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Abstract： Frederick Turner is not only a poet， but also a translator besides he is a Founder Professor of Arts and Humanities at the University of Texas at Dallas with a PhD degree from Oxford University. As a “universal poet” （Golden） with multicultural and cross-disciplinary background， Frederick Turner’s “collaborative venture” （Turner 2008） translation of Chinese Tang Poetry has been attracting attention increasingly since it’s published （2009）. The following interview with him， conducted from September 2016 to August 2018， firstly tells us why Frederick Turner translated the Tang poems and what standard he used to choose them from the numerous Tang poems; secondly， discusses how Tang poetry reflects the Chinese cultural tradition including Confucianism， Daoism and Buddhism， and taking the poems of Du Fu， Li Bai and Wang Wei for examples; thirdly， explores how translating Tang poetry might intersect with being a consultant for NASA and how Tang poems function in the context of space， ecology， music and salvation.
Key words： Frederick Turner; Chinese Tang Poetry; translation; Chinese Cultural Spirit
Author： Wan Xuemei， Ph.D. in literature， is professor of English at the school of Foreign Languages， Jiangsu University （Zhenjiang 212013， China）. Her research interests include English and American literature and Chinese culture. E-mail： wanxuemei@ujs.edu.cn
標题：翻译中国唐诗 守护宇宙家园——弗雷德里克·特纳教授访谈录
内容摘要：弗雷德里克·特纳，牛津大学博士毕业，达拉斯德州大学人文艺术学院教授，同时也是诗人和翻译家，已出版著作近40部。继“诗歌、诗学与科幻史诗”的访谈之后，笔者针对他的《唐诗选译》（2009），再次对其进行了访谈，探究了他的译诗缘起和择译标准;他在其唐诗译诗中所表达的中国文化精神;他翻译唐诗与其为美国国家航空航天局作顾问的交互影响，以及他有关唐诗里所蕴含的音乐、生态和救世等方面的共同体思想。此研究旨在对落实“坚定文化自信”具有一定的启示意义。
关键词：弗雷德里克·特纳;唐诗;翻译;中国文化精神
Xuemei Wan （Wan for short hereafter）： Dear Professor Turner， thank you very much for your acceptance of this interview. We Chinese appreciate you deeply because， though your work transects and borrows from several rather disparate fields， they know you have translated some Chinese Tang Poetry since I have published two articles introducing you to them though they haven’t seen you. To our surprise， you are not a Sinologist， but “a major poet of our time” according to The Dallas Morning News （September 2， 1990; July 6， 2012） in western countries. How， when and why did you pay attention to Chinese Tang poems and translate some of them into English？ We know some Sinologists who are so interested in ancient Chinese poetry that they have published a lot in this field. For example， Paul Demiéville observes that in a tiny Chinese poem we can see thousands of images， which are all about human life， and its reflection in magic art...Further， we can see in it the boundless Chinese territory， the universe in harmony with it， and the echo from the inner heart beyond what language could describe （Qian V）. You may know more about Ezra Pound， who was greatly influenced by Chinese classical poetry including the imagery. Nowadays， in American Sinology， Stephen Owen from Harvard University has done a great deal in the study of Chinese literature and in translating Chinese Tang Poetry. For example， his doctoral dissertation is on Han Yu’s and Meng Jiao’s poems. Also in his spare time， he has translated and edited all of Du Fu’s poems， 1400， and published them in the book， The Poetry of Du Fu （2016）. We are not sure whether you know him. But perhaps you have read some of Ezra Pound’s translation of Chinese Tang poetry. What about your opinion on his translation？ Are there any differences or relationships between yours and his？ Frederick Turner （Turner for short hereafter）： I fell in love at a distance with the poems of the Tang period through various English translations， including those in Robert Payne’s The White Pony， and others by Kenneth Rexroth， Witter Bynner， and of course Ezra Pound. We all owe a great debt to Stephen Owen for his meticulous literal translations， which can serve in the future as a valuable “trot” for true poetic translation.
I was unsatisfied with all the translations I had found， sensing that there was much greater richness in the originals that was not expressed in the translations. They failed usually on two or three counts out of four： grace of language， musical rhythm and rhyme， literal accuracy， and appropriateness of tone and style. The best translations were by Pound， in my opinion， but Pound pays no attention to the sound of the poems in Chinese and to the strict skillful regularity of their formal composition. What was good about Pound’s work was its intimacy， the confident sense that he had got into the mind of the poet he was translating， as a fellow poet. He was infinitely better， if less accurate， than the clumsy and stilted versions produced by western sinologists or by Chinese scholars whose second language was English. His translations were also better than those that imitated the style of nineteenth century romantic poetry or， alternately， wanted to make the translation sound weird and Chinese rather than human. Poets speak fundamentally in “Humanese”—the prelinguistic language of childhood and dreams—and have to translate it into their own native language. I became convinced that the only good poetry translations would have to involve at the final stage a poet whose native language is the language of the translation， and who is a skilled and original poet in his or her own right， that is， is skilled at translating Humanese into their national language. Very important is the translator’s ability to read the mind of the original creator of the text， as we read the mind of a close friend.
When I met my co-translator， Yongzhao Deng， he was my student writing a dissertation comparing the philosophy of Chinese medicine with that of Western medicine. I proposed to him that we translate a few Tang poems together， and we found that the partnership worked so well that we embarked on an anthology of his and my favorites.
What drew me to spend three years of my poetic life on translating these poems was not just the pleasure of the task， but the sense that I had found in them a philosophical vision that very much resembled my own. I think I was born a Daoist， or at least acquired a Daoist way of perceiving the world during my boyhood in central Africa. As I say in my introduction to our collection， Tang poetry celebrates the inner Chi of the world. One might say that for the Tang poet Time is not a dimension or a space but a dragon-like energy， an enlivening and animating breath that makes every twig and snowflake shine and transform itself. Chi is not just a dynamic that takes place in time， but the core property of time itself. Chi is both the increase of entropy that constitutes time for thermodynamics， and the self-organizing growth of information that takes place in evolutionary processes. The beauty experience， the shiver of epiphanic delight in every good Tang poem， is a recognition of the promise and power of that energy， the perpetual dawning of the world. In Du Fu’s “Spring Night with Happy Rain” the wild turbulence of wind and rain and flood and cloud resolves in the last two lines into a spring dawn， suddenly full of soaked flowers， and a human city. It is a tiny epitome of the evolution of the universe through the branching of Chi into Yin and Yang， and the continuation of the branching process， drawn by the whispered attractors inherent in the turbulence into the complex forms of flowers and cities：
A good rain knows the season when it’s right，
In spring， on time， it makes things sprout and grow.
Follow the wind， sneak out into the night：
All moist things whisper silently and slow.
