what is it like being a Chinese, feeling proud or inferior? one asks.
encountering the western culture, the gulf that can't be closed for a Chinese, i think, is the sense of alienation, the shocking difference and the un-mixability.
Chinese culture nowadays may be everything that is "crazy, blind, decaying, unconscious and self-destructive", it is also rich and beautiful, because time precipitates beauty and longingness and the incredible continuity by itself is a river that does not drain. such richness and beauty makes us proud. its irrationality makes us feel inferior.
burdened with such a culture is a race of very intelligent people, as can be shown consistently by exams and tests. such intelligence brings comfort and pride. that it is also associated with a lack of any meaningful accomplishements then lends us a sense of inferiority.
and we do look differently. very much so. along with it is our disregard of physicality and celebration of the intricacies of cleverness. together, what we have traditionally valued most is barely noticeable elsewhere while what we may have difficulty to match up is abundantly appreciated by others.
with such complexity at the levels of culture, mentality and genetics, it inevitably brings frustrations and disappointments that we most likely are misunderstood, underestimated and underappreciated. so it goes beyond simple pride or inferority. it may not even be painful, but an agonizing restlessness that one can be so alienly lonely.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Let them grow
O the mother duty is frightful
But the joy is so delightful
And since I'm no expert to boast
Let them grow! Let them grow! Let them grow!
They don't show signs of stalling
Like flowers answer spring's calling
I shall be prudent as to know
Let them grow! Let them grow! Let them grow!
When they finally kiss goodbye
How I'll hate left home in a gloom!
But if they'll really turn out alright
All in my dream will be their bloom!
The time is quickly flying
O, my dear, I'm still out there trying
But as long as I love them so
Let them grow! Let them grow! Let them grow!
But the joy is so delightful
And since I'm no expert to boast
Let them grow! Let them grow! Let them grow!
They don't show signs of stalling
Like flowers answer spring's calling
I shall be prudent as to know
Let them grow! Let them grow! Let them grow!
When they finally kiss goodbye
How I'll hate left home in a gloom!
But if they'll really turn out alright
All in my dream will be their bloom!
The time is quickly flying
O, my dear, I'm still out there trying
But as long as I love them so
Let them grow! Let them grow! Let them grow!
Monday, May 08, 2006
A poem from - a Portrait
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
by James Joyce
Vilanelle of the Temptress
Are you not weary of ardent ways,
Lure of the fallen seraphim?
Tell no more of enchanted days.
Your eyes have set man's heart ablaze
And you have had your will of him.
Are you not weary of ardent ways?
Above the flame the smoke of praise
Goes up from ocean rim to rim.
Tell no more of enchanted days.
Our broken cries and mournful lays
Rise in one eucharistic hymn.
Are you not weary of ardent ways?
While sacrificing hands upraise
The chalice flowing to the brim.
Tell no more of enchanted days.
And still you hold our longing gaze
With languorous look and lavish limb!
Are you not weary of ardent ways?
Tell no more of enchanted days.
Perfect, style-wise, but I don't find the poem particularly good: the poet's emotion was well checked and his expression restrained by the quite restrictive requirement of the form.
by James Joyce
Vilanelle of the Temptress
Are you not weary of ardent ways,
Lure of the fallen seraphim?
Tell no more of enchanted days.
Your eyes have set man's heart ablaze
And you have had your will of him.
Are you not weary of ardent ways?
Above the flame the smoke of praise
Goes up from ocean rim to rim.
Tell no more of enchanted days.
Our broken cries and mournful lays
Rise in one eucharistic hymn.
Are you not weary of ardent ways?
While sacrificing hands upraise
The chalice flowing to the brim.
Tell no more of enchanted days.
And still you hold our longing gaze
With languorous look and lavish limb!
Are you not weary of ardent ways?
Tell no more of enchanted days.
Perfect, style-wise, but I don't find the poem particularly good: the poet's emotion was well checked and his expression restrained by the quite restrictive requirement of the form.
Follow your own path - a Portrait
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
by James Joyce
- You made me confess the fears that I have. But I will tell you also what I do not fear. I do not fear to be alone or to be spurned for another or to leave whatever I have to leave. And I am not afraid to make a mistake, even a great mistake, a lifelong mistake and perhaps as long as eternity too. -248
What I enjoyed most about this book was that I admired Stephen for his extreme sense of individuality and amazing inner strength.
As a little boy, he was shown as obedient and sensitive; yet, when he was wrongly punished by Father Dolan, despite tremendous fear and mental struggle, Stephen took the issue to the rector. Growing up in an exceedingly religious environment, he was being persuaded to become a priest, with earnest expectations from the school and family, and, himself being indeed very dedicated to his faith, he decided instead to follow his own not-yet-defined path. When he was pressured by other students to sign the pledge for "universal peace", an obviously noble goal, he declined firmly and publicly.
