By Liu Yu
Recently, I've grown quite interested in translation. I picked two books to work on: one is Yuchu Xinzhi 虞初新志 and the other is Notes from the Thatched Abode of Close Observations 閱微草堂筆記. Though I thought myself highly engrossed, in the end, I'm just a pedantic scholar.
Upon first reading the prefaces, I realized that diving directly into the long main texts was no easy task. I actually believed my shallow knowledge was sufficient to handle it—I didn't even keep a dictionary nearby. Unsurprisingly, whether it was the phrasing or the syntax, nothing made sense. At first, I thought it was because Ji Yun's writing was too exquisite for someone like me to grasp. So I turned to Yuchu Xinzhi, and it felt as natural as eating. Since I enjoyed it, I decided to continue "translating."
What to do when the text doesn't flow? I imitated Lu Xun's childhood method of "reading aloud," letting my voice echo under the ceiling. Yet, I still couldn't distinguish the rhythm and phonetics. Tired from reading, I increasingly resembled a child babbling. For the first day or two, I truly couldn't form coherent sentences. Understanding phonetics is a prerequisite for translation, yet I lost myself in it, reciting for a long time like an infant learning to speak.
When I finally picked up my pen, it felt like a giant rock blocking my path—I couldn't share the same mental space as the author, and our perspectives differed greatly. After all, centuries apart create an inevitable gap. No matter, I opted for "literal translation," forcing the translated sentences to pierce through the framework of time and space, even if they remained awkward to my own ears. But driven by enjoyment, I thought perhaps I could gradually improve.
In translation, "literal translation" and "thought-based translation" are vastly different. As for comprehension, it depends on how many words one recognizes. If I want to impose my own ideas onto the author, I still have to start with "literal translation." A literally translated sentence can be polished into something elegant, but that would reflect my own thoughts, not necessarily the author's original intent. Even if they align, one must return to the basics of understanding words.
"Literal translation" leaves behind hollow sentence structures, dull prose, and stale rhetoric. Yet, this pedantic scholar finds joy in it. Riding the breeze of time, armed with my "literal translation" skills, I'm determined to meet the ancients.
Chewing on books, harboring hidden patience, and filled with benevolence, righteousness, and morality 仁義道德, I not only deceive myself but also mislead others. Truly, it can be said: at peace with oneself.
Translation is like a dialogue, my friends—not just with the author but also a meeting of minds with the reader. Is the plot in the book more captivating, or are the bits and pieces of life more flavorful? Honestly, I can't tell.
Ah, well, no need to fret over such trivial matters. Adjust the lamp's light—don't let it strain your eyes. Once you're immersed in reading, who even notices these things? Sometimes you think the lighting is just right, but it might not be. Reading light should be like the slanting rays of the afternoon sun. Note: it must be slanted; direct glare makes the text hard to see. Perhaps if you turn around, change your sitting posture, or twist your waist, the book falls into shadow. How annoying! The densely packed print is like spotting lice in wool—dazzling to the eyes.
Books are time machines. Their content shatters the dimension of time, fragmenting it, while readers search among the fragments for landmark milestones of information. Ah, I've spoken too obscurely. My friend, what we're truly seeking is nothing but love and endings. A book is ultimately about these two things.
If you follow the author's train of thought, you'll accept the intentions and biases they impose. At this point, the crucial content quietly slips away—too much overwhelming information leaves you scrambling. Look! You've definitely overlooked the objectively existing parts of the story, which weren't suited for the author to elaborate on in words.
You and the author will eventually meet somewhere in the book. Sometimes I feel each printed character is a special symbol of divine revelation to humanity, and the author unintentionally pieced them together, which astounds me even more. How to uncover this? The deeply hidden meanings the author deliberately concealed are naturally beyond my interpretation, yet I firmly believe there would be a reason for me to write these words at this moment. Going in circles, I've grown dizzy, and all I can do is reiterate this to you, hoping you'll understand deeply.
This is merely a tiny transmission on the infinite wheel of time: from God to the prophet, from the prophet to descendants, from descendants to their descendants, cycling endlessly without pause.
Liu Yu is the lead editor of the cultural commentary "A Thousand Hamlets." Liu holds a BA in English Literature from HKBU and an MA in History from HKU.
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