Above the wild path， black clouds fill the air，
The boat-lamp on the flood the only glow;
At dawn you see wet mounds of crimson where
The heavy flowers of Chengdu hang down low. （Turner， Poems from the Tang 63）
The very form of the classic Tang five-character double quatrain exemplifies the mysterious Chi-process of nature. The first line is the Tao of the poem， emerging out of the namelessness of the preceding silence. The second， often forming a couplet with the first， constitutes both its elaboration and its binary contrast， the yang to its yin or the yin to its yang. The third and fourth echo the relationship between the first and second， but with a further twist. Then the second quatrain takes the theme of the first but in a different key and at a different scale. The universal becomes the particular， the particular is suddenly generalized into a vast universal vision; in either case the correspondence between the form of the macrocosm and the form of the microcosm， their “scaling” or “self-similar” property， as fractal geometricians call it， is suddenly brought to mind. But the last line， though it rhymes with some crucial ending earlier in the poem， usually pushes out into some further encounter or development， leaving the reader on the edge of an ineffable discovery of his or her own. The whole poem is a cube of two lines， 2x2x2， suggesting the further implications of its exponential power law.
Wan： What’s your standard in choosing nearly 150 poems from the whole body of the Tang Poetry for your translation？ （I counted them several times. Are there 145 in all except 2 poems from Song Dynasty？）
Turner： We chose poems that satisfied the following criteria：
1. They were part of the traditional canon of Tang poetry （with a few exceptions for works we felt belonged to the Tang in spirit if not in date）. 2. They covered the period fairly well from beginning to end.
3. The major poets would be more strongly represented than the minor poets， and there would be an attempt to indicate the range of a given poet in subject and feeling.
4. There would be a fairly broad selection， not just the most important poets.
5. The poems were philosophically interesting， as well as poetically beautiful.
6. We liked and were moved by the poems.
Wan： For us， China is a country of poems， and Tang Poetry reached the summit in reflecting the Chinese national spirit. In some degree， we could say the major roots of Chinese civilization are Confucianism， Daoism and Buddhism. We can find representatives among Tang Poets whose ideas echo them， such as Du Fu. We would say Du Fu is a realistic poet， but at the same time， we think his thought reflects his large concern for both the Chinese people and their society in a Confucian way. We’re glad to notice you’ve chosen 24 of Du Fu’s poems. Can you comment on him？
Turner： Du Fu is one of the world’s greatest poets， and as you rightly suggest， his greatness is partly due to the seamless and elegant way he combines and focuses together the fundamental worldviews of the three great Chinese religions—the social morality of Confucianism， the naturalism of Dao， and the mystical spirituality of Buddhism.
I personally feel deeply at home with Du Fu. He is like my better self， the self I would like to be， the self I am for brief moments of generosity， attention and sensitivity. He shows that irony can be part of the makeup of a good man that great courage can coexist with humility， extreme empathy， and noble impartiality. He is the Confucian man， the dutiful man， the helpful man， the compassionate man who feels the sufferings and joys of others. So his art， his mastery of the poetic forms， is not an expression of dominance but of submission， both to the tradition of Chinese poetry and to Nature itself. His nature poetry is not a way of showing off his ingenuity but an attempt to speak the language of the wind， the flower， the willow， the bird， the river. He is the Daoist man， the man who recognizes himself as a part of Nature. And beyond both the Confucian and the Daoist， he is the Buddhist man， who knows that in the disappearance of the self is the liberation of the soul. His meditative poems calm me and release me from myself into a vast and lucid vision of the universe.
He possesses a certain quality of temperament that is， to me， very Chinese： I see it in some of my Chinese relatives by marriage. It is a kind of moral earnestness， a sincerity that is not na?ve but a part of wisdom. It is present， though rarer， in a few Western writers： I see it in such figures as George Herbert， William Wordsworth， Walt Whitman， and Thomas Hardy. Perhaps in early Tolstoy too， but Du Fu doesn’t have the increasingly ideological slant of the older Tolstoy. Wan： Among all the Tang poets， we also find you pay much more attention to Li Bai and Wang Wei along with Du Fu than to the other 47 Tang poets. Among all the 50 you chose from Tang Dynasty， you translated 24 of Du Fu’s poems， the most， 15 of Li Bai’s and 14 of Wang Wei’s. Normally Du Fu is known as the “Saint of Poetry，” and we consider Li Bai a great romanticist poet who has been crowned as the “Fairy Poet.” As to Wang Wei， he is famous for the Buddhist thought in his poems， so he was called the “Buddhist Poet.” How do you measure them？ What about your feelings when you translated them？
Turner： I love Li Bai partly because he expresses a side of me that I normally must suppress—the visionary， the drunkard， the space-traveler， the “dharma bum” （in the words of Jack Kerouac）. He has a sort of inextinguishable thirst， an anxiety， a yearning， a passionate sense that paradise is just around the corner but can never be captured， a recognition of the brevity and preciousness of life， that is one of the things that distinguish humans from other animals. His roaring， despairing comic wit is irresistible. He reminds me of Fran?ois Villon， and of some of Shakespeare’s characters， like Mercutio in Romeo and Juliet， or the mighty Falstaff.
When I was younger I hitch-hiked across Europe and America， drinking with whoever would drink with me; both lonely and at home on the road， searching for some kind of perfection I could never capture and hold. For Li Bai on his travels the heavens， or rather the fairy kingdom， opened up in the clouds to his imagination. But the gates of fairyland close very quickly， leaving one outside. I felt that too.
This all sounds very wild and disordered， but great poetic genius， as in Li Bai’s case， can somehow master the chaos with exquisite poetic control and technique. Li Bai’s poem “Drinking Alone Under the Moon” is， I realized， a perfect sonnet—Li Bai had independently invented the sonnet form about 700 years before the great European poets of the Renaissance：
Drinking Alone under the Moon Li Bai
Among the flowers with one lone jug of wine
I drink without a friend to drink with me.
But I’ll lift up my cup， invite the moon，
So with my shadow we will make up three.
The moon’s immune， though， to debauchery，
And my poor shadow follows me in vain;
Still， Moon and Shadow are my company—
The joys of spring may never come again.
So as I sing， Moon wanders aimlessly， And as I dance， poor tangled Shadow reels;
Sober， we were in perfect harmony，
Now， drunk， there’s no connection of our heels;
But， careless of this world， we’re bound， one day，
To meet together in the Milky Way. （Turner， “Translating the Tang Poets” 257）
For me Wang Wei is the perfect nature poet. In terms of sheer beauty， the evocation of a scene with all its acoustic， tactile， and visual aura， nobody excels him. Detail by significant detail he builds up a tiny vignette that somehow encapsulates a whole world of feeling and perception. He is the most painterly of the three greatest Tang poets; he draws us into the scene he paints with such deft little brush strokes.
What a wealth of lovely verbal art the Tang poets gave us！ I came across them later in my life， but they came at just the right time for me as a poet， teaching me that one does not need a hundred lines to bring a scene or an incident exactly and powerfully into presence for a reader. Sometimes a single line can do it， sometimes four， but the detail has to be exact.
