Quick Response to Ken Liu's talk - Lianbi

 I forgot to write about Ken Liu! I have a lot to say but in short, I loved it. I found it deeply thought-provoking and even moving. I haven’t felt this excited by an academic talk for a long time. I agree with most of his points and resonate with many of his sentiments. The anti-China sentiment has given me great pain when navigating the literary world involving American literature and modern Chinese literature. It’s so hard to be seen as someone else, read as something more, more than political allegory or objects of oppression. I have longed to be free from identity labels and from the complex feelings associated with my home, but what I desire perhaps is not a world with no labels and no backstories, but one with more open mindedness, and one in which I feel less self-rejection and rootlessness. Yes, what is the most depressing for me about being a translator and scholar of modern Chinese literature is not the prejudice that other groups have against the subject matter I deal with, but my own prejudice. For a long time I’ve had trouble believing there’s good literature since the cultural revolution. (The Three-Body Problem is an exception.) In comparison to before, this period has suffered from so much destruction and loss. However, my experience at BU has helped me understand this literary scene and come to love authors such as those belonging to the root-seeking literary movement as mentioned by Professor Yeh.

I appreciate Ken’s succinct and accessible introduction to literary translation theory. Love his choice of case studies and admire his speaking and reading/performance skills. I have studied Lu Xun for several years by now, but he still taught me something new about Lu Xun’s early philosophy of translation. Ken Liu talked about dark themes of power dynamics, discrimination, colonization, prejudice, but I actually felt somewhat hopeful after his talk. I feel like his presence gives me a sense of solidarity. I loved to hear about his friendship with the Chinese science fiction writers. I was thankful that he articulated so many critical issues and nuances regarding modern Chinese literature (in particular science fiction). They have been in my head for a long time, sometimes in the form of a mess of words intertwined with emotions. I gained a bit more faith in the meaning of what I do today and a bit more confidence that I might be someone who can offer her unique contributions in the field, even though I’m not crazy talented and prolific like Ken :)

Ted Goossen Response - Lianbi

From Ted’s commentary on the topic of voice, I can see that he’s a confident translator, comparing Naoya Shiga’s voice to a “well-worn garment hanging in [his] closet.” I am not sure how to read the part that says “it even smells like me!”. Has his personal voice/style had an impact on the translation, or has the translation changed him in some way? What do we feel about his approach of seeking the Japanese author’s voice in his own childhood and English literature seems to suggest that he welcomes a certain degree of domestication in his translation. 

This idea of finding the English equivalent of the original voice seems to be a common one among the translators of (modern) Japanese into a foreign language among the commentators (horizontal translation). However, the Japanese translators of classical texts into modern Japanese (vertical translation) seem to be more conscious of the distance and differences between the literary traditions of the source and target languages. I think an interesting question arises here: what’s the fundamental difference between a horizontal and a vertical distance (acknowledging that in many cases there can be both a horizontal and a vertical distance between the source text and the translation)? Is it one’s ability to speak in both languages? From my experience with classical Chinese, because no one can or do speak in it anymore, I find it much more difficult to hear the voice of an author and distinguish that voice from their contemporaries. This might be a motivation for a more foreignizing approach (broadly defined) that puts substantial energy into addressing the differences.

Regarding Ted’s translation of Kawakami’s stories, I have the following observations and questions.

• In “Mysterious Deaths,” there is the interjection “in what was Kanae’s politest of tones.” Is that just what the original says or is that an in-text explanatory note to explain the register of the dialogue?

• The phrase “the Yoko who survived” confused me. It wasn’t clear to me what Yoko means here, is it a person’s name? (No because of the preceeding “the.”) Is it the japanese word for child? (Then why not italicize? Why capitalize? Also what’s the rationale behind not translating?) Is it a job title?

• What is the idiom “fruits of our labor” translated from? What might be the motivation behind using or not using an idiom here?

• “Looked as if he wanted to sink into the ground as he sat shivering in his chair as if he were cold” is a long tail to a sentence with two metaphors intertwined together. It doesn’t sound very smooth to me. I am wondering if this is from a literal rendering of the original and if it’s a less plausible decision to keep everything so literal. In some languages it’s more common to use stalk phrase expressions including metaphor than others (Chinese is one of those languages.)

• “Won’t someone volunteer?” is awkward too. Is “Does no one want to volunteer?” more idiomatic? 

• I do like the choice to keeping the way teacher address her student as it is, “Miss Kawamata,” here, I don’t think we need to domesticate that. 

• What does “original name” mean? Did she change her name formally? Did she use a different name by personal choice?

• “A cloud of doom clung to her” this sounds a bit like manga effect written in text. 

• “Black-snake fireworks” I think I can understand it!

• “Occasionally accidents occurred–she slipped off a cliff and fell, he was bitten by a poisonous snake–but these only served to deepen their love, as per the formula.” This is funny! And these lines help me understand why “formula” more and more.

• What’s “the obligatory field of flowers”?

• Is “commandeer” commonly used?

• “Van with ‘Electrician’ written on it in big black kanji” I wonder if this would be a good moment to actually keep the kanji in the text?

• “Still another time it was an old man and a monkey” love how matter-of-factly this moment sounds.

