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season of mist and mellow fruitfulness
Fog is shrouding the pond in the rising dusk in a most pleasing way, and night seems a blessing.
I read the most beautiful story for Chinese poetry. It's heartbreaking, and bitter, but the woman in it is unforgettable.
Though I refer to it as "Chinese Poetry" it's technically "The Culture of the Lyric" and though most *is* poetry, there are some rare cases of prose. Such is the case of "Ying-ying's Story." It's a remarkable piece, subtle and filled with allusions, a mish-mash of styles, startlingly feministic, and quietly tragic. It's about a young scholar, Zhang, who is captivated by a beautiful cousin, lures her with bad poetry on hearing that she loves words, and imagines her a goddess, a dream, when she finally goes to his bed. They have a few months of happiness and then he leaves, ostensibly to pursue academics. They never see each other again.
Zhang is, simply put, a bastard, in the way that all self-absorbed and misdirected people are. It's easy for him to leave Ying-ying because she is not at all real to him. The story, in its wonderful way, makes no allowances for his remarkable ignorance, portraying him as the simple, narrow fellow that he is. He writes once to Ying-ying after taking his leave, but we don't see that letter. We *do* see Ying-ying's reply, and the letter is so deeply felt, so quietly hurt, and longing, and angry, all beneath a careful veneer of polite, caring eloquence. I've read it a dozen times. So few words, ultimately, and it does so much. Ying-ying breathes, lives, in that one-page letter, and that's so much more than Zhang gets.
(excerpted:
...From your letter I am given to understand that you are occupied by the pursuit of your studies in the capital. The path to progress in studies does indeed depend on not being disturbed. Yet I feel some resentment that I, a person of so small account, have been left behind forever in a far place. Such is fate. What more is there to say?
...When I brought my bedding to your side, your love and honor were deep. In the folly of my passion I thought that I would remain in your care forever. How could I have forseen that, once having seen my lord, it would be impossible to plight our troth? Since I suffer the shame of having offered myself to you, I may no longer serve you openly as a wife. This will be a source of bitter regret that will last until my dying day. I repress my sighs, for what more can be said? If by chance in the goodness of your heart you would condescend to fulfill my secret hope, then even if it were on the day of my death, it would be for me like being reborn. But, perchance, the successful scholar holds love to be but of little account and sets it aside as a lesser thing in order to pursue things of greater importance, considering his previous mating to have been a vile action, his having taken enforced vows as something one may well betray. If this be so, then my form will melt away and my bones will dissolve, yet my glowing faith will not perish. My petals, borne by the wind and trailing in the dew, will still entrust themselves to the pure dust beneath your feet. Of my sincerity unto death, what words can say is all said here. I sob over this paper and cannot fully express my love. Please, please take care of yourself.)
Such an old story. Such will it remain.
I read the most beautiful story for Chinese poetry. It's heartbreaking, and bitter, but the woman in it is unforgettable.
Though I refer to it as "Chinese Poetry" it's technically "The Culture of the Lyric" and though most *is* poetry, there are some rare cases of prose. Such is the case of "Ying-ying's Story." It's a remarkable piece, subtle and filled with allusions, a mish-mash of styles, startlingly feministic, and quietly tragic. It's about a young scholar, Zhang, who is captivated by a beautiful cousin, lures her with bad poetry on hearing that she loves words, and imagines her a goddess, a dream, when she finally goes to his bed. They have a few months of happiness and then he leaves, ostensibly to pursue academics. They never see each other again.
Zhang is, simply put, a bastard, in the way that all self-absorbed and misdirected people are. It's easy for him to leave Ying-ying because she is not at all real to him. The story, in its wonderful way, makes no allowances for his remarkable ignorance, portraying him as the simple, narrow fellow that he is. He writes once to Ying-ying after taking his leave, but we don't see that letter. We *do* see Ying-ying's reply, and the letter is so deeply felt, so quietly hurt, and longing, and angry, all beneath a careful veneer of polite, caring eloquence. I've read it a dozen times. So few words, ultimately, and it does so much. Ying-ying breathes, lives, in that one-page letter, and that's so much more than Zhang gets.
(excerpted:
...From your letter I am given to understand that you are occupied by the pursuit of your studies in the capital. The path to progress in studies does indeed depend on not being disturbed. Yet I feel some resentment that I, a person of so small account, have been left behind forever in a far place. Such is fate. What more is there to say?
...When I brought my bedding to your side, your love and honor were deep. In the folly of my passion I thought that I would remain in your care forever. How could I have forseen that, once having seen my lord, it would be impossible to plight our troth? Since I suffer the shame of having offered myself to you, I may no longer serve you openly as a wife. This will be a source of bitter regret that will last until my dying day. I repress my sighs, for what more can be said? If by chance in the goodness of your heart you would condescend to fulfill my secret hope, then even if it were on the day of my death, it would be for me like being reborn. But, perchance, the successful scholar holds love to be but of little account and sets it aside as a lesser thing in order to pursue things of greater importance, considering his previous mating to have been a vile action, his having taken enforced vows as something one may well betray. If this be so, then my form will melt away and my bones will dissolve, yet my glowing faith will not perish. My petals, borne by the wind and trailing in the dew, will still entrust themselves to the pure dust beneath your feet. Of my sincerity unto death, what words can say is all said here. I sob over this paper and cannot fully express my love. Please, please take care of yourself.)
Such an old story. Such will it remain.
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