Du Fu: “The Recruiter of Shi-hao”
At night go down to the village of Shi-hao
There have recruiter at night to seize a man
Old man clambers over wall to get away
Old woman comes to front door to answer it
Officer curses—what a temper!
Woman cries—how bitter!
Hear woman move forward to speak
“Three sons for defense of Ye-cheng
One son already come with message
Two sons recently died in combat
The survivor, waiting, tries to live
The dead always stay dead
At home there’s no one any longer
Only a grandson still at breast
For the baby’s sake the woman hasn’t left yet
Go, return without whole skirt
Old woman though weakened with age
Ask to follow recruiter return tonight
Quickly report to the mess at He-yang
Still able to fix breakfast”
Late night voices stop
Like hearing sounds of stifled sobs
Dawn comes climb the highway
To old man only say goodbye24
From a formal point of view, the poem, although written in the ancient style, carries some traces of the modern style. Parallelism is apparent in couplet II, and in the middle of the poem. The effect of the whole, constructed as it is of parallel couplets framed in nonparallel couplets, is to suggest an enlarged, deformed, and, perhaps, burst open lü-shi.
The poem is composed of twelve couplets, with a break, justified by both content and formal reasons, after couplet VI, dividing it nicely into two equal parts. In the first part (couplets I–VI) the old woman offers some opposition to the recruiter, invoking the fact that her three sons have already gone for Ye-cheng, in the defense of the city. To underscore this attempt at resisting a menacing order, the poet uses a series of parallel lines.
The parallelism weakens to a limp by couplet VII. Full parallelism here would require that the lines read: “In the house no longer have anyone / At the breast only have a child.” From this couplet, in effect, the old woman begins an implacable process of “substitution” in the face of the intransigence of the officer. Who shall go in place of whom? If the old man has succeeded in saving himself (since the recruiter supposedly seeks only men), there is in the house besides herself only the daughter-in-law and the grandson. Note, here, the poor ruse in the pleading of the old woman to spare her daughter-in-law: she says first, in couplet VII, that there is no one left in the house except a nursing infant (in Chinese, “beneath the breast”). This she does before even revealing the existence of the mother. And when she does introduce the mother she immediately adds that she is hardly presentable, since she does not even have a whole skirt. In the following couplets (IX and X), the tone of the poem changes and the rhythm accelerates. Personal discourse appears with the presence of the “Yi” (“Old Woman” is used to refer to herself, as in all polite discourse in wen-yan), as the old woman finally decides to offer herself as a substitute for all the others, proposing that she herself go with the officer. From this point on, the action develops inexorably. Couplet X provides a feeble echo of the “limping” parallelism apparent earlier; in this couplet, in fact, the old woman attempts to make herself appear valuable to the recruiter, pleading that she will at least be able to cook for the soldiers. Would the officer really take a woman, and for that matter a very old one? The reader may suppose not, until the last line, when the poet says that the next morning he took leave of the old man alone.
On the narrative level, the poet presents himself as only a listening witness, thus permitting himself to pass over the description of many things. He is no longer a “spectator” participating in the scene, though the speech of the old woman, through which the whole drama is transmitted, does end by blending into that of the poet. The suspense of the poem has a basis in this ambiguity, moreover. In the penultimate line, the reader asks himself whether it is the woman or the poet who mounts to the highway. If the woman has substituted for the others, the poet himself is then substituted for the woman (who has left without having been able to see her old husband again): it is he who says farewell to the old man.
3. The Images
In the two preceding chapters, we revealed the fundamental structures of Chinese poetic language. These structures, meaningful in themselves, are nonetheless not an end in themselves. In disrupting ordinary language, in introducing other forms of opposition into it, these structures seem to reach towards a higher, more profound level, that of images and their arrangement. In any case, let us specify that the images are not elements that come “after the fact” to crown a pre-existing language. They are at the foundation of that language and actively participate in constituting it. Over the course of our analysis, we have already often depended on images to bring out certain structural facts. In reality, these are symbolic images loaded with subjective contents which permitted, in a poetic line, the suppression of linking or narrative elements, and thus all of the structural economy that we have been able to point out. To devote a final chapter to the images is thus to occupy a synthetic perspective and to observe, in a global fashion, the functioning of Chinese poetic language.
Under the sign of the triad Man-Earth-Heaven we will lead our observations, to the extent that an imaged figure is above all perceived as something equivocal, born of the encounter between the created earth and the human spirit, to the point that in the poetic tradition, to designate a true image, only compound words are used, like yi-xiang (idea-figure), yi-jing (idea-scene), or qing-jing (emotion-landscape). In the eyes of the Chinese, what allows for the constant and necessary communication between the human power of the imagination and the imagined universe, is once again the conviction—born of the vision of the Tao ruled by a unitary principle—that both of them are of the same order, as they are both animated by the same vital breaths, derived from the original Breath, and which always binds them in organic and significant combinations.
