures. I was powerless to bear so many ideas,” he writes.
Yang delves deeper into the China-centric education system, as first Japanese is banned, then Hoklo (commonly known as Taiwanese). Retrocession Day (光復節) is now the beginning of Taiwanese history, and with everything before that “wiped clean as if it never existed.” Everything went back to zero to begin again, whether people liked it or not.
It is here that he starts writing, struggling to put his sentiments into words, which “remained elusive despite the sad appeals of emotion,” a process of creation that he finally experiences in an almost cathartic way, the beginnings of what would become a lifelong career.
As poetry takes over Yang’s life, it becomes not only his personal way of self-expression but also self-exploration. One passage stands out — when he argues with the local newspaper editor about the value of what was then modern poetry:
“The way I see it, most of the things in the textbooks are useless … everyday a page and a half of the paper is useless. It’s all lies. But at least what we write is what we feel.”
We go from vignette to vignette, from thoughts to events to people to fantasies, all carrying the reader on a wave through the author’s memories. Like an autobiographical essay should be, it jumps around but it flows naturally. The tone is more melancholy and realistic, but the writing remains beautiful.
It’s the end of the 50s in Long Ago, When We Started, which Yang describes as an oppressive, severe and destructive age.
In a time where one had to limit oneself, even while writing for the weekly “Free Expression” section in the local journal, Yang now searches for freedom — of the mind and soul — whether it is through skipping school and taking a solitary boat trip or reading banned books and privately discussing them with his teacher or debating poetry with a departed friend.
Some of the chapters are less rooted in reality and more in Yang’s mind. Through this last part, Yang, more mature but with the same curiosity, sensitivity and thirst, says goodbye to the mountains and ocean of his hometown.
There’s not a dull moment in the book, which leaves the reader with many thoughts, ideas, new understandings and perhaps a desire to take a fresh look inward, to cleanse the soul. This is a book that should be read more than once — after all, the writing is simply beautiful.
From: http://www.taipeitimes.com/News/feat/archives/2015/07/23/2003623688
Poet Yang Mu's collection of autobiographical essays provides an evocative look into his formative years in Hualien while painting a picture of life in the 40s and 50s
By Han Cheung / Staff reporter
If there were one word to describe acclaimed Taiwanese poet Yang Mu’s (楊牧) collection of superbly translated autobiographical essays, Memories of Mount Qilai, it would simply be “beautiful.”
From the first few lines, one can tell that the author is a poet. Starting from his childhood in sleepy, sun-baked Hualien near the end of World War II, the writing is evocative and rich with lyrical descriptions, interspersed with personal memories, thoughts and observations. Yet, the book is more than just an autobiography. It’s also a lesson in history, in politics, in culture, in anthropology — and in life itself. Not only do we learn about Yang’s formative years, we finish the book with a greater understanding of daily life in Hualien in those days, as well as the transformation of Taiwanese society from the departure of the Japanese through the first decades of Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT) rule.
The text mostly consists of prose but sometimes shifts to poetry, and often it feels like a bit of both, especially in the use of sentence repetition and short stanzas. Sometimes he takes a break and provides detailed background information, such as when he delves into the history and traditions of Amis Aborigines. There’s a little bit of everything here — even some figments of his imagination — which is what makes this book so satisfying to read.
Originally called The Former Book of Mount Qilai (奇萊前書) in Chinese, it consists of three parts, which were originally separate books published between 1987 and 1997: Mountain Wind and Ocean Rain (山風海雨), Return to Degree Zero (方向歸零) and Long Ago, When We Started (昔我往矣).
Wind and Ocean Rain begins through the eyes of an introspective yet adventurous six-year-old Yang. “The flames of war burned in the distant sky, but hadn’t reached my ocean, my small city and my courtyard,” he writes, as he explores his surroundings as a carefree and very curious child.