Amazing and inspiring.
by James Joyce
- You made me confess the fears that I have. But I will tell you also what I do not fear. I do not fear to be alone or to be spurned for another or to leave whatever I have to leave. And I am not afraid to make a mistake, even a great mistake, a lifelong mistake and perhaps as long as eternity too. -248
What I enjoyed most about this book was that I admired Stephen for his extreme sense of individuality and amazing inner strength.
As a little boy, he was shown as obedient and sensitive; yet, when he was wrongly punished by Father Dolan, despite tremendous fear and mental struggle, Stephen took the issue to the rector. Growing up in an exceedingly religious environment, he was being persuaded to become a priest, with earnest expectations from the school and family, and, himself being indeed very dedicated to his faith, he decided instead to follow his own not-yet-defined path. When he was pressured by other students to sign the pledge for "universal peace", an obviously noble goal, he declined firmly and publicly.
Amazing and inspiring.
Home, sour home - a Portrait
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
By James Joyce
he faint sour stink of rotted cabbages came towards him from the kitchengardens on the rising ground above the river. He smiled to think that it was this disorder, the misrule and confusion of his father's house and the stagnation of vegetable life, which was to win the day in his soul. -169
Under tremendous pressure from others and with intense self struggle, Stephen decided not to become a priest. He came back home and noticed the familiar rotten smell of home. This passage delighted me because it depicted life as it is: this earthy imperfection, which is also very endearing and beautiful.
Stephen knew this and me, too. ;-)
By James Joyce
he faint sour stink of rotted cabbages came towards him from the kitchengardens on the rising ground above the river. He smiled to think that it was this disorder, the misrule and confusion of his father's house and the stagnation of vegetable life, which was to win the day in his soul. -169
Under tremendous pressure from others and with intense self struggle, Stephen decided not to become a priest. He came back home and noticed the familiar rotten smell of home. This passage delighted me because it depicted life as it is: this earthy imperfection, which is also very endearing and beautiful.
Stephen knew this and me, too. ;-)
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Wrestling with languages - a Portrait
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
by James Joyce
- I can't understand you, said Davin. One time I hear you talk against English literature. Now you talk against the Irish informers. What with your name and your ideas... Are you Irish at all?- p205
......
A tide began to surge beneath the calm surface of Stephen's friendliness.
- This race and this country and this life produced me, he said. I shall express myself as I am.- p205
......
- My ancestors threw off their language and took another, Stephen said. They allowed a handful of foreigners to subject them. Do you fancy I am going to pay in my own life and person debts they made? What for? - p205
The language in which we are speaking is his before it is mine. How different are the words home, Christ, ale, master, on his lips and on mine! I cannot speak or write these words without unrest of spirit. His language, so familiar and so foreign, will always be for me an acquired speech. I have not made or accepted its words. My voice holds them at bay. My soul frets in the shadow of his language. -p193
I don't share Stephen's highly emotional disdain against Irish or English; however, I do connect with him through my own confusion about native and learned languages. Of all things, language is what connects us with cultures and cultural heritage. That one would prefer something other than his "own" says far more than what's contained in words. He is inevitably individualistic, an outsider and a loner. Whether he finds peace or disturbance, as a consequence, has more to do with his own sensitivity towards the irony and randomness of life, his own sense of self-identify, and, the cultural and societal pressures he happens to be subjected to.
When I first realized that I could not write Chinese as well as English, it came less a surprise than a disappointment. It was not a surprise, because, at that time, I hadn't read or written much Chinese for more than 14 years and it was a disappointment because it set a definitive low limit to what I wish to accomplish. Of course, the assumption - likely the truth - is that one can only do this much with a foreign language. On the other hand, this little English I know I do enjoy enormously, the fun of the language per se, the literature, the science, and the communication with the like-minded... To some degree, it has defined me: for whatever I treasure most in life, incidentally, I've found much more in this foreign language. The large picture is sad but at the personal level, I shall be grateful and satisfied - the universe of an outsider is certainly distinct from the insiders but is it necessarily smaller?
For Stephen, the emotion seemed much more intense, probably because being a writer, or an artist, he needed more justification and acceptance from others, who happened to be his country men, whom he had to love and whose language he would rather abandon, and the English people, whom he should have hated more and whose language he truly mastered (and not to mention the incredibly intense hatred between the two cultures). So Stephen was engaged in a struggle of truth and denial. Part of his anguish was perhaps having to have this wrestling at all.
To speak or not to speak, hmm, it's a rather big question.
by James Joyce
- I can't understand you, said Davin. One time I hear you talk against English literature. Now you talk against the Irish informers. What with your name and your ideas... Are you Irish at all?- p205
......
A tide began to surge beneath the calm surface of Stephen's friendliness.
- This race and this country and this life produced me, he said. I shall express myself as I am.- p205
......