Wan： Besides， we are attracted by a title of an article on you， “Universal Poet： Frederick Turner is shaking the literary world with his ideas about mankind’s rightful place in the cosmos” by Gayle Golden firstly published in Dallas Morning News on Sep. 2， 1990， and then retrieved on 6 July 2012. Could you say something about your ideas the author tried to conclude？ Do they accord to your true ideas？ Are there any relationships with Chinese Tang poetry？
Turner： When I received my own vocation or call to be a poet， I was about 10 years old， living in Zambia， central Africa， with my anthropologist parents， Victor and Edie Turner， who have since become well known. I was in my father’s truck， driving through the forest， and I had a sudden， almost blinding， vision of the world around me in every detail—each leaf， flower， and wild fruit stood out with exact precision and amazing intricacy. I already knew that with a microscope one could see more and more details as one increased the magnification， and I felt I saw it all. I was astonished， and at the same time surprised that I wasn’t astonished all the time， which would have been the appropriate reaction to the staggeringly ordered （yet dynamical and disordered） miracle of the world. Following this realization was another， even more shocking and marvelous： inside me there was a consciousness that was perceiving the world—and where did it come from， what was it？ I was looking at me， and I was looking at the me that was looking at the me. I immediately resolved to spend my life telling people about it—at that time I did not realize that to do so was to be a poet， but I understood it later when I read the Hindu Upanishads， which describe mystical experience in a similar way. Of course， many poets， including those of the Tang period， have had the same experience and described it in exquisite images. But perhaps because of my scientific background—my parents were social scientists， my brother a physicist—I took a different path from many poets who see their experience as an alternative to science in understanding the world. For me there was no contradiction， and in fact scientific curiosity was actually a quest for the renewal of that wise childlike wonder. In the old myths of the poet， the Greek Orpheus， the Hebrew Solomon， and Vyasa， the poet of the Mahabharata， are all able to speak the languages of the physical world， of rocks and trees and animals. This I regard as the work of science， to name things as they ought rightly to be named. So science for me is an essential pre-requisite for poetry.
After my early epiphany， I embarked on a lifelong project of educating myself in all the major branches of science， to give myself a vocabulary that would be powerful enough and exact enough to convey the meaning as well as the impression of the originating experience. So， though I have always written plenty of short lyric poems describing a moment of visionary insight， I have placed my major effort into much larger works， epic stories with many characters and a thoroughgoing scientific theme. I did this in an effort to create a whole imaginative world that would illustrate not just the moment of insight but the massive evolutionary process of time that the insight catches a glimpse of.
And I wanted to join the epic poets in creating not just a beautiful verbal object， but an environment， a place， so to speak， where my readers might wander and make their own discoveries， as I had in Africa.
Wan： Likewise， we are impressed by an interview with you by Gerry O’Sullivan and Carl Pletsch with the title of “Inventing Arcadia” in the column on “Restoration Ecology” in The Humanist， November/December， 1993. It seems to us that you may have ideas similar to those of many Chinese Scholars，’ let alone Tang poets’ thought on human and nature. We think humanity and nature are One， which means there is harmony between them， not conflict. For example， in Cui Hu’s “Inscribed on a Door in the South Neighborhood of the Capital，” we can read， “The pink peach-blossoms and her face gave back each other’s glow”（Turner， Poems from the Tang 104）. This line tells us that the girl and peach-blossoms are very close to each other. But what’s more， it seems that the peach-blossoms may know the girl’s beauty and happiness so they glow hers. In Chinese， to describe a girl’s beauty， we would say the color of her face is like a peach-blossom’s. We would depict a falling-in-love girl’s blush as the color of a peach-blossom. Anyway， there is a harmony or union between the girl and the peach blossoms， part of Big Nature. What are your ideas on “humanity and nature，” or we can say “ecology”？ Turner： Many thanks for pointing out this lovely illustration of the idea that we share， of the unity of humanity and nature. I became very interested in the idea of humanity as a gardener of the planet， and perhaps of other planets as well. I wrote an essay for a national magazine （Harper’s） on the subject of the American garden， in which I researched the great European gardens of the past as the traditional theme on which America played its great variations. Soon afterwards I was contacted by William R. Jordan III， a major authority on environmental restoration， and by Carl Hodges， a revolutionary ocean agronomist and geo-engineer， and under their influence turned my efforts toward a new environmentalist philosophy. That philosophy saw human action as not just repairing the damage that human beings had done， by means of closing down the future of our species， but rather as the enterprise of improving the world of nature on our planet， beyond anything that nature had contrived already. Indeed， I saw us as nature’s way of propagating and evolving itself through conscious mindfulness and artistic creativity. I bought a couple of acres of Texas farmland and started a project to bring it back to the original Texas prairie， acquiring native Texas seeds and plants and achieving a sometimes amazing display of flowers.
The goal for me was not just harmony， which can be static， but an ever-renewing creative transcendence. Harmony is the goal and the incentive， but as in music variation and surprise are essential， so in an evolving environment mutation， recombination， and new speciation challenge the existing balance and can lead to more beautiful and refined forms of being. We see this， for instance， in the evolution of flying insects 400 million years ago， which provided a way of carrying plant pollen and seeds across long distances， and triggered the emergence of the angiosperms， the flowering plants and trees. This emergence must have involved huge transformations in the world’s ecosystem， just as a great new poet， like Shakespeare or Li Bai， can change a whole culture.
This mixture of harmony and challenge is examined by Daniel Botkin in Discordant Harmonies： A New Ecology for the Twenty-First Century and by Douglas Hofstadter in his G?del， Escher， Bach： An Eternal Golden Braid. I see it in some of the new Chinese architecture， for instance the famous Beijing National Stadium， known as the Bird’s Nest， and in the “Forest City” buildings proposed for Nanjing by the Italian architect Stefano Boeri. The girl and the peach in the poem are both products of a vast adaptive dynamical process that requires the splitting of human chromosomes and their chaotic reshuffling in the process of sexual reproduction. That splitting and recombination drives the evolution of species. The beauty of the peach and the girl is the sweet inducement to a further adventure of both species into the future. And the splitting and recombination of words in poetry， so that they mean something new， is what helps drive human culture.
Wan： Dear Dr. Turner， I guess you may have noticed the musicality in Chinese Tang Poetry. There is a famous saying by Su Shi （1037-1101）， a Chinese writer， poet， painter， calligrapher， pharmacologist， gastronome， and a statesman of the Song dynasty on Wang Wei’s poems， “There is a painting in his poem and there is a poem in his painting.” In fact， I strongly agree that there is also “sound” （Luo 60） or music in a poem. That is to say， one poem could be read， heard and watched. In fact， there is also a tradition of “music” not only reflected in Chinese poetry， but also in the spirit of Chinese culture， which could be traced back to Confucianism， Daoism， and Buddhism. For example， the essence of Confucianism is ritual and music. We also have the saying， “To alter old customs and habits， no way is much better than to listen to the suitable music.” From your book， Beauty： The Value of Values （1992）， we know your brilliant ideas on Music. As to the musicality in Chinese Tang poetry and its function， we’d love to hear your remarks.
