email Canaan Morse
Canaan Morse began translating literature a year ago last fall, when he translated and prefaced Wang Shuo's novella The Stewardess for his senior thesis at Colby College in Maine. This is his second extended period in China; he has been living in Beijing for the past year, and studying both ancient and modern Chinese literature at the Inter-University Program for Chinese Studies at Qinghua University. His own work has been published in the States, though none of his translations have; he's currently beginning work on The Myth of Lady Ren from the Taiping Guangji and the prose poetry of He Qifang.
The Chinalyst Best China Blogs contest is open (actually, it's been open for a while) and PR is now in the running! We got a late start, but I'm absolutely confident that with a little publicity we can pull into at least second or third in our category (General).
Here's the link to our category. Go vote!
By Canaan Morse, December 4, 2:43p.m.
Ever since Eric posted "Words" and the dark forest came alive, I've been going through the essays and chapters I have already translated from 何其芳 and 老舍 looking for striking or frustrating passages to put up on PR and let everyone have a go at. The last time I posted work I made the mistake of putting up just a piece of translated copy without the Chinese original, which handicapped all possibility of criticism and, thereby, interest. Well, that was a lesson in itself, though I want to test 大家's patience one more time by putting up another complete piece. It's brief, briefer than the previous one, I promise, and it's a chance to get at some very interesting language－some of which, incidentally, can't be found online or in print, since this is copied straight out of the unabridged 1937 original edition of 画梦录. Even the punctuation matches.
《雨前》 何其芳 著
最后的鸽群带着低弱的笛声在微风里划一个圈子后，也消失了。许是误认这灰暗的凄冷的天空为夜色的来袭，或是也预感到风雨的将至，遂过早的飞回它们温暖的木舍。
几天阳光在柳条上撒下的一抹嫩绿，被尘土埋掩得有憔悴色了，是需要一次洗涤。还有干裂的大地和树根也早已期待着雨。雨却迟疑着。
我怀想着故乡的雷声和雨声。那隆隆的有力的搏击，从山谷返响到山谷，仿佛春之芽就从冻土里震动，惊醒，而怒茁出来。细草样柔的雨声又以膏脂和温存之手抚摩它， 使它簇生油绿的枝叶而开出红色的花。这些怀想如乡愁一样萦绕得使我忧郁了。我心里的气候也和这北方大陆一样缺少雨量，一滴温柔的泪在我枯涩的眼里，如迟疑 在这阴沉的天空里的雨点，久不落下。
白色的鸭也似有一点躁烦了，有不洁色的都市的河沟里传出它们焦急的叫声。有的还未厌倦那船一样的徐徐地划行，有的却倒插它们的长颈在水里，红色的蹼趾伸在尾巴后，不停地扑击着水以支持身体的平衡。不知是在寻找沟底的细微食物，抑是贪那深深的水里的寒冷。
有几个已上岸了。在柳树下来回地作绅士的散步，舒息划行的疲劳。然后参差地站着，用嘴细细地抚理它们遍体白色的羽毛，间或又摇动身子或扑展着阔翅，使那 缀在羽毛间的水珠坠落。一个已修饰完毕的，弯曲它的颈到背上，长长的红嘴藏没在翅膀里，静静合上它白色的茸毛间的小黑睛，仿佛准备睡眠。可怜的小动物，你 就是这样做你的梦吗？
我想起故乡放雏鸭的人了。一大群鹅黄色的雏鸭游牧在溪流间，清浅的水，两岸青青的草，一根长长的竿在牧人的手里。他的 小队伍是多么欢欣地发出啾啁声，又多么驯服地随着他的竿头越过一个田野又一个山坡。夜来了，帐幕似的竹篷撑在地上，就是他的家。但这是怎样辽远的想象啊。 在这多尘土的国度里，我仅只希望听见一点树叶上的雨声。一点雨声的幽凉滴到我憔悴的梦，也许会长成一树圆的绿阴来覆荫我自己。
我仰起头。天 空低垂如灰色的雾幕，落下一些寒冷的霏屑到我脸上。一只远来的鹰隼仿佛带着怒愤，对这沉重的天色的怒愤，平张的双翅不动地从天空斜插下，几乎触到河沟对岸 的土阜，而又鼓扑着双翅，作出猛烈的声响腾上了。那样巨大的翅使我惊异，我看见了它两肋间斑白的羽毛。接着听见了它有力的鸣声，如同一个巨大的心的呼号， 或是在黑暗里寻找伴侣的叫唤。
然而雨还是没有来。
一九三三年春天，北京
By Canaan Morse, November 25, 7:27p.m.
He Qifang (1912-1977) was a poet, essayist and revolutionary of the Modern Period, one of the group of well-heeled but oppressed and intellectually voracious young people who, having at one point campaigned for democracy, threw their lot in with the Communist Party once the Nationalists proved themselves incompetent at solving the country's problems. He began as a poet and a creative nonfiction writer, and his first publication Record of Painted Dreams (hua meng lu) is composed of a series of brief but intense pieces of poetic prose, which in their manipulation of tense and image show a kind of sensitivity that is hard to find anywhere else in the literature of that period.
The more I listen to Wolfgang Kubin, the more his opinions unsettle me, but I agree with him in spirit on one point: the sixty years before 1949 produced an incredible amount of original, well-wrought and moving work. Most of it has fallen through and disappeared into the gap that opened up between the last generation of China students and this one, in part due to a lack of good quality translations, which damages its appeal as fashionable literature. He Qifang is an extreme example of a first-class writer who has been almost entirely forgotten.
Below is one of the shortest entries in the Record, entitled The Peddler. I'm gonna take it on faith that it's bad manners to copyright, though I do plan on publishing this later.
By Canaan Morse, July 15, 11:12a.m.
Goodbye Once More to Cambridge
Xu Zhimo
Translation by Canaan Morse
Over blades of grass I’m leaving,
as over them I once came,
a slender hand privately waving
goodbye to this western plain.
Light falls from the tress of the willow
(a bride by the evening stream)
murmurs out in bright alloy the water
and through all the aisles of me.
while the childish algae that play
in the mud of the riverbed
duck from the current, wave me away
as a gift from the giver—
—and rise to a dream, the dream
of a rainbow, distilled from
the news of the wind in the green
fractured face of the spring by the elm;
For dreams? Bow a long elm pole
to pull slowly for a place of unthinkably bright;
load that, somehow, to the paint,
and sing as you drift through the night.
But—I have not that right,
my escape is the broken reed of farewell;
as some sympathy dims the cicadas and gloom
is described by the evening bell.
And under a shadow I’m leaving,
just as under a shadow I came.
The pale hand brushes silently, leaving
stray clouds on this autumnless plain.
By Canaan Morse, April 27, 2:07a.m.
