Ji Xianlin: “Ji Xianlin on Translation”

Ji Xianlin: “Ji Xianlin Talks about Translation,” edited by the Ji Xianlin Research Institute, Contemporary China Publishing House2007, 9787801705952

When Mr. Ji Xianlin passed away, Peking University set up a memorial hall for public mourning, but I did not go. Of course I very much identify with such commemorative rites; feelings of admiration, humility, reverence, remembrance, and so on are all contained in the ritual of condolence.

Still, I myself did not go to pay my respects, because for me there are more fitting rites with which to remember this elder.

The reason to come and pay tribute to Mr. Ji Xianlin is not because I feel any grief. Old Ji, at such an advanced age, passed away suddenly yet peacefully; it was truly full blessing, full longevity, full completion—there could hardly have been a more ideal joyous funeral. Compared with many old scholars who had tubes stuck all over their bodies and struggled for years before dying, Old Ji unquestionably enjoyed a blessed old age and a peaceful end.

For many people, moreover, the grief is not really for Old Ji at all, but for a lament like “China has lost another master, ahhh” and the like. This is even more baffling. The “masters” in the public eye were always created by adulation. The decrease in masters is only because people increasingly pay less and less attention to scholars, caring nothing for their scholarship, looking only at their life stories, or even not caring about their life stories either, merely calling old men with some fame who refuse to die “masters.” In such an environment, of course “masters” are getting fewer and fewer.

Mr. Ji’s title of “master” thus seems especially ironic. To say that he was a master, a truly great scholar, is of course something no one can object to; however, expressions such as “master of national learning” really do go completely off the mark. I dare say that many of those who are there lamenting, in season and out, that yet another master has been lost, probably have no idea whatsoever what Old Ji actually did. He was plainly and unmistakably a master of Indian studies, or, to be a bit more specific, a master of translating classical Indian literature, or, to put it more broadly, also a master of Western learning—but how on earth did he turn into a “master of national learning”? Of course, Mr. Ji was a polymath, broadly read and quick to remember, and he also delved quite a bit into Chinese classical scholarship, but to crown him as a master of national learning is really somewhat misplaced. One can imagine that most of those who address Old Ji as a master of national learning are not doing so out of sincere admiration for his grounding in national learning, but simply because they do not understand the situation at all. You see, if you people are utterly ignorant of what exactly the masters are actually studying, let alone their specific scholarly achievements, and have not even figured out the most basic question of whether it is Chinese or Western, then what qualifications do you have to put on a false show of sorrow and lament the passing of an age of masters and the like? That is why I say the passing of masters is not because there are ever fewer people who can truly be called masters, but because there are ever more people who do not care a fig about scholarship yet love to lash up emotional lamentations!

It is said that before his death Mr. Ji was in the midst of preparing to propose some concept of “great national learning.” If that is indeed so, then it would be understandable; if Dunhuang studies, the culture of the Western Regions, and other languages in the Sino-Tibetan family were all included within the scope of national learning, then one could at least, by making a virtue of necessity, further develop this “national learning.” But in any case, the field to which Mr. Ji devoted his life was “foreign literature,” not “national learning.”

In my view, for a scholar, after his death the most fitting way to remember him is not a lavish memorial ceremony, though holding such ceremonies is not a bad thing either. But I believe that what a scholar would more want to see is not later generations burning incense and kowtowing, but later students reading his words, receiving his heart and blood, continuing his scholarship, and carrying on his dream.

The sea of learning is boundless and human life is short. During a scholar’s lifetime, he can continually develop his learning and continuously expand his world. And for a great scholar, the realm he has opened up will not be sealed off even after his death; later generations will, through reading and interpretation, keep his world forever young.

So the best way to memorialize a scholar is simply to pick up the words he left behind and, seriously and sincerely, read a few passages.