Turner： I’ve already touched on music in this interview， but I should say a few words about the music of poetry， that is， prosody. Music is the art of sound; prosody is the art of the sound of words. Sound is itself vibrations in time， and so one might say that music is fundamentally the purest art of time itself， the essence of chi. The highest tone or note we can hear is about 20，000 hertz; the lowest is about 2，000 herz. But we can also hear timbres and textures and scrapings and buzzes， that are combinations of rhythms we can hear and iterated alterations of the original tones， the “colors” of music. At a lower frequency still， perhaps at a rate of 10 herz （the alpha frequency of the brain）， we hear beats and rhythms， and as those beats approach human biological rhythms， such as 3 herz （the human reaction time）， 1 herz （the heartbeat）， or 0.3 herz （the human “present moment” and the length of the human poetic line）， they have significant effects on the human nervous system. Longer rhythms， such as the day and the year， or musical movements， or （in writing） the paragraph， the chapter， and the full story， have their own subjective characteristics. Music is made out of all these rhythmic frequencies， contrived so that they echo or teasingly contradict each other at different scales， so that a piece of music can have， for instance， a simple tonal melody， a harsh timbre， a complex but regular rhythm， and an unusual relationship of musical movements. Poetic prosody is a special case of this music. Poetic meter is limited by the constraints of grammar and pronunciation， but it does use tone， beat， syllable-length， number of syllables per line， lines， and stanzas. Prescribed combinations of syllables （short and long， heavy and light， tone-changing and tone unchanging） can also be used， and ornaments like rhyme and alliteration. In different human cultures some of these elements can be prescribed， others left to the poet’s art. Tight forms prescribe many of them; looser forms prescribe fewer. Some languages， like Chinese and Vietnamese， use tone as part of the meaning of an individual word; others， like English and French， use tone to indicate grammatical or logical distinctions or emotional emphasis.
The key to all music， non-verbal and verbal， is repetition and variation. Repetition creates expectation in the hearer， and establishes a tonal/rhythmic language （a tune or beat） that is then varied upon to make musical meaning. A merely repetitive beat is at first comforting， then boring， then deeply irritating. The expectation must be surprisingly contradicted， only to be reaffirmed at a higher level of meaning. At the other extreme， total lack of repetition， as in much modernist serious music and modernist free verse， establishes no expectations and therefore cannot generate meaning by variation. It does not establish a common language between performer and hearer; the hearer is literally not on the same wavelength as the performer. Information theory tells us we must establish a shared carrier-wave for communication to be possible. But to simply send out a carrier-wave conveys no information. Information is a distortion of a regular rhythmic medium， as in radio， by frequency （FM） or by amplitude （AM）. Free verse can still communicate by means of the prescribed rules of the lexicon and of grammar， and special emphasis and odd word choices; but it cannot communicate musically. Music and prosody are processed on the right hemisphere of the brain， far from the verbal areas on the left hemisphere， and the emotional effect is different.
For me the problem with most translations of Tang poetry is that they neglect the music of the original （or when they try， they do so clumsily， violating the grace of English poetry）. I set myself to reproduce the Tang poems’ sweet rhymes， elegant metrical simplicity， and delightful planned surprises and departures from the expected “carrier-wave.” I spent a lot of time just listening to the poems in Chines， even without understanding their lexical meaning. Very often when that meaning was revealed by my co-translator， it was pretty close to what I had divined from the sound of it. Wan： More and more people with breadth of vision have realized the various crises in real life that are increasing rapidly with the development of science and technology. How to deal with them？ That is a big problem. For example， many people don’t think it is a good idea for President Trump to leave the Paris climate accord. Although we can try to understand him， the devastation of Hurricane Harvey since August 25 and Hurricane Irma after September 10， 2017 may shock us and remind us of human fragility and the necessity of agreeing on the worldwide climate treaty to ensure people’s safety as time goes on. Stephen Owen once said that if Americans knew a little Chinese Tang Poetry， there would be more understanding between China and America. Ezra Pound proclaims Confucianism as a “medicine” for the ills of Western civilization in his Cantos directly. He emphasizes the “Need of Confucius” in explicit terms： “Let me try to get this as clear as possible. A ‘need’ implies a lack; a sick man has ‘need.’ Something he has not. Kung [Kong] as medicine？” Further， British historian Arnold J. Toynbee （1889-1975） once predicted that the only human civilizations that could save the world in the 21st century were the Chinese civilization of Confucianism and the Buddhist civilization of Mahayana Buddhism. We may agree that Chinese Tang poetry is the treasure of the Chinese civilization， but how could we let it function more for us as the guardian of the earth？
Turner： I believe that it is too late for Trump to have a serious effect on the huge transformation of environmental consciousness that is now sweeping the planet （led in part by China’s rethinking of its own needs and the needs of the world）. He is， of course， wrong; but my state， Texas， which is known as a Republican state， is the national leader in the development of wind and solar power. And big business—as in the race for the electric car and the home solar array—is lining up behind the environmentalists for good economic reasons.
We need as a species to rediscover the wisdom of all of our great cultural traditions. Much of ancient Biblical literature can be read as rules for the preservation and care of the land. The traditions of the Bantu peoples have given us ritual and music that are used all over the world for social solidarity and celebration. The classical Greeks and Romans gave us rationally justifiable ethics and the rule of law. India gave us all the glorious celebration of multiplicity in its polytheism， and the practice of Vedic and Buddhist meditation. Europe gave us modern mathematical science. Jesus’s gospel of love is essential for all the world. England， France and the USA gave us traditions of democracy and freedom， and brilliant market economists all over the world contributed to the economic miracles that have in the last few decades rescued two billion human beings from miserable poverty. The special contributions of China， that oldest and most populous of all continuous nations， are just as indispensable. They include not only brilliant technologies and an aesthetic culture that has the potential to garden the world， but also the ideas of Lao Zi and especially Confucius， who has influenced not only many other Asian cultures but also the USA and several European nations from the Enlightenment onwards. Perhaps most important of all is the example that China sets the world by its peaceful inclusion of three religions—four if we count the long presence of Christianity—in its view of civilization， each depending on the others for what it cannot provide itself. The special wisdom of Confucianism is for me the vision of an ethics that is based on the most private and emotional bonds of blood and family， but extends outwards step by step to embrace a whole nation and by extension， the whole human race. Those who criticize Confucianism as being too much of a “hive” system of morality are quite wrong， I believe： after all， Confucius starts with the just individual in constructing his hierarchy of just relationships， so one could even call him an individualist at bottom. When the Confucian ethic is combined with personal and political freedom， a robust market， a just rule of law from which nobody is exempt （even the governors）， active environmental science， and a democratic system of representation， it can be a creative system for the healing of the world.