At the center of this triad, what is foregrounded is surely the relation between Man and Nature (Earth) as well as the Cosmos (Heaven). Nonetheless, for many theoreticians, as far as the privileged links between Man and the Earth are concerned, Heaven represents another order, going beyond the Man-Earth symbiosis, notably when they speak of the “image beyond images, the flavor beyond tastes, the resonance beyond sounds….”
So as to recognize more precisely what was the basis for those general ideas that we have just brought up, and before going further into the examination of images strictly speaking, it seems useful to us, even indispensable, to focus on some texts coming from the tradition of stylistics and literary criticism. Preceded by an already quite long tradition of commentary and exegesis, this tradition flourished in the Wei-Jin era (3rd–4th c.) and under what are called the Southern dynasties (5th–6th c.). This is the period when, after the dissolution of the Han Dynasty, there was a long period of social and political unrest. Conversely, in the history of thought, there was a philosophical renaissance, marked notably by Neo-Taoism. Among all the reflections of a metaphysical nature, those concerning art and literature were not the least fertile. The “inaugural” text is, consensus has it, the Lun Wen (“On Literature”) by Cao Pi (187–226). In this text, before setting out personal opinions about the writings of his predecessors and contemporaries, Cao Pi right off forcefully affirms a fundamental idea, derived from the cosmological conception: “In literature, primacy is accorded to breath-spirit. This is embodied, through works, in different styles. Some are superior when the breath attains a high degree of purity in them (qing), others will only be classified as “troubled” (zhuo). This depends on the capacity of each author; will alone does not suffice. This principle may be illustrated by the example of musical interpretation. On the basis of the same melodic line, and from the same rhythmic development, the distinctions in quality arise from the nuances of breath
that are introduced there. This is a matter of an innate gift. Whoever has this would not know how to pass it on to his brother or his son.”
Two centuries later, Zhong Hong (?–518?), in his Shi Pin (“Judgments on Poetry”), taking up Cao Pi’s idea again, raises poetry to its first dignity: “The Breaths animate living beings from nature; these in turn inspire man. Under the impetus of desires and emotions that live in him, man expresses himself through dance and song. His song is a light that illuminates the Three Geniuses (Heaven-Earth-Man) and magnifies the 10,000 things. It thus constitutes an offering to the Spirits, manifesting through the hidden mystery. To overturn Heaven and Earth, to move the divinities, nothing equals poetry!”
At almost the same time as Zhong Hong, Liu Xie (465?–520?) wrote his famous Wen-xin diao-long (“The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons”). This work, containing fifty chapters, through the sublimity of its perspective and the acuity of its analyses, is rightly considered the most important treatise in traditional Chinese stylistics. It undertakes the explication, in a systematic fashion, of all aspects of literature: its essence, its function, its figures, its methods, its different styles, as well as the variety of its genres. The basic concept underlying it is wen, which is translated here as “literature.” In fact, the word draws to itself much more extended meanings. “Wen” originally signified the written sign, then by extension all written texts, and then still more broadly, culture and civilization. In the sense of “written sign,” let us remember that by its form composed of rhythmic strokes crossed harmoniously, wen alludes to rhythmic tracks left by birds and quadrupeds which inspired the ideograms. The rhythm here is not to be understood in the sense of ceaseless repetition of the same, but in that which suggests the just disposition of things, a disposition that, because of the internal crossings that it implies, is dedicated to transformation. What wen foregrounds, then, is the idea that, through the power of the great universal rhythm, man can and should enter into communion with the world of living beings, and that the signs that man invents are only viable if they are tied to the secret signs revealed by Creation.
From the Wen-xin diao-long we take two extracts. The first is the passage that opens the treatise:
The virtues of wen are surely great; wasn’t it born at the same time as Heaven and Earth? After the black and the gold were separated to be embodied respectively in the round (Heaven) and square (Earth), the sun and moon placed their jades on them, so as to bring out everything that shone in the sky; while the mountains and the waters organized the forms inherent in the earth. All this is not other than the wen of the Tao. Man who, lifting his head, contemplates the luminous and who, leaning forward, observes what is structured recognizes the hierarchy of things established by the two pre-eminent Entities. His nature and his spirit let him participate as a third party in the work of creation founded on the ternary relationship. Because of this, he is the quintessence of the Five Elements, and through that, the awakened consciousness of Heaven and Earth. In man, this consciousness engenders speech and this speech reveals wen. This is derived from an order which is intrinsic. In the womb of creation animals and plants have their wen. Dragons and phoenixes, by their rare magnificence, announce the splendor of their wen; tigers and leopards evoke elegance with the brilliance of their fur. Clouds are radiant with light, trees are crowned with blossoms; they have no need whatsoever for artificial embellishments. As for the innumerable forest noises, they are like organ and lute melodies. And the plashing sounds made when the spring hits the rock, they are no less harmonious than the tinkling that comes from musical stones or bronze clocks. Thus, the forms which are combined, the sounds that respond, attaining the adequate rhythm and just proportion, arrive at wen. When even beings without consciousness are so rich with signifying beauties, how much more should one who is endowed with spirit not be inhabited by wen?