So I dug out the one Ji Lao book I happen to have on hand: Ji Xianlin Talks about Translation, which collects some related essays. As usual, excerpts and notes. As usual, posted to the blog. Let it count as my tribute to Mr. Ji!

1946, On Translation

Page 15 … But Mr. Dante flatly denied that it was a “translation,” admitting only that it was an “original work,” because he had added some new material into it. I became a bit muddled again. Translate a multi-million-character tome, add only ten or eight characters’ worth of new material, and you can claim this book as your own. I’m afraid then everyone in the world would come to translate books. Mr. Dante’s grand “original work” is not without some merit; it is interspersed with many photographs of Mr. Ding, for example Ding Fubao from the period when he was studying physiology, Ding Fubao from the period when he was studying medicine, and these too are quite a dazzling sight. Mr. Ding’s countenance is also passable, though still a notch below Dr. Wan Hua. But I finally came to a sudden understanding: in the past, some people wanted to have their own portraits printed in the newspaper, but were frustrated by the lack of opportunity, so they had no choice but to write to the Duyuan’s Pharmacy and, of course, enclose a portrait. In the letter they would say that after taking some particular medicine, their particular illness had been cured, and they hereby express their thanks. Thus, after a while, their own face could appear in the newspaper just like a celebrity’s, although the place was not quite right; but one could not worry about so many details. Now Mr. Ding has invented a method that means that from now on those who want to become famous no longer need to pretend they have syphilis or are addicts and write to a pharmacy. This is truly a deed of immense merit. How can we fail to admire Mr. Ding’s inventive ability?////— This should be the earliest piece in the book; most of the others are from the eighties and nineties, and even the new century. By comparison, the sharpness of the younger Mr. Ji’s satire and the flamboyance of his style are enough to make one’s blood boil. Yet though tempered by time, and after decades of hardship in the New China, Mr. Ji’s late style of course no longer had such an edge; still, if one reads closely between the lines, the grandeur is indeed still there! As Old Ji wrote in 1997, quoting Cao Cao’s poem: “An old steed may crouch in the stable, but still aspires to a thousand miles; a martyr in his twilight years still cherishes a daring heart” (see page 165 of this book). When you read, deep in the writing of a man in his nineties, his “youthful ambition,” how can you help but be moved to tears?

1994, The Crisis of Translation

Page 26 I had originally thought that overcoming the crisis of translation would not be difficult. Now it seems not so. At present I am, as the saying goes, like the conjurer on his knees, with no tricks left.

Still, I am not discouraged. I call on my fellow workers in the translation world and our broad readership: let us all rise up, pool our wisdom and efforts, and together devise ways to overcome the crisis of translation. I believe a way will always be found, just as a road is made by walking it.

1997, Chinese and Foreign Languages

Page 41 … Therefore, the idea of using English vocabulary while being governed by Chinese grammar, thereby forming a kind of world language, is not necessarily all fantasy. In this way, the function of language and its expressive form could be unified. Such a language would be artificial, but it also seems to have formed naturally, quite different in spirit from Zamenhof’s and others’ artificial Esperanto.

2001, Research on Buddhist Sanskrit

After the end of the Second World War, if I had continued teaching at the University of Göttingen, or gone to teach at the University of Cambridge in Britain, then my research on the Sanskrit of Buddhist scriptures would certainly have continued as well, and I am confident that in this regard I could still have made discoveries and creations. But human beings can never truly master their own destiny. I returned to my homeland and came to Peking University, and in the blink of an eye half a century passed. Owing to the limitations of materials and information, my research on the Sanskrit of Buddhist scriptures could not continue, and I had no choice but to adapt to the situation and change fields. In scientific research I am someone who cannot sit still, and I tried many fields of study, becoming a “polymath.” Looking back now, there is a question I myself cannot answer: was it more consequential for me to remain in Europe and exert my influence academically, or to return home and exert my influence here? The general view is that the latter was more consequential. Although I have not yet planned to put a period at the end of my life, I have after all already reached the age of looking toward ninety; let this question be answered by later generations.////— Reading this, a sense of desolation mixed with absurdity rises spontaneously…

