CONTENTS

 
  STAYING OVERNIGHT AT COLD MOUNTAIN TEMPLE 夜宿寒山寺
   By Lo Fu 洛夫
   Translated by John J. S. BALCOM 陶忘機
 
  AT DUSK 黃昏
   By Kwan Kwan 管管
   Translated by David van der Peet 范德培
 
  WIND 風
   By Shoo Tao 秀陶
   Translated by Steve BRADBURY 柏艾格
 
  THE DRAGON BOAT FESTIVAL 端午
   By SUN Wei-min 孫維民
   Translated by the poet
 
  SOLITUDE IS ONLY A FLEETING GLANCE
寂寞只是一瞬目光

   By Ke-hua CHEN 陳克華
   Translated by Patrick CARR 柯英華
 
  SEALED BETWEEN HEAVEN AND THE ROOFTOPS
封在天上和屋頂之間

   By Lu Pin 鹿苹
   Translated by Zona Ying-ping TSOU 鄒怡平
 
  THE JOYS OF REREADING
再閱讀及其愉悅

   By CHEN Fang-ming 陳芳明
   Translated by Chris Wen-Chao LI 李文肇
 
  WOODEN HORSES 木馬
   By Hung Hung 鴻鴻
   Translated by Steve BRADBURY 柏艾格
 
  THE CHILD FAVORED BY JESUS
耶穌喜愛的小孩

   By Claire PEI 裴在美
   Translated by Yingtsih HWANG 黃瑛姿
 
  ON PAO JUNG AND HER PAINTINGS
國色天香:各界賢達對包容女士的看法

   Translated by Carlos G. TEE 鄭永康
 
  PRESTIGE AND PROSPERITY IN PAO JUNG’S PEONY RENDITION 包容牡丹:聲名與繁華
   By SU Chi-ming 蘇啟明
   Ttranslated by David van der Peet 范德培
 
  A LITTLE BLACK INK: LESSONS FROM A MASTER 墨色點點:大師解惑
   By SU Chi-ming 蘇啟明
   Ttranslated by David van der Peet 范德培
 
  AN INTERVIEW WITH PAO JUNG 包容訪談
   By WU Te-liang 吳德亮
   Ttranslated by David van der Peet 范德培
 
  NEWS & EVENTS 文化活動
   Compiled by Sarah Jen-hui HSIANG 項人慧
 
  NOTES ON AUTHORS AND TRANSLATORS
作者與譯者簡介
 
  APPENDIX : CHINESE ORIGINALS 附錄 :中文原著
 
  KING OF FLOWERS 萬花魁首, Ink and color on paper, 68 × 68 cm, 2008............................Cover
 
 

LOTUS IN THE POND 荷塘清趣, Ink and color on paper, 60 × 90 cm, 1994
........................................................................Back Cover
   By Pao Jung 包容

 

CHEN Fang-ming 陳芳明

THE JOYS OF REREADING
再閱讀及其愉悅*

Translated by Chris Wen-Chao LI 李文肇


    As I am reunited with a long-lost volume, holding it in the palm of my hands, I feel an electrifying sensation run through me, —a surge of warmth and heat. These old books that have been lying at the bottom of my chest are colored by subtle hues of memory, mixed in with the sweet scent of time, as if they are finally returning to my side after a long journey. When I set out for Seattle thirty years ago, these books were tucked into my suitcase, accompanying me as I crossed vast oceans, not knowing this was to be the beginning of a long sojourn in a foreign land. As I left this island nation, these pocket-sized books, too, were given a taste of exile, left exposed to the surreal snowscapes of the north, and the sunny shores of California. From cover to wrinkly yellowed cover, the pages of each volume have witnessed the wonders of the world. On distant shores, they would spend their youth with their young master, and along with him ripen into old age.
    Thirty years on, these books would return to their native Taiwan, bringing with them not only literary imagination ingrained in print, but also the trials and tribulations, and the weighty memories of their erstwhile owner. That is to say, they are more than just a novel or a book of poetry, but are receptacles of the owner’s sentiments, and years of tributes to the passing of time. They carry with them scars as deep as the manifold travails of their master. The years that they have lived have become an inseparable part of the owner’s existence, the fates of book and owner now intimately intertwined. Book in hand, I catch the subtle play of light and shadows between the lines: I sense raindrops, snowflakes, falling leaves, and passing clouds on an autumn day.
    Returning these books to their rightful places on the bookshelf, I feel as if my unruly emotions too have settled. As I read in the night, I cannot help but relive the past: retracing my journeys, the howling of the wind and sound of falling snow become all the more vivid. After years on the road braving the wind and the rain, I finally have the luxury of curling up in a reading nook, savoring the tranquility of the moment as life returns to simplicity—a simplicity almost too good to be true. Sitting under a lamp, I return to these volumes that were once familiar to me, and feel as if a long-lost passion has been rekindled. After all these years, after half a lifetime traveling halfway around the globe, I am reunited with these books of yesteryear. Those familiar words and those notes left in the margin of each page together conspire to transport me to another time and another place, bringing back an acute sense of loneliness I experienced years ago reading through the night.
    As my eyes move along with the text, feeling my way from paragraph to paragraph, it is as if I’m walking through the familiar streets of childhood, fully cognizant of the rhythm of each poetic line and the plot of each fictional tale. I’m in home territory, fully conscious of every new move and each possible development. But even with such omniscience, there is a certain novelty to the reading experience, one that eludes words. As I work through each book, the emotions that surface, somehow, bear little resemblance to what I experienced before.
    The imagery that I got out of books early in my youth was fragmented and limited in dimension. As I possessed an unimpressive repertoire, and had yet to gain life experience, my pleasure of reading was largely textual, wholly reliant upon the enchantment of words and the mystery of the unfamiliar. I was a hopeless romantic back then, ever so easily moved by raindrops falling and willows fluttering in the wind, ever immersing myself in the otherworldly dreamscapes depicted by the written word. Be it classical poetry or modern fiction, my concerns were purely aesthetic, for given my limited knowledge, that was as far as I could go. Even within the realm of aesthetics, my powers of appreciation were mediocre, for in my green youth I had only so much knowledge of the world.
    Knowledge is accumulated not only through books, but also through experiencing and living life. As I spiraled down the paths I traveled, I sensed not only changes in physical scenery, but also the glories and foibles of human nature. Every incident of heartbreak, betrayal and despair was in fact adding to the varied texture of life. And it is through these experiences of suffering and cruelty that texts incomprehensible to me in youth suddenly took on meaning as I matured in years. That obscure poem that I had spent many a youthful night toiling over, and that remained impenetrable through repeated readings despite my determination to get to the bottom of it—as I pick up again on this cold winter night, now well into middle age, the most cryptic line suddenly speaks with utmost clarity. The ineffable joy that comes of this sudden enlightenment is akin to that of a miraculous recovery from a long debilitating illness—it is a godsend, for which I can only be grateful.
    Herein lies the mystery of reading. Having read an old volume is no guarantee that the reader has understood it. Understanding—whether it is a line of verse or a tome of knowledge— requires the infusion of life experience. Like water wearing away bedrock, or the ripening of fruit, time plays a key role, patiently waiting in the wings; from initial reading to rereading, from incomprehension to comprehension, time and age wait their turn to contribute. When the moment is right, a locked door flies open, offering a new window on the world.
    Not all books are worth returning to, but there are some that are definitely worth the effort. There are no hard and fast rules for the accumulation of knowledge,....
    

From Wenhsun Magazine 《文訊》, No. 275: 13-15. Taipei, September, 2008.


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