顾彬为张枣写的讣告
没时间翻译成中文了，抱歉。读罢令人出汗。顾彬在文中自比Calvinist，诚非故弄玄虚。
The Last Songs Have Long Faded Away
An Obituary for Zhang Zao (1962-2010)
Wolfgang Kubin
Whoever lives, survives, and whoever survives has the duty to write an
obituary for those who would never write an obituary for us, simply because
they precede us in death. This has been a part of my existence for a long
time now, and sometimes one wonders whether it wouldn’t be timely to heed
the example of Han Yu (768-824), who once suggested that one ought to be
able to speak the truth about those who die young.
As a poet, Zhang Zao was a genius, but unfortunately he did not do much with
his talent. He preferred drinking in measures and beating around the bush.
That is how we met, and it is how we parted. The reason was as simple as it
was trivial: duty and women.
In 1998 we decided that I would publish a collection of his poetry in
Germany, in form of a book, of course, and he would do the same in Shanghai
with my poetry. One year later, I published his Briefe aus der Zeit (Letters
from a Time) with Heiderhoff Publications. For this purpose, I put aside my
own work writing the Geschichte der klassischen chinesischen Dichtkunst
(History of classical Chinese poetics) for several months. The result was
very presentable. Never before had a Chinese poet been published so
handsomely, and that in two languages! Although the book barely sold a dozen
copies, it gained him a great homage by the eminent Joachim Sartorius in
June 2000 in the newspaper Die Welt. Subsequently, many invitations to
literary festivals and recitals in German literary houses followed.
And what about my collection of poetry in Chinese? Non-existent. Zhang Zao
barely translated half of my poem “Café Museum” (Narrentürme, 2002), and
even that was only based on a Chinese version that he did not even find
palatable. Other than that, he had all kinds of other excuses, including
that my poetry is too difficult. Wasn’t he much more difficult as a poet?
Hadn’t I faced the same challenge if not more in the course of translating
his poetry?
Yet he kept calling again and again. He repeatedly invited me to Dalian, to
travel northeast and to meet a ‘patron.’ Everything would be paid for. But I
did not like the idea about patrons or girls that was implied in the
invitation. What use does a Calvinist like me have for mammon and foolish
enchantment? It was this type of well-meant endeavor that separated us for
many years.
Zhang Zao left us with only one collection of poetry in China and another in
Germany, altogether around eighty poems. He himself was satisfied with that,
because even Hugo von Hofmannsthal (1874-1929) did not have more to show for
than that. Yet in this small human legacy both young poets produced immortal
poetic lines. In the case of the Chinese poet, we affectionately recall such
lines as “Chairs, sat into winter...”
Zhang Zao was a frequent guest in Bonn, both for lectures at the university,
and for poetry readings at the House of Language and Culture (Haus der
Sprache und Kultur). We are and always will be deeply grateful that he
brought the great German poet Hölderlin out of the ivory Hölderlinturm all
the way to China during his tenure and Ph.D. study at the University of
Tübingen. The brilliant line “Let man live poetically” („Poetisch lebe der
Mensch“), penned by my favorite poet, is still a household phrase among
Chinese poets and book sellers. Without his encounter with Zhang Zao at the
Hölderlinturm, the poet Ouyang Jianghe, for example, would not be the great
poet we admire today.
What kind of memory does he leave behind? When he stayed at Solitude Castle
in Stuttgart in March 2000, moody host of Bei Dao, Zhai Yongming and me, he
wanted to buy two bottles of whiskey for supper. I convinced him to buy just
one bottle. Some years later, he sang heartfelt Russian songs with Karin
Hempel-Soos and Yang Lian in the House of Language and Literature in Bonn.
We must have just finished a joint reading, and it was probably around 2003.
The singing went on with no end in sight. A day later, on December 17th, Ann
Mak and Almond Chu helped me cook Chinese for an event with Tilman Spengler
in the House. Even then, those three were still singing.
After almost twenty years in Germany, Zhang Zao returned to China in 2004 to
teach at various universities. He last lived in Beijing and didn’t write
anymore. In spite of his profound language abilities he translated only very
little. There was nothing from the German, even though both his German and
his Chinese were excellent. The only exception remains my obituary for Gu
Cheng (1956-1993; 1994), which still cannot be published on the mainland.
Was his a wasted life? At our last encounter in September 2007 at Beijing
University, after a reading with other Chinese and foreign poets, he
explained to me on the bus home that his writing had exhausted itself, and
there is nothing more in him worthy of expression. Nevertheless, he promised
to translate my poems right away if I sent him some. I did not send him any.
Not because I had given up hope in him, but because I thought he’d better
spend some time dealing with his own issues.
Zhang Zao died March 8, 2010 in the University Clinic Tübingen. He learned
about his lung cancer the previous December and left Beijing in February.
Tübingen is a beautiful place to die. Since he was so closely connected with
the Hölderlinturm, it was the only place suitably poetic for him, because
whoever falls short of his talents needs another great failure as an example
in death. And this failure he found in Hölderlin. We may envy him for that.
We will pass away later and therefore perhaps smaller, and, of course,
without his obituary for us. Or, to put it with Zhang Zao, someone has moved
the middle chair, but we will still have to sit our chairs into winter.