But for all the gifts of human civilizations to be effective in dealing with our climate crisis， we must recover our ancient cultural knowledge， and educate our children in the classics of the whole world. The answers are there in many traditions， and they are the more accurate the more they are combined with each other. This was my project in my most recent epic poem， Apocalypse （2016）， which describes a catastrophic change in the sea level and the climate， and an international effort to heal and garden the whole planet. In the poem I referred back again and again to the deepest cultural wisdom of many cultures， and China is a central actor in the drama. And I do not think that I could have achieved the economy and clarity of the verse that was required， without my apprenticeship translating the Tang poems.
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責任编辑：魏家海
Key words： Frederick Turner; Chinese Tang Poetry; translation; Chinese Cultural Spirit
Author： Wan Xuemei， Ph.D. in literature， is professor of English at the school of Foreign Languages， Jiangsu University （Zhenjiang 212013， China）. Her research interests include English and American literature and Chinese culture. E-mail： wanxuemei@ujs.edu.cn
標题：翻译中国唐诗 守护宇宙家园——弗雷德里克·特纳教授访谈录
内容摘要：弗雷德里克·特纳，牛津大学博士毕业，达拉斯德州大学人文艺术学院教授，同时也是诗人和翻译家，已出版著作近40部。继“诗歌、诗学与科幻史诗”的访谈之后，笔者针对他的《唐诗选译》（2009），再次对其进行了访谈，探究了他的译诗缘起和择译标准;他在其唐诗译诗中所表达的中国文化精神;他翻译唐诗与其为美国国家航空航天局作顾问的交互影响，以及他有关唐诗里所蕴含的音乐、生态和救世等方面的共同体思想。此研究旨在对落实“坚定文化自信”具有一定的启示意义。
关键词：弗雷德里克·特纳;唐诗;翻译;中国文化精神
Xuemei Wan （Wan for short hereafter）： Dear Professor Turner， thank you very much for your acceptance of this interview. We Chinese appreciate you deeply because， though your work transects and borrows from several rather disparate fields， they know you have translated some Chinese Tang Poetry since I have published two articles introducing you to them though they haven’t seen you. To our surprise， you are not a Sinologist， but “a major poet of our time” according to The Dallas Morning News （September 2， 1990; July 6， 2012） in western countries. How， when and why did you pay attention to Chinese Tang poems and translate some of them into English？ We know some Sinologists who are so interested in ancient Chinese poetry that they have published a lot in this field. For example， Paul Demiéville observes that in a tiny Chinese poem we can see thousands of images， which are all about human life， and its reflection in magic art...Further， we can see in it the boundless Chinese territory， the universe in harmony with it， and the echo from the inner heart beyond what language could describe （Qian V）. You may know more about Ezra Pound， who was greatly influenced by Chinese classical poetry including the imagery. Nowadays， in American Sinology， Stephen Owen from Harvard University has done a great deal in the study of Chinese literature and in translating Chinese Tang Poetry. For example， his doctoral dissertation is on Han Yu’s and Meng Jiao’s poems. Also in his spare time， he has translated and edited all of Du Fu’s poems， 1400， and published them in the book， The Poetry of Du Fu （2016）. We are not sure whether you know him. But perhaps you have read some of Ezra Pound’s translation of Chinese Tang poetry. What about your opinion on his translation？ Are there any differences or relationships between yours and his？ Frederick Turner （Turner for short hereafter）： I fell in love at a distance with the poems of the Tang period through various English translations， including those in Robert Payne’s The White Pony， and others by Kenneth Rexroth， Witter Bynner， and of course Ezra Pound. We all owe a great debt to Stephen Owen for his meticulous literal translations， which can serve in the future as a valuable “trot” for true poetic translation.
I was unsatisfied with all the translations I had found， sensing that there was much greater richness in the originals that was not expressed in the translations. They failed usually on two or three counts out of four： grace of language， musical rhythm and rhyme， literal accuracy， and appropriateness of tone and style. The best translations were by Pound， in my opinion， but Pound pays no attention to the sound of the poems in Chinese and to the strict skillful regularity of their formal composition. What was good about Pound’s work was its intimacy， the confident sense that he had got into the mind of the poet he was translating， as a fellow poet. He was infinitely better， if less accurate， than the clumsy and stilted versions produced by western sinologists or by Chinese scholars whose second language was English. His translations were also better than those that imitated the style of nineteenth century romantic poetry or， alternately， wanted to make the translation sound weird and Chinese rather than human. Poets speak fundamentally in “Humanese”—the prelinguistic language of childhood and dreams—and have to translate it into their own native language. I became convinced that the only good poetry translations would have to involve at the final stage a poet whose native language is the language of the translation， and who is a skilled and original poet in his or her own right， that is， is skilled at translating Humanese into their national language. Very important is the translator’s ability to read the mind of the original creator of the text， as we read the mind of a close friend.
When I met my co-translator， Yongzhao Deng， he was my student writing a dissertation comparing the philosophy of Chinese medicine with that of Western medicine. I proposed to him that we translate a few Tang poems together， and we found that the partnership worked so well that we embarked on an anthology of his and my favorites.
What drew me to spend three years of my poetic life on translating these poems was not just the pleasure of the task， but the sense that I had found in them a philosophical vision that very much resembled my own. I think I was born a Daoist， or at least acquired a Daoist way of perceiving the world during my boyhood in central Africa. As I say in my introduction to our collection， Tang poetry celebrates the inner Chi of the world. One might say that for the Tang poet Time is not a dimension or a space but a dragon-like energy， an enlivening and animating breath that makes every twig and snowflake shine and transform itself. Chi is not just a dynamic that takes place in time， but the core property of time itself. Chi is both the increase of entropy that constitutes time for thermodynamics， and the self-organizing growth of information that takes place in evolutionary processes. The beauty experience， the shiver of epiphanic delight in every good Tang poem， is a recognition of the promise and power of that energy， the perpetual dawning of the world. In Du Fu’s “Spring Night with Happy Rain” the wild turbulence of wind and rain and flood and cloud resolves in the last two lines into a spring dawn， suddenly full of soaked flowers， and a human city. It is a tiny epitome of the evolution of the universe through the branching of Chi into Yin and Yang， and the continuation of the branching process， drawn by the whispered attractors inherent in the turbulence into the complex forms of flowers and cities：
A good rain knows the season when it’s right，
In spring， on time， it makes things sprout and grow.
Follow the wind， sneak out into the night：
All moist things whisper silently and slow.
Above the wild path， black clouds fill the air，
The boat-lamp on the flood the only glow;
At dawn you see wet mounds of crimson where
The heavy flowers of Chengdu hang down low. （Turner， Poems from the Tang 63）
The very form of the classic Tang five-character double quatrain exemplifies the mysterious Chi-process of nature. The first line is the Tao of the poem， emerging out of the namelessness of the preceding silence. The second， often forming a couplet with the first， constitutes both its elaboration and its binary contrast， the yang to its yin or the yin to its yang. The third and fourth echo the relationship between the first and second， but with a further twist. Then the second quatrain takes the theme of the first but in a different key and at a different scale. The universal becomes the particular， the particular is suddenly generalized into a vast universal vision; in either case the correspondence between the form of the macrocosm and the form of the microcosm， their “scaling” or “self-similar” property， as fractal geometricians call it， is suddenly brought to mind. But the last line， though it rhymes with some crucial ending earlier in the poem， usually pushes out into some further encounter or development， leaving the reader on the edge of an ineffable discovery of his or her own. The whole poem is a cube of two lines， 2x2x2， suggesting the further implications of its exponential power law.
