Yu Dafu Homepage

Author: Yu Dafu
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2003-06-01
Features: "Alas, poor you, this clear shadow, has followed me for twenty-one years. Now this vast sea is your resting place. Though my body has been bullied by others, I should not have burdened you with such frailty. Shadow, oh shadow, spare me!" He looked westward, and the light from the lighthouse flickered between red and green, diligently fulfilling its duty. When the green light hit the sea surface, it revealed a pale blue path. Looking further west, he saw a twinkling star shaking in the vast blue sky. "Beneath that wavering star lies my homeland, my birthplace. I have spent eighteen autumns and winters beneath it, my homeland, oh my homeland, I can no longer see your face now." As he walked, he endlessly reflected on these sorrowful words, grieving deeply. After walking for a while, he glanced at the western star once more, and his tears fell like sudden rain. The surrounding scenery blurred before his eyes. He wiped away his tears, stopped in his tracks, and sighed deeply, then spoke in a broken voice, "My homeland, my homeland! Your death is my fate! You must grow rich and strong! You still have many children suffering!" Revised on May 9, 1921 (According to The Complete Works of Yu Dafu, Volume 2: The Chicken Rib Collection, Creative Society, 1927 edition)
At Caishi, the article "The Life of a Scholar Hates His Fate, but Ghosts Enjoy Passing By" – Du Fu
Since childhood, Huang Zhongze, who was overly sensitive, had not outgrown his arrogant and suspicious nature by the age of twenty-three. He was a man who died for his emotions and lost his temper whenever he was excited, speaking loudly and uncontrollably, regardless of whether his words were appropriate. If anyone contradicted him or showed disapproval in their smiles or eyes, he would argue fiercely, his black, sparkling eyes widening as if sparks might fly from them. At such times, if someone spoke words that pleased him, he would leap for joy, his black, large eyes brimming with tears, and soon, grateful tears would stream down his gaunt cheeks. After such an outburst, he would remain silent for three or four days, refusing to answer anyone who spoke to him. During this period of withdrawal, he would sometimes sit alone in his room in the western chamber of Shouchun Garden, north of the Imperial Academy, or walk alone to the Huaiyin Terrace outside Qingyuan Gate, reflecting on the past, or head to a small tavern by the Gushu Creek outside the south gate for a drunken binge. However, even when silent, he would often seem to be whispering to himself, wandering from place to place, sometimes reciting poetry or prose softly, sometimes laughing at himself, or gazing at the sky with sighs, as if he were too busy to spare a thought for others. But when he encountered people, his vacant, large eyes would lift to meet theirs, and his face would freeze like that of a lifeless puppet. No one who met him could help but be frightened away.
Deputy Imperial Academy Master Zhu Jihé, though deeply fond of him, could not visit him for company due to his busy schedule. During these times of his silence and melancholy, only Hong Zhichun, his childhood friend and fellow townsman, dared to approach him and enter his room for a few words. Hong Zhichun, who understood his nature well, would often intervene when he grew too agitated in arguments, earning the respect of Zhichun that even his own brothers could not. Knowing his temper, Zhichun would deliberately avoid him for the first one or two days of his silence. When they happened to cross paths, Zhichun would pretend to be in a similarly gloomy mood, merely nodding silently in his direction before passing by. After a couple of days, when he seemed to have composed a few poems in secret or had appeared drunk from a tavern or weeping alone in a desolate mountain, Zhichun would cautiously approach his room at midnight or dawn to recite The Lament of the or critique the poems of Han Changli and Li Taibai, breaking through his silence.
Back in the Imperial Academy, colleagues whispered behind his back that he was "Huang the Madman," yet none of them dared to provoke him when he was in his presence. This was partly because he was the favorite guest of Deputy Imperial Academy Master Zhu, and partly because his habits were too ingrained—he would critique others' writings without regard for their feelings, speaking bluntly and harshly according to his own nature. He had been with Zhu Jihé in Taiping for nearly half a year, yet apart from Zhu and Hong Zhichun, not a single person could hold a conversation with him for more than half an hour. Those who understood him said he was arrogant and unapproachable, while those who did not understood him at all, claiming he had no real learning and merely relied on Zhu's influence to vent his temper. His reputation and friends dwindled year by year, and his innate melancholy deepened.
By the autumn of the thirty-sixth year of the Qianlong era, the cold north wind had begun to blow in the city of Taiping on the southern bank of the Yangtze River. The willows, catalpas, and other trees in the western garden of the Imperial Academy had turned a pale yellow. On clear autumn nights, the chirping of insects in the weedy corners of the garden grew quieter and quieter. The previous night, the moon was exceptionally bright, and Zhongze, despite the cold, had stayed up in the garden admiring it. Walking under the sparse and dense shadows of the trees, he gazed at the moonlight on the ground, as cold as frost. Suddenly, memories of a tragic love from his youth flooded his mind. "Alas, may you enjoy the harmony of your family!" he sighed, looking far eastward, and in that moment, a lively sixteen-year-old girl appeared before his eyes. At that time, Zhongze was studying in Yinxi, Shili, and though his classmates Chen and Gong were wealthier, the girl's bright eyes were fixed solely on the frail him. During the New Year, as he prepared to return to Changzhou, he visited her at her home on the day they parted. For some reason, she wept silently but spoke little. After sitting with her for half an hour, he had already reached the door when she called him back, giving him a light yellow silk handkerchief that was in fashion at the time. On this parting, he was the one who wept, and they embraced and cried again, wiping their tears on the handkerchief. Only as the boat was about to set sail late that evening did he carefully fold the handkerchief and bid her farewell. After that, they never spoke again.
The second time he returned to Yinxi, his youthful sorrow was expressed in a few regulated verse poems:
"Looking across the vast road, the green towers cannot hide the view.
Last year, I tied my horse to the wine-glowing stream.
The silk ribbon in the wind is a token of love,
The person at the cup is like a flower that speaks.
By the southern road of Xiaodu City, north and south,
Outside the high gate, carriages come and go.
In a rush, I realize it was a dream in Yangzhou,
Reflecting on idle sorrows in my temples.
Waking before dawn, the cuckoo cries again and again.
The old promise in paint, like a letter from Zhang Hu,
The meditation in the Zen pavilion, like Du Mu's feelings.
Since parting, longing is but a river apart,
Returning now, it feels like three lives have passed.
The cloud steps and moon ground remain the same,
Following the scent of incense, a hundred times.
If you remember me often at parting,
The bamboo branch will leave fresh tears to wash.
Because the officials have no firm promises,
I see Xiao Lang as a stranger."