[Trans. by Birgit Linder]
The Last Songs Have Long Faded Away
An Obituary for Zhang Zao (1962-2010)
Wolfgang Kubin
Whoever lives, survives, and whoever survives has the duty to write an
obituary for those who would never write an obituary for us, simply because
they precede us in death. This has been a part of my existence for a long
time now, and sometimes one wonders whether it wouldn’t be timely to heed
the example of Han Yu (768-824), who once suggested that one ought to be
able to speak the truth about those who die young.
As a poet, Zhang Zao was a genius, but unfortunately he did not do much with
his talent. He preferred drinking in measures and beating around the bush.
That is how we met, and it is how we parted. The reason was as simple as it
was trivial: duty and women.
In 1998 we decided that I would publish a collection of his poetry in
Germany, in form of a book, of course, and he would do the same in Shanghai
with my poetry. One year later, I published his Briefe aus der Zeit (Letters
from a Time) with Heiderhoff Publications. For this purpose, I put aside my
own work writing the Geschichte der klassischen chinesischen Dichtkunst
(History of classical Chinese poetics) for several months. The result was
very presentable. Never before had a Chinese poet been published so
handsomely, and that in two languages! Although the book barely sold a dozen
copies, it gained him a great homage by the eminent Joachim Sartorius in
June 2000 in the newspaper Die Welt. Subsequently, many invitations to
literary festivals and recitals in German literary houses followed.
And what about my collection of poetry in Chinese? Non-existent. Zhang Zao
barely translated half of my poem “Café Museum” (Narrentürme, 2002), and
even that was only based on a Chinese version that he did not even find
palatable. Other than that, he had all kinds of other excuses, including
that my poetry is too difficult. Wasn’t he much more difficult as a poet?
Hadn’t I faced the same challenge if not more in the course of translating
his poetry?
Yet he kept calling again and again. He repeatedly invited me to Dalian, to
travel northeast and to meet a ‘patron.’ Everything would be paid for. But I
did not like the idea about patrons or girls that was implied in the
invitation. What use does a Calvinist like me have for mammon and foolish
enchantment? It was this type of well-meant endeavor that separated us for
many years.
Zhang Zao left us with only one collection of poetry in China and another in
Germany, altogether around eighty poems. He himself was satisfied with that,
because even Hugo von Hofmannsthal (1874-1929) did not have more to show for
than that. Yet in this small human legacy both young poets produced immortal
poetic lines. In the case of the Chinese poet, we affectionately recall such
lines as “Chairs, sat into winter...”
Zhang Zao was a frequent guest in Bonn, both for lectures at the university,
and for poetry readings at the House of Language and Culture (Haus der
Sprache und Kultur). We are and always will be deeply grateful that he
brought the great German poet Hölderlin out of the ivory Hölderlinturm all
the way to China during his tenure and Ph.D. study at the University of
Tübingen. The brilliant line “Let man live poetically” („Poetisch lebe der
Mensch“), penned by my favorite poet, is still a household phrase among
Chinese poets and book sellers. Without his encounter with Zhang Zao at the
Hölderlinturm, the poet Ouyang Jianghe, for example, would not be the great
poet we admire today.
What kind of memory does he leave behind? When he stayed at Solitude Castle
in Stuttgart in March 2000, moody host of Bei Dao, Zhai Yongming and me, he
wanted to buy two bottles of whiskey for supper. I convinced him to buy just
one bottle. Some years later, he sang heartfelt Russian songs with Karin
Hempel-Soos and Yang Lian in the House of Language and Literature in Bonn.
We must have just finished a joint reading, and it was probably around 2003.
The singing went on with no end in sight. A day later, on December 17th, Ann
Mak and Almond Chu helped me cook Chinese for an event with Tilman Spengler
in the House. Even then, those three were still singing.
After almost twenty years in Germany, Zhang Zao returned to China in 2004 to
teach at various universities. He last lived in Beijing and didn’t write
anymore. In spite of his profound language abilities he translated only very
little. There was nothing from the German, even though both his German and
his Chinese were excellent. The only exception remains my obituary for Gu
Cheng (1956-1993; 1994), which still cannot be published on the mainland.
Was his a wasted life? At our last encounter in September 2007 at Beijing
University, after a reading with other Chinese and foreign poets, he
explained to me on the bus home that his writing had exhausted itself, and
there is nothing more in him worthy of expression. Nevertheless, he promised
to translate my poems right away if I sent him some. I did not send him any.
Not because I had given up hope in him, but because I thought he’d better
spend some time dealing with his own issues.
Zhang Zao died March 8, 2010 in the University Clinic Tübingen. He learned
about his lung cancer the previous December and left Beijing in February.
Tübingen is a beautiful place to die. Since he was so closely connected with
the Hölderlinturm, it was the only place suitably poetic for him, because
whoever falls short of his talents needs another great failure as an example
in death. And this failure he found in Hölderlin. We may envy him for that.
We will pass away later and therefore perhaps smaller, and, of course,
without his obituary for us. Or, to put it with Zhang Zao, someone has moved
the middle chair, but we will still have to sit our chairs into winter.
[Trans. by Birgit Linder]