1993, Once More on the cīnī Problem

Page 72 1987, I wrote an article called “The cīnī Problem—An Example of Sino-Indian Cultural Exchange,” published in Social Sciences Front, 1987, issue 4. The main content of the article was directed at the arguments in an article by W.L. Smith. In some Indian languages, cīnī means “white sugar,” while the original meaning of this character is “Chinese.” This shows that Indian white sugar, at least in a certain region and in a certain period, was imported from China; both the product and the refining technique may have been involved. However, Mr. Smith firmly denied this, saying that China had never exported white sugar to India…////— I want to say that this is a typical “making a mountain out of a molehill” academic paper topic, and that Old Ji, over eighty years old, did not need, like a graduate student, to fulfill a requirement to publish papers. Just from his willingness to devote himself to and publish on such a topic, one can sense his sincerity and inexhaustible academic enthusiasm.

1983, Postscript to the Translation of The Rāmāyaṇa

Page 76 … In the course of my life over the past several decades, I have developed a habit of never being able to sit still; by this I mean the restlessness of reading and writing. Whether things are good or bad, I always have to think about something and write something; I absolutely do not let my mind sit idle and go to waste.

But in such circumstances, what else could I think about? What else could I write? Creative work was already completely impossible, and I had long since abandoned any thought of research. After thinking and thinking, I concluded that I might as well do some translation. Translation and publication—that was utterly impossible. I did not even bother to think about it. Since I was translating purely for the sake of translating, simply to satisfy my restless habit by finding something to do, it would be best to choose a book that was relatively difficult, quite long, and could keep me occupied for a long time; that way I could avoid the awkwardness and difficulties caused by having to consider this matter all the time. I had translated several famous works of classical Indian literature before, and had been labeled by some people who were as ludicrously leftist as they were indeed “naive” as “contraband” and “drugs.” Now if I were to choose again, I would not go beyond that range anyway. In any case I did not want publication, so let it be “contraband” or “drugs.” In the end I chose The Rāmāyaṇa.

Page 80 That winter, I visited West Germany and took along a few copies of the first essay. My teacher, Professor Waldschmidt, seemed somewhat reproachful that I was neglecting my proper work. He said: “You should continue with your research on Buddhist textual languages!” How could he understand my bitter circumstances? In any case, his past cultivation of me and his present expectations of me, I shall forever keep in the depths of my heart.////— There it is again, a surge of sadness and absurdity…

Page 82 Secondly, the question of genre. The Rāmāyaṇa is called an epic, and moreover “the original poem,” so I had to translate it into verse; I already spoke about this above. I have never wavered in this resolve. But since it is poetry, it should naturally have poetic quality—that is our common and reasonable expectation. Yet in reality, The Rāmāyaṇa is not like that in many places. The whole story depicts the joys and sorrows of pure love, with twists and turns of a refined and unusual kind, and should be said to be very poetic. Some chapters in the book—for example, those describing natural scenery, narrating separation and yearning, and the lovers’ mutual recollections under the wind and long sighs to the moon—are extremely rich in poetic feeling, and the artistic techniques have also reached a very high level. But most of the chapters are straightforward and unvaried, and some are even clumsy and repetitive to the point of becoming tiresome. More unbearable still are some of the names of people, countries, trees, flowers, weapons, and implements, all piled together. The meter is right, all in śloka form, not a single syllable missing; one cannot deny that it is “poetry,” but should real poetry really be like this? Since I had to remain faithful to the original, I could only steel myself and faithfully render one by one into Chinese all these strange and awkwardly unpronounceable names. Sometimes I also had to rack my brains to find a suitable rhyme. Yan Fu said, “In establishing a single term, one hesitates for months on end.” For me it was “in finding a single foot (and a rhyming foot too), I was beside myself.” The suffering of it is really beyond words. Yet I know very well that no reader will have such patience as to truly read such “poetry” closely. The places where I put in the most effort, including both mental and physical labor, are precisely the places readers will not even look at. When they reach such passages, they will skip over them. Alas, how tragic! Truly there is nothing to be done.////— When will I go get a copy of The Rāmāyaṇa and read only such places on purpose, just to see…