Wan： What’s your standard in choosing nearly 150 poems from the whole body of the Tang Poetry for your translation？ （I counted them several times. Are there 145 in all except 2 poems from Song Dynasty？）
Turner： We chose poems that satisfied the following criteria：
1. They were part of the traditional canon of Tang poetry （with a few exceptions for works we felt belonged to the Tang in spirit if not in date）. 2. They covered the period fairly well from beginning to end.
3. The major poets would be more strongly represented than the minor poets， and there would be an attempt to indicate the range of a given poet in subject and feeling.
4. There would be a fairly broad selection， not just the most important poets.
5. The poems were philosophically interesting， as well as poetically beautiful.
6. We liked and were moved by the poems.
Wan： For us， China is a country of poems， and Tang Poetry reached the summit in reflecting the Chinese national spirit. In some degree， we could say the major roots of Chinese civilization are Confucianism， Daoism and Buddhism. We can find representatives among Tang Poets whose ideas echo them， such as Du Fu. We would say Du Fu is a realistic poet， but at the same time， we think his thought reflects his large concern for both the Chinese people and their society in a Confucian way. We’re glad to notice you’ve chosen 24 of Du Fu’s poems. Can you comment on him？
Turner： Du Fu is one of the world’s greatest poets， and as you rightly suggest， his greatness is partly due to the seamless and elegant way he combines and focuses together the fundamental worldviews of the three great Chinese religions—the social morality of Confucianism， the naturalism of Dao， and the mystical spirituality of Buddhism.
I personally feel deeply at home with Du Fu. He is like my better self， the self I would like to be， the self I am for brief moments of generosity， attention and sensitivity. He shows that irony can be part of the makeup of a good man that great courage can coexist with humility， extreme empathy， and noble impartiality. He is the Confucian man， the dutiful man， the helpful man， the compassionate man who feels the sufferings and joys of others. So his art， his mastery of the poetic forms， is not an expression of dominance but of submission， both to the tradition of Chinese poetry and to Nature itself. His nature poetry is not a way of showing off his ingenuity but an attempt to speak the language of the wind， the flower， the willow， the bird， the river. He is the Daoist man， the man who recognizes himself as a part of Nature. And beyond both the Confucian and the Daoist， he is the Buddhist man， who knows that in the disappearance of the self is the liberation of the soul. His meditative poems calm me and release me from myself into a vast and lucid vision of the universe.
He possesses a certain quality of temperament that is， to me， very Chinese： I see it in some of my Chinese relatives by marriage. It is a kind of moral earnestness， a sincerity that is not na?ve but a part of wisdom. It is present， though rarer， in a few Western writers： I see it in such figures as George Herbert， William Wordsworth， Walt Whitman， and Thomas Hardy. Perhaps in early Tolstoy too， but Du Fu doesn’t have the increasingly ideological slant of the older Tolstoy. Wan： Among all the Tang poets， we also find you pay much more attention to Li Bai and Wang Wei along with Du Fu than to the other 47 Tang poets. Among all the 50 you chose from Tang Dynasty， you translated 24 of Du Fu’s poems， the most， 15 of Li Bai’s and 14 of Wang Wei’s. Normally Du Fu is known as the “Saint of Poetry，” and we consider Li Bai a great romanticist poet who has been crowned as the “Fairy Poet.” As to Wang Wei， he is famous for the Buddhist thought in his poems， so he was called the “Buddhist Poet.” How do you measure them？ What about your feelings when you translated them？
Turner： I love Li Bai partly because he expresses a side of me that I normally must suppress—the visionary， the drunkard， the space-traveler， the “dharma bum” （in the words of Jack Kerouac）. He has a sort of inextinguishable thirst， an anxiety， a yearning， a passionate sense that paradise is just around the corner but can never be captured， a recognition of the brevity and preciousness of life， that is one of the things that distinguish humans from other animals. His roaring， despairing comic wit is irresistible. He reminds me of Fran?ois Villon， and of some of Shakespeare’s characters， like Mercutio in Romeo and Juliet， or the mighty Falstaff.
When I was younger I hitch-hiked across Europe and America， drinking with whoever would drink with me; both lonely and at home on the road， searching for some kind of perfection I could never capture and hold. For Li Bai on his travels the heavens， or rather the fairy kingdom， opened up in the clouds to his imagination. But the gates of fairyland close very quickly， leaving one outside. I felt that too.
This all sounds very wild and disordered， but great poetic genius， as in Li Bai’s case， can somehow master the chaos with exquisite poetic control and technique. Li Bai’s poem “Drinking Alone Under the Moon” is， I realized， a perfect sonnet—Li Bai had independently invented the sonnet form about 700 years before the great European poets of the Renaissance：
Drinking Alone under the Moon Li Bai
Among the flowers with one lone jug of wine
I drink without a friend to drink with me.
But I’ll lift up my cup， invite the moon，
So with my shadow we will make up three.
The moon’s immune， though， to debauchery，
And my poor shadow follows me in vain;
Still， Moon and Shadow are my company—
The joys of spring may never come again.
So as I sing， Moon wanders aimlessly， And as I dance， poor tangled Shadow reels;
Sober， we were in perfect harmony，
Now， drunk， there’s no connection of our heels;
But， careless of this world， we’re bound， one day，
To meet together in the Milky Way. （Turner， “Translating the Tang Poets” 257）
For me Wang Wei is the perfect nature poet. In terms of sheer beauty， the evocation of a scene with all its acoustic， tactile， and visual aura， nobody excels him. Detail by significant detail he builds up a tiny vignette that somehow encapsulates a whole world of feeling and perception. He is the most painterly of the three greatest Tang poets; he draws us into the scene he paints with such deft little brush strokes.
What a wealth of lovely verbal art the Tang poets gave us！ I came across them later in my life， but they came at just the right time for me as a poet， teaching me that one does not need a hundred lines to bring a scene or an incident exactly and powerfully into presence for a reader. Sometimes a single line can do it， sometimes four， but the detail has to be exact.
