#97: TRACKING DU FU. My introduction to Du Fu (or Tu Fu, as his name was then transliterated) was in Robert Payne’s charming and still valuable anthology The White Pony (John Day, 1947), a text in my first course in Oriental literature at school in the early seventies; and shortly after I read Kenneth Rexroth’s beautiful renderings in his 100 Poems from theChinese (New Directions). Both books spoke of Du Fu as the great master, not just of the poetic efflorescence of the T’ang Dynasty, but perhaps of Chinese poetry. This mountain-peak reputation seems to have been resistant to all changes of taste and style; the loftier levels of his work are reportedly just as resistant to translation, his easy and varied perfection of expression as much the bane of such attempts as the beauties of Racine and Baudelaire. Some of his accomplishments can be enumerated or explained: the new tragically personal note he brought to Chinese verse, the vivid and tough realism, the vast mastery both of theme and prosody; Du Fu, said one critic, “could do all the things that present-day poets do only singly.” But other qualities, of Du Fu as man and as poet, translators must seek to express within the verse. William Hung wrote that Du Fu “appeared to be a filial son, an affectionate father, a generous brother, a faithful husband, a loyal friend, a dutiful official, and a patriotic subject.” As Rexroth has pointed out, the number of writers who owe their reputation to their personal character are not many. But to experience the truth of Du Fu’s poetic reputation we must be convinced of his goodness as well as his poetic gifts. Tall order.
One of the limitations of anthology choices of Du Fu is that we read them without context—isolated jewels. As the presentation of his work in English has grown, we’ve come to know more of Du Fu’s life and of his historic background—the disruptions and dangers of the period of the An-Lu Shan Rebellion in the eighth century. David Hawkes’s A Little PrimerOf Tu Fu (Oxford, 1967) is a fine study of the language and technique of the poems. Florence Ayscough’s two-volume work (Houghton Mifflin, 1929) was an ambitious early attempt at both translation and biography and is still worth reading. William Hung’s Tu Fu: China’s Greatest Poet (Harvard, 1952) is a historical study with prose renderings—not an easy or inexpensive book to get hold of, alas. David Hinton and Burton Watson have both done book-length selections in chronological order and biographical notes. I suspect that many of the technical marks of Du Fu’s verse in the original—end-stop lines in particular, strict parallelisms—are particularly resistant to contemporary poetics and may best be approached with a free hand. David Young in his recent Du Fu: A Life in Poetry (Knopf, 2008) says, “I have evolved a kind of middle way, whereby the Chinese line (which is also a complete syntactic unit, comparable to the sentence) is treated as a free verse stanza, usually a couplet, with a minimum of punctuation.” My sense is that Young’s couplets are as successful in this as Merwin’s triadic stanzas are in translating Muso Soseki, and that his versions have given Du Fu his most convincing voice so far in English. The discovery of Du Fu in English will no doubt go on, but here, right now, is candor, sharp observation, the noise of war, the sound of laughter, the lacerating silences of sorrow—all the voices attributed to Du Fu as he has been studied and loved for a thousand years. It’s a lovely book.