世新中文 ‧ 中國文學名著英譯選讀教室

ZHU ZIQING

    (1896-1948)

Prose Selections

Translated by Howard Goldblatt

Haste

The swallows may go, but they will return another day; the willows may wither , but they will turn green again; the peach blossoms may fade and fall, but they will bloom again. You who are wiser than I, well me, then: why is it that the days, once never again return? Are they stolen by someone? Then, where are they now?

I do not know how many days I’ve been given, yet slowly but surely my supply is diminishing. Counting silently to myself, I can see that more than 8,000 of them have already slipped through my fingers, each like a drop of water on the head of a pin, falling into the ocean. My days are disappearing into the stream of time, noiselessly and without a trace; uncontrollably, my sweat and tears stream down.

What’s gone is gone, and what is coming cannot be halted. From what is gone to what is yet to come, why must it pass so quickly? In the morning when I get up there are two or three rays of sunlight slanting into my small room. The sun, does it have feet? Stealthily it moves along, as I too, unknowingly, follow its progress. Then as I wash up the day passes through my washbasin, and at breakfast through my rice bowl. When I am standing still and quiet my eyes carefully follow its progress past me. I can sense that it is hurrying along, and when I stretch out my hands to cover and hold it, it soon emerges from under my hands and moves along. At night, as I lie on my bed, agilely it strides across my body and files past my feet. And when I open my eyes to greet the sun again, another day has slipped by. I bury my face in my hands and heave a sigh. But the shadow of the new day begins darting by, even in the midst of my sighing.

During these fleeting days what can I, only one among so many, accomplish? Nothing more than to pace irresolutely, nothing more than to hurry along. In these more than 8,000 days of hurrying what have I to show but some irresolute wanderings? The days that are gone are like smoke that has been dissipated by a breeze, like thin mists that been burned off under the onslaught of the morning sun. What mark will I leave behind? Will the trace I leave behind be so much as a gossamer thread? Naked I came into this world, and in a twinkling still naked I will leave it. But what I cannot accept is: why should I make this journey in vain?

You who are wiser than I, please tell me why it is that once gone, our days never return.

1922