Wan： Besides， we are attracted by a title of an article on you， “Universal Poet： Frederick Turner is shaking the literary world with his ideas about mankind’s rightful place in the cosmos” by Gayle Golden firstly published in Dallas Morning News on Sep. 2， 1990， and then retrieved on 6 July 2012. Could you say something about your ideas the author tried to conclude？ Do they accord to your true ideas？ Are there any relationships with Chinese Tang poetry？
Turner： When I received my own vocation or call to be a poet， I was about 10 years old， living in Zambia， central Africa， with my anthropologist parents， Victor and Edie Turner， who have since become well known. I was in my father’s truck， driving through the forest， and I had a sudden， almost blinding， vision of the world around me in every detail—each leaf， flower， and wild fruit stood out with exact precision and amazing intricacy. I already knew that with a microscope one could see more and more details as one increased the magnification， and I felt I saw it all. I was astonished， and at the same time surprised that I wasn’t astonished all the time， which would have been the appropriate reaction to the staggeringly ordered （yet dynamical and disordered） miracle of the world. Following this realization was another， even more shocking and marvelous： inside me there was a consciousness that was perceiving the world—and where did it come from， what was it？ I was looking at me， and I was looking at the me that was looking at the me. I immediately resolved to spend my life telling people about it—at that time I did not realize that to do so was to be a poet， but I understood it later when I read the Hindu Upanishads， which describe mystical experience in a similar way. Of course， many poets， including those of the Tang period， have had the same experience and described it in exquisite images. But perhaps because of my scientific background—my parents were social scientists， my brother a physicist—I took a different path from many poets who see their experience as an alternative to science in understanding the world. For me there was no contradiction， and in fact scientific curiosity was actually a quest for the renewal of that wise childlike wonder. In the old myths of the poet， the Greek Orpheus， the Hebrew Solomon， and Vyasa， the poet of the Mahabharata， are all able to speak the languages of the physical world， of rocks and trees and animals. This I regard as the work of science， to name things as they ought rightly to be named. So science for me is an essential pre-requisite for poetry.
After my early epiphany， I embarked on a lifelong project of educating myself in all the major branches of science， to give myself a vocabulary that would be powerful enough and exact enough to convey the meaning as well as the impression of the originating experience. So， though I have always written plenty of short lyric poems describing a moment of visionary insight， I have placed my major effort into much larger works， epic stories with many characters and a thoroughgoing scientific theme. I did this in an effort to create a whole imaginative world that would illustrate not just the moment of insight but the massive evolutionary process of time that the insight catches a glimpse of.
And I wanted to join the epic poets in creating not just a beautiful verbal object， but an environment， a place， so to speak， where my readers might wander and make their own discoveries， as I had in Africa.
Wan： Likewise， we are impressed by an interview with you by Gerry O’Sullivan and Carl Pletsch with the title of “Inventing Arcadia” in the column on “Restoration Ecology” in The Humanist， November/December， 1993. It seems to us that you may have ideas similar to those of many Chinese Scholars，’ let alone Tang poets’ thought on human and nature. We think humanity and nature are One， which means there is harmony between them， not conflict. For example， in Cui Hu’s “Inscribed on a Door in the South Neighborhood of the Capital，” we can read， “The pink peach-blossoms and her face gave back each other’s glow”（Turner， Poems from the Tang 104）. This line tells us that the girl and peach-blossoms are very close to each other. But what’s more， it seems that the peach-blossoms may know the girl’s beauty and happiness so they glow hers. In Chinese， to describe a girl’s beauty， we would say the color of her face is like a peach-blossom’s. We would depict a falling-in-love girl’s blush as the color of a peach-blossom. Anyway， there is a harmony or union between the girl and the peach blossoms， part of Big Nature. What are your ideas on “humanity and nature，” or we can say “ecology”？ Turner： Many thanks for pointing out this lovely illustration of the idea that we share， of the unity of humanity and nature. I became very interested in the idea of humanity as a gardener of the planet， and perhaps of other planets as well. I wrote an essay for a national magazine （Harper’s） on the subject of the American garden， in which I researched the great European gardens of the past as the traditional theme on which America played its great variations. Soon afterwards I was contacted by William R. Jordan III， a major authority on environmental restoration， and by Carl Hodges， a revolutionary ocean agronomist and geo-engineer， and under their influence turned my efforts toward a new environmentalist philosophy. That philosophy saw human action as not just repairing the damage that human beings had done， by means of closing down the future of our species， but rather as the enterprise of improving the world of nature on our planet， beyond anything that nature had contrived already. Indeed， I saw us as nature’s way of propagating and evolving itself through conscious mindfulness and artistic creativity. I bought a couple of acres of Texas farmland and started a project to bring it back to the original Texas prairie， acquiring native Texas seeds and plants and achieving a sometimes amazing display of flowers.
The goal for me was not just harmony， which can be static， but an ever-renewing creative transcendence. Harmony is the goal and the incentive， but as in music variation and surprise are essential， so in an evolving environment mutation， recombination， and new speciation challenge the existing balance and can lead to more beautiful and refined forms of being. We see this， for instance， in the evolution of flying insects 400 million years ago， which provided a way of carrying plant pollen and seeds across long distances， and triggered the emergence of the angiosperms， the flowering plants and trees. This emergence must have involved huge transformations in the world’s ecosystem， just as a great new poet， like Shakespeare or Li Bai， can change a whole culture.
This mixture of harmony and challenge is examined by Daniel Botkin in Discordant Harmonies： A New Ecology for the Twenty-First Century and by Douglas Hofstadter in his G?del， Escher， Bach： An Eternal Golden Braid. I see it in some of the new Chinese architecture， for instance the famous Beijing National Stadium， known as the Bird’s Nest， and in the “Forest City” buildings proposed for Nanjing by the Italian architect Stefano Boeri. The girl and the peach in the poem are both products of a vast adaptive dynamical process that requires the splitting of human chromosomes and their chaotic reshuffling in the process of sexual reproduction. That splitting and recombination drives the evolution of species. The beauty of the peach and the girl is the sweet inducement to a further adventure of both species into the future. And the splitting and recombination of words in poetry， so that they mean something new， is what helps drive human culture.
Wan： Dear Dr. Turner， I guess you may have noticed the musicality in Chinese Tang Poetry. There is a famous saying by Su Shi （1037-1101）， a Chinese writer， poet， painter， calligrapher， pharmacologist， gastronome， and a statesman of the Song dynasty on Wang Wei’s poems， “There is a painting in his poem and there is a poem in his painting.” In fact， I strongly agree that there is also “sound” （Luo 60） or music in a poem. That is to say， one poem could be read， heard and watched. In fact， there is also a tradition of “music” not only reflected in Chinese poetry， but also in the spirit of Chinese culture， which could be traced back to Confucianism， Daoism， and Buddhism. For example， the essence of Confucianism is ritual and music. We also have the saying， “To alter old customs and habits， no way is much better than to listen to the suitable music.” From your book， Beauty： The Value of Values （1992）， we know your brilliant ideas on Music. As to the musicality in Chinese Tang poetry and its function， we’d love to hear your remarks.