Page 83 … Sometimes I grew so fed up that I wanted to decisively put down my pen and stop translating altogether. But fearing that success might be ruined at the last moment, I still gritted my teeth and translated the whole book. Although I am not a professional translator, I do in fact have a fairly long history with translation. In middle school I translated a novel by Kipling; in college I translated British prose and American fiction. After liberation I translated German short stories, classical Sanskrit and Pali, as well as literary works in Tocharian, and I also translated papers in Russian. Although I never felt proud of myself, I never felt fed up or awkward about it either. Now, having already passed seventy, I suddenly became doubtful and wavering. This can truly be said to be a pity. However, that is simply how matters stand, and I can only say so plainly. Still, I can at least comfort myself: whatever else may be said, I did finally finish translating the book, and did not let it become a dragonfly with a broken tail; my old friends will probably agree with that.////— So Mr. Ji’s life did not end in a mess, hmm!

Page 84 In addition, although The Rāmāyaṇa is astonishingly long, its thematic ideas are actually very simple: to put it in a nutshell, nothing more than this—justice triumphs over evil, and hardship produces happiness. During the “unprecedented” great chaos, I already discussed my state of mind somewhat above. In the beginning I really did support that “revolution,” and even after being overthrown and imprisoned, I did not change. I had no correct understanding of it. Only after the Gang of Four was brought down, that is, in the later phase of the translation, did I gradually realize that this “revolution” was also a wicked thing, belonging to the same category as the deeds of the ten-headed demon king in The Rāmāyaṇa. In the end both were defeated. The protagonist of The Rāmāyaṇa, Rama, is an ideal figure. He endured countless setbacks and hardships, and finally won victory and finally enjoyed the happiness of reunion with his beloved wife. The thematic idea of this book, on the surface, seems to have little or nothing to do with me; in fact, however, it is quite akin to my own experience. Rama’s victory would from time to time bring me some comfort, add vitality to this dreary work, and also pour some vitality into my inner being. I too enjoyed happiness.

Page 86 (assistant Li Zheng) His education was not very high, but he was a clever man. I gradually discovered that he had a particularly sensitive, particularly accurate feel for modern Chinese, one that people of his own age would be hard-pressed to match, even though their education was much higher than his.////— Heh, is it not precisely because the more (Western) education one receives, the more problematic one’s feel for modern Chinese becomes? Just look at this sentence from Old Ji itself: it is clearly written in Westernized grammar; anyone not steeped in Western learning would be unable to produce such a subordinate clause.

1996, Casual Talk from Outside the Gates on Chinese and Foreign Literary Theory

Page 125 I have dabbled a little in both Chinese and foreign literary theory, and have in fact read quite a few books. But my pursuits have not been focused; I skim things and stop short. And because this is not my own specialty, I have not paid special attention to it. So even today, though my interest remains, I have not studied deeply, and I still remain outside the gates of Chinese and foreign literary theory, let alone entering the hall and the chamber. But all things in the world must be seen in two parts. In some respects, an outsider can in fact glimpse a bit of the method. Because he has not entered deeply, he is without concealment; he lacks the frameworks of the true experts and those various “shackles,” so when it comes time to dance, he may actually be lighter and freer. I think many people would probably agree with this, and no detailed argument is needed.////— I’m afraid there are also many who would not agree…

1986, My Indissoluble Bond with Foreign Literature

Page 163 … No matter how much other work I have, no matter how mixed my interests may be, I will never leave the territory of foreign literature; never, ever leave it.