Despite his age, Yang appears to always be yearning for something, with a strong thirst for life and knowledge that carries on through the book. The importance of the geography of Hualien is established from the very beginning. The mountains and ocean take on a life of their own. “The mountains were staunch guardians and the sea was the starting point of imagination,” he writes.
The author manages to touch on a multitude of topics in this 89-page section — ranging from the belief in ghosts to suddenly having to learn Mandarin — but, told through the lens of a precocious child in a world where time seems to stop, none of it is overwhelming.
We see events that gradually change Yang’s life: taking refuge from US airstrikes in an Aboriginal village, a crying, soon-to-be-slaughtered water buffalo, exploring the meaning of love, realizing that “humanity stank” for the first time … and finally an earthquake which symbolized the end of his childhood and the awakening of a spiritual, mythical “inkling of poetry” in his heart, a desire to create.
“There was a greater universe and that universe would naturally send me on my way ... It would be hard to say if it would be a strange and distant place, to explore, search and create, without regret,” he writes.
Another interesting part in this section is the transition to China-centric education — when Yang notices that the textbook mentions a dog running in the snow despite the lack of snow in Taiwan, and how he and his classmates have problems pronouncing the “F” sound in Mandarin.
In Back To Degree Zero, we leave the endless, hazy summers of childhood. “A 12-year-old boy, one who thought he was able to grasp love and beauty, mysterious symbols, the expression in the eyes of heaven and earth, close to poetry but lukewarm, a boy who was quiet and odd,” Yang writes.
The White Terror was in full swing, tensions were high and slogans and propaganda were the way of life. Yang has become more withdrawn, still searching, still passionate and imaginative as ever, but also growing up. “I looked at the sea with my eyes, but what I thought about in my mind was abstract ideas, one by one shaped between pictures. I was powerless to bear so many ideas,” he writes.
Yang delves deeper into the China-centric education system, as first Japanese is banned, then Hoklo (commonly known as Taiwanese). Retrocession Day (光復節) is now the beginning of Taiwanese history, and with everything before that “wiped clean as if it never existed.” Everything went back to zero to begin again, whether people liked it or not.
It is here that he starts writing, struggling to put his sentiments into words, which “remained elusive despite the sad appeals of emotion,” a process of creation that he finally experiences in an almost cathartic way, the beginnings of what would become a lifelong career.
As poetry takes over Yang’s life, it becomes not only his personal way of self-expression but also self-exploration. One passage stands out — when he argues with the local newspaper editor about the value of what was then modern poetry:
“The way I see it, most of the things in the textbooks are useless … everyday a page and a half of the paper is useless. It’s all lies. But at least what we write is what we feel.”
We go from vignette to vignette, from thoughts to events to people to fantasies, all carrying the reader on a wave through the author’s memories. Like an autobiographical essay should be, it jumps around but it flows naturally. The tone is more melancholy and realistic, but the writing remains beautiful.
It’s the end of the 50s in Long Ago, When We Started, which Yang describes as an oppressive, severe and destructive age.
In a time where one had to limit oneself, even while writing for the weekly “Free Expression” section in the local journal, Yang now searches for freedom — of the mind and soul — whether it is through skipping school and taking a solitary boat trip or reading banned books and privately discussing them with his teacher or debating poetry with a departed friend.
Some of the chapters are less rooted in reality and more in Yang’s mind. Through this last part, Yang, more mature but with the same curiosity, sensitivity and thirst, says goodbye to the mountains and ocean of his hometown.
There’s not a dull moment in the book, which leaves the reader with many thoughts, ideas, new understandings and perhaps a desire to take a fresh look inward, to cleanse the soul. This is a book that should be read more than once — after all, the writing is simply beautiful.
From: http://www.taipeitimes.com/News/feat/archives/2015/07/23/2003623688
有关键情节透露
- 作者: Mu Yang
- 出版: Columbia University Press
- 定价: USD 35.00
- 装帧: Hardcover
- 页数: 296
- 时间: 2015-1-20