Turner： I’ve already touched on music in this interview， but I should say a few words about the music of poetry， that is， prosody. Music is the art of sound; prosody is the art of the sound of words. Sound is itself vibrations in time， and so one might say that music is fundamentally the purest art of time itself， the essence of chi. The highest tone or note we can hear is about 20，000 hertz; the lowest is about 2，000 herz. But we can also hear timbres and textures and scrapings and buzzes， that are combinations of rhythms we can hear and iterated alterations of the original tones， the “colors” of music. At a lower frequency still， perhaps at a rate of 10 herz （the alpha frequency of the brain）， we hear beats and rhythms， and as those beats approach human biological rhythms， such as 3 herz （the human reaction time）， 1 herz （the heartbeat）， or 0.3 herz （the human “present moment” and the length of the human poetic line）， they have significant effects on the human nervous system. Longer rhythms， such as the day and the year， or musical movements， or （in writing） the paragraph， the chapter， and the full story， have their own subjective characteristics. Music is made out of all these rhythmic frequencies， contrived so that they echo or teasingly contradict each other at different scales， so that a piece of music can have， for instance， a simple tonal melody， a harsh timbre， a complex but regular rhythm， and an unusual relationship of musical movements. Poetic prosody is a special case of this music. Poetic meter is limited by the constraints of grammar and pronunciation， but it does use tone， beat， syllable-length， number of syllables per line， lines， and stanzas. Prescribed combinations of syllables （short and long， heavy and light， tone-changing and tone unchanging） can also be used， and ornaments like rhyme and alliteration. In different human cultures some of these elements can be prescribed， others left to the poet’s art. Tight forms prescribe many of them; looser forms prescribe fewer. Some languages， like Chinese and Vietnamese， use tone as part of the meaning of an individual word; others， like English and French， use tone to indicate grammatical or logical distinctions or emotional emphasis.
The key to all music， non-verbal and verbal， is repetition and variation. Repetition creates expectation in the hearer， and establishes a tonal/rhythmic language （a tune or beat） that is then varied upon to make musical meaning. A merely repetitive beat is at first comforting， then boring， then deeply irritating. The expectation must be surprisingly contradicted， only to be reaffirmed at a higher level of meaning. At the other extreme， total lack of repetition， as in much modernist serious music and modernist free verse， establishes no expectations and therefore cannot generate meaning by variation. It does not establish a common language between performer and hearer; the hearer is literally not on the same wavelength as the performer. Information theory tells us we must establish a shared carrier-wave for communication to be possible. But to simply send out a carrier-wave conveys no information. Information is a distortion of a regular rhythmic medium， as in radio， by frequency （FM） or by amplitude （AM）. Free verse can still communicate by means of the prescribed rules of the lexicon and of grammar， and special emphasis and odd word choices; but it cannot communicate musically. Music and prosody are processed on the right hemisphere of the brain， far from the verbal areas on the left hemisphere， and the emotional effect is different.
For me the problem with most translations of Tang poetry is that they neglect the music of the original （or when they try， they do so clumsily， violating the grace of English poetry）. I set myself to reproduce the Tang poems’ sweet rhymes， elegant metrical simplicity， and delightful planned surprises and departures from the expected “carrier-wave.” I spent a lot of time just listening to the poems in Chines， even without understanding their lexical meaning. Very often when that meaning was revealed by my co-translator， it was pretty close to what I had divined from the sound of it. Wan： More and more people with breadth of vision have realized the various crises in real life that are increasing rapidly with the development of science and technology. How to deal with them？ That is a big problem. For example， many people don’t think it is a good idea for President Trump to leave the Paris climate accord. Although we can try to understand him， the devastation of Hurricane Harvey since August 25 and Hurricane Irma after September 10， 2017 may shock us and remind us of human fragility and the necessity of agreeing on the worldwide climate treaty to ensure people’s safety as time goes on. Stephen Owen once said that if Americans knew a little Chinese Tang Poetry， there would be more understanding between China and America. Ezra Pound proclaims Confucianism as a “medicine” for the ills of Western civilization in his Cantos directly. He emphasizes the “Need of Confucius” in explicit terms： “Let me try to get this as clear as possible. A ‘need’ implies a lack; a sick man has ‘need.’ Something he has not. Kung [Kong] as medicine？” Further， British historian Arnold J. Toynbee （1889-1975） once predicted that the only human civilizations that could save the world in the 21st century were the Chinese civilization of Confucianism and the Buddhist civilization of Mahayana Buddhism. We may agree that Chinese Tang poetry is the treasure of the Chinese civilization， but how could we let it function more for us as the guardian of the earth？
Turner： I believe that it is too late for Trump to have a serious effect on the huge transformation of environmental consciousness that is now sweeping the planet （led in part by China’s rethinking of its own needs and the needs of the world）. He is， of course， wrong; but my state， Texas， which is known as a Republican state， is the national leader in the development of wind and solar power. And big business—as in the race for the electric car and the home solar array—is lining up behind the environmentalists for good economic reasons.
We need as a species to rediscover the wisdom of all of our great cultural traditions. Much of ancient Biblical literature can be read as rules for the preservation and care of the land. The traditions of the Bantu peoples have given us ritual and music that are used all over the world for social solidarity and celebration. The classical Greeks and Romans gave us rationally justifiable ethics and the rule of law. India gave us all the glorious celebration of multiplicity in its polytheism， and the practice of Vedic and Buddhist meditation. Europe gave us modern mathematical science. Jesus’s gospel of love is essential for all the world. England， France and the USA gave us traditions of democracy and freedom， and brilliant market economists all over the world contributed to the economic miracles that have in the last few decades rescued two billion human beings from miserable poverty. The special contributions of China， that oldest and most populous of all continuous nations， are just as indispensable. They include not only brilliant technologies and an aesthetic culture that has the potential to garden the world， but also the ideas of Lao Zi and especially Confucius， who has influenced not only many other Asian cultures but also the USA and several European nations from the Enlightenment onwards. Perhaps most important of all is the example that China sets the world by its peaceful inclusion of three religions—four if we count the long presence of Christianity—in its view of civilization， each depending on the others for what it cannot provide itself. The special wisdom of Confucianism is for me the vision of an ethics that is based on the most private and emotional bonds of blood and family， but extends outwards step by step to embrace a whole nation and by extension， the whole human race. Those who criticize Confucianism as being too much of a “hive” system of morality are quite wrong， I believe： after all， Confucius starts with the just individual in constructing his hierarchy of just relationships， so one could even call him an individualist at bottom. When the Confucian ethic is combined with personal and political freedom， a robust market， a just rule of law from which nobody is exempt （even the governors）， active environmental science， and a democratic system of representation， it can be a creative system for the healing of the world.
But for all the gifts of human civilizations to be effective in dealing with our climate crisis， we must recover our ancient cultural knowledge， and educate our children in the classics of the whole world. The answers are there in many traditions， and they are the more accurate the more they are combined with each other. This was my project in my most recent epic poem， Apocalypse （2016）， which describes a catastrophic change in the sea level and the climate， and an international effort to heal and garden the whole planet. In the poem I referred back again and again to the deepest cultural wisdom of many cultures， and China is a central actor in the drama. And I do not think that I could have achieved the economy and clarity of the verse that was required， without my apprenticeship translating the Tang poems.
Works Cited
Cheng， David Hong. On Lao Tzu. Belmont： Wadsworth Thomson Learning Inc.， 2000.
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