- My ancestors threw off their language and took another, Stephen said. They allowed a handful of foreigners to subject them. Do you fancy I am going to pay in my own life and person debts they made? What for? - p205
The language in which we are speaking is his before it is mine. How different are the words home, Christ, ale, master, on his lips and on mine! I cannot speak or write these words without unrest of spirit. His language, so familiar and so foreign, will always be for me an acquired speech. I have not made or accepted its words. My voice holds them at bay. My soul frets in the shadow of his language. -p193
I don't share Stephen's highly emotional disdain against Irish or English; however, I do connect with him through my own confusion about native and learned languages. Of all things, language is what connects us with cultures and cultural heritage. That one would prefer something other than his "own" says far more than what's contained in words. He is inevitably individualistic, an outsider and a loner. Whether he finds peace or disturbance, as a consequence, has more to do with his own sensitivity towards the irony and randomness of life, his own sense of self-identify, and, the cultural and societal pressures he happens to be subjected to.
When I first realized that I could not write Chinese as well as English, it came less a surprise than a disappointment. It was not a surprise, because, at that time, I hadn't read or written much Chinese for more than 14 years and it was a disappointment because it set a definitive low limit to what I wish to accomplish. Of course, the assumption - likely the truth - is that one can only do this much with a foreign language. On the other hand, this little English I know I do enjoy enormously, the fun of the language per se, the literature, the science, and the communication with the like-minded... To some degree, it has defined me: for whatever I treasure most in life, incidentally, I've found much more in this foreign language. The large picture is sad but at the personal level, I shall be grateful and satisfied - the universe of an outsider is certainly distinct from the insiders but is it necessarily smaller?
For Stephen, the emotion seemed much more intense, probably because being a writer, or an artist, he needed more justification and acceptance from others, who happened to be his country men, whom he had to love and whose language he would rather abandon, and the English people, whom he should have hated more and whose language he truly mastered (and not to mention the incredibly intense hatred between the two cultures). So Stephen was engaged in a struggle of truth and denial. Part of his anguish was perhaps having to have this wrestling at all.
To speak or not to speak, hmm, it's a rather big question.
Not in the family - a Portrait
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
by James Joyce
He saw clearly too his own futile isolation. He had not gone one step nearer the lives he had sought to approach nor bridged the restless shame and rancour that divided him from mother and brother and sister. He felt that he was hardly of the one blood with them but stood to them rather in the mystical kinship of fosterage, fosterchild and fosterbrother - p107
Stephe began to enumerate gliby his father's attributes.
- A medical student, an oarsman, a tenor, an amateur actor, a shouting politician, a small landlord, a small investor, a drinker, a good fellow, a storyteller, somebody's secretary, something in a distillery, a taxgatherer, a bankrupt and at present a praiser of his own past. - p243
It's obvious that Stephen is disappointed of his family. But there is more than that. What is exceptional here is the artist himself. He is the genius sort. He is the one who discerns the pain of the intellectual and emotional gulf which divides him from others. And being close to his own family, he feels it all the more acutely, thus expressing it as disgust, disengagement or indifference to the closest ones. On the other hand, it is not easy to be related to such a person beyond being awed by his talents, because there can be no true appreciation based on understanding, either. So the distrust goes both ways. Their only tie is love, or, in my own words, blood bonding, which can be comforting but not satisfying.
To me, it's a wonder that individuals are so different and diverse intelleactually. Consequently, however, they can only communicate with the like-minded. For the most intelligent, life is often a lonely journey. He couldn't find companionship in the family. He might not even find in the whole world.
by James Joyce
He saw clearly too his own futile isolation. He had not gone one step nearer the lives he had sought to approach nor bridged the restless shame and rancour that divided him from mother and brother and sister. He felt that he was hardly of the one blood with them but stood to them rather in the mystical kinship of fosterage, fosterchild and fosterbrother - p107
Stephe began to enumerate gliby his father's attributes.
- A medical student, an oarsman, a tenor, an amateur actor, a shouting politician, a small landlord, a small investor, a drinker, a good fellow, a storyteller, somebody's secretary, something in a distillery, a taxgatherer, a bankrupt and at present a praiser of his own past. - p243
It's obvious that Stephen is disappointed of his family. But there is more than that. What is exceptional here is the artist himself. He is the genius sort. He is the one who discerns the pain of the intellectual and emotional gulf which divides him from others. And being close to his own family, he feels it all the more acutely, thus expressing it as disgust, disengagement or indifference to the closest ones. On the other hand, it is not easy to be related to such a person beyond being awed by his talents, because there can be no true appreciation based on understanding, either. So the distrust goes both ways. Their only tie is love, or, in my own words, blood bonding, which can be comforting but not satisfying.
To me, it's a wonder that individuals are so different and diverse intelleactually. Consequently, however, they can only communicate with the like-minded. For the most intelligent, life is often a lonely journey. He couldn't find companionship in the family. He might not even find in the whole world.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)