The second extract is taken from Chapter 42:
Spring and Autumn succeed each other: the Yin and the Yang alternate: Thanks to the universal movement, living things move; and they are moved by the spectacle of time that changes. When, after winter, the yang breath pushes, black ants scatter everywhere. When, summer having passed, the yin breath is amassed, praying mantises devour the mosquitoes. One sees how the circle of the seasons profoundly touches the tiniest of beings. The man who is moved by a breath as pure as the most delicate flower and who also has a spirit as precious as the most valuable jade, how could he stay insensitive to the allure of nature with all the variety of its forms and colors? Also, wouldn’t his heart be exalted at the bursting-forth of springtime, wouldn’t it marvel at the abundance of summer! His heart is put at peace at the sight of the sky which lights up in autumn, and it gathers itself within at the sight of the countryside dressed in snow. Just as the weather each season carries in its womb creatures that are revealed in their changing aspects, human feelings are always enriched by new scenes that inspire them. And these feelings in their turn engender words that perpetuate them. A leaf that falls, an insect that cries are enough to move man to the most profound depths. Even more so a moonlit night that a fresh breeze flows through, or a forest in springtime bathed in the morning sun. The poet, moved, evolving in the midst of a thousand landscapes that he captures with his eyes and ears, and with words that come to him through his spirit, will never stop creating corresponding images, associating them with each other. Going before these things, he seizes their likeness and their breath; internalizing them, he sprays forth their rhythm and their melody.
Under the Tang dynasty (7th–9th c.), Hai-kong, a Japanese monk who had lived for a long time in China, composed an important poetic work, titled Wen-jin mi-fu (“Treasures Hidden behind the Mirror of Wen“), living evidence of everything he had learned in China. Here is a passage from the chapter wen-yi where he describes the process of wen:
When the idea of a poem surges up in a poet, it shakes his breath at first. That makes his heart leap. What is born and ripens in his heart is transmuted into speech, which will be heard by the ear, captured by the eye, and finally transmuted into just the right words that the poet will consign to paper. Much more inspired than the common man, the poet must integrate into his works what the Ancients established, just as his own spirit embraces both Heaven and the Ocean. This is the dimension he should try to reach. Before composing a poem, it is indispensable that he concentrates in his interior core all of his creative energy, so that, as soon as he sees a scene, he will be equally ready to penetrate its depths. Thus, when a poet reaches the summit of a high mountain and contemplates from his commanding view the 10,000 images beneath his feet, he has the impression that he holds the whole sweeping view in his palm. And the images, perfectly internalized, will be ready for his use.
Besides, Hai-kong was one of the first to observe how, in a poem, the idea of the poet (yi or li) was combined with the landscape he was describing (jing), not without suggesting that an idea is embodied in a landscape and that, inversely, across a countryside, the idea flowers.
The interpretation of the poetry of the Tang Dynasty culminated with the work of literary theorists such as Si-kong Tu (837–908), who proposed a synthesis of the reflections and practices elaborated over three centuries. In his Shi Pin (“On Poetry”), in 24 short chapters, he describes the different styles or procedures of poetic creation. With subtlety and eloquence, he shows that the beauty in poetry—or, very simply, beauty itself—is not an isolated phenomenon or something given a priori. In its multiple manifestations, beauty is always the result of a process and of an encounter, an opportune interaction of various elements that make up a “landscape,” certainly, but also between this “landscape” and the man who contemplates it, who interiorizes it and who, in fact, brings it all together, moved as he is by the same breaths. In his letters to a friend, he further expresses his conception of poetry. The letter to Wang Jia contains a passage about the latter’s work:
The dense and sparkling breaths that inhabit this country between th
e two rivers begs to be captured by eminent poets. You, well-read Wang, who live there, you have impregnated it with yourself for many years. The pentasyllabic poems that you’ve written excel in re-creating that state where thought interpenetrates with the landscape. How could your spirit be other than exalted when you observe that your work can evoke such spontaneous echoes among your peers?
Chinese Poetic Writing Page 9