• “All those who worked at Town Hall were eating out of Kanae’s hand, willing to do whatever she asked.” Is this part sexual?? I thought Kanae was a child. 

Apart from translation decisions, I would appreciate if we can talk about these stories and readings of them for part of today’s class:))

Jan 30 Reading Response - Audree

Ken Liu Lecture

Liu's point about translation being inherently political was one that peaked my interest, and clearly was somewhat of a controversial claim. He talks about how translations don't happen in a vacuum, and gives examples (Lu Xun) that show how translating can have political ends and be an intentional political act. And even when it isn't intentional, translators are still impacted by their socio-political environment. I found the example of not translating mythological Greek names and translating Native American ones to be particularly representative of this. Indeed, translations are always negotiating the relationship between the two cultures, and the choices made are telling of what that relationship is. I found myself agreeing with Liu on the overall message of his talk, and it made me cognizant of how translation is such an important part of cultural transmission, one that indeed has power to shape how people understand and encounter foreign cultures. 

Creta Kano, Haruki Murakami

I found this story intriguing and mystical, and slightly unsettling. The descriptions that Creta Kano has of her rapes is so forward and direct, which almost makes it sadder. She doesn't seem to express an awful lot of emotion about them, but states them as unfortunate matters of fact. The correlation between Creta's propensity towards getting raped and the water collecting that her sister does is not obvious and I don't have a very good interpretation for. Is water supposed to symbolize something's essence? Waters from different places are different because they have different essences? But people can also have water within them, so is that supposed to be their soul? And what does this have to do with Creta being raped? It is clear to me that Murakami doesn't endorse the idea that the rapes are Creta's own fault but why is it that Creta could only hear the water within her once she died at the hands of her oppressor's ghost? Maybe there are no answers to these questions, but I do find it all quite puzzling. 

Kawakami Short Stories

These stories are interesting because of the way that the "Neighborhood" seems to be cut off from the rest of the world, and I was caught off guard whenever there was a place like New York that was brought up. Perhaps it was because the town as well as the neighboring town were not given names, and perhaps it was the mixture of magical elements that made the story seem cut off from reality. 

Remarks from Twelve Translators 

In this interview, many of the translators spoke on what it means to translate "voice." I found this to be particularly interesting, because voice is something that is spoken about often in writing, and is seen to be of great importance. However, it is true that what voice actually is is hard to pin down, and with translation, voice must be paid attention to even more in order to ensure that the essence of the piece is preserved. I liked what Asa Yoneda said about reading out loud, because it is something that I often do with my own writing to make sure that what I have written on the page will work in the minds of the reader. For Yoneda, they read out loud in order to try and capture that essence and recreate it in translation. 

Interview with Ted Goosen

I found it interesting that Goosen talks about how thinking about the genre of magical realism is a Western phenomenon. In Japanese literary tradition, the merging of dreams and reality is not seen as a genre in itself, and is more common. I also find it quite poignant when he talks about how the term "women's literature" is way too large a category. Even terms like "the female voice" don't seem to make sense now that there are so many women from different walks of life who are writing. 

Marina Gonzalez 01/30 Response

I enjoyed reading Ted Goossen's translation of Murakami and Kawakami, especially his interview effects. Having studied publishing and now being able to peak into the translation world, I understand how frustrating it can be to box literature into very limited categories. I think this problem has mainly been caused by publishers, bookshops, and the public. I think it's time to rethink these categories and their negative impact on authors and the source text's source culture. Ted Goossen expressed in his interview with Lindsay Sebel that he hated categories such as "magical realism" or "women's literature" because these categories meant something different in all cultures, and I would venture even further and say that they also mean entirely different things in other moments in time. I do think that categories such as those can cause more harm than good by creating or reinforcing stereotypes and also by forcing authors to fit into categories that might not even speak to their work. 

Brennan Corrigan 1/30 Response

 I greatly enjoyed Ken Liu's talk on his two case studies in translation. One of the moments that stuck out to me was when he said that, for most people living today, modernity is a translated experience. This is definitely true for the indigenous South African man he mentioned in his talk, who claimed to have no words for many modern things in his indigenous language. Ken went on to say that this is also true for speakers of Germanic languages, since our words for modernity are Greco-Latinate. However, I think there is a difference between a "translated experience" and the etymological facts of English. First of all, many native English speakers don't know the difference between descent and borrowing, (that English is directly descended from Latin is a misconception I have heard many times) and probably could not pick out of a sentence which words are Latinate and which Germanic. Ken Liu even pointed out the fact that Jack London got this point wrong in An Unparalleled Invasion. I personally didn't start considering modernity to be a "translated experience" until I started studying Latin, and entering the upper levels of academia where my modern information technology was primarily being used to access the works of the ancient and medieval past.

As to Ted Goosen, I was interested in his opinion on using the term "magical realism" to describe anything Japanese. He seemed to think that because the Japanese stories to not fit precisely into the Western categories, the term should be abandoned entirely. I think this represents a serious lack of faith in the Western reader, as if we couldn't account for the fact that Japanese magical realism will draw on some different traditions and conventions from those we are familiar with. There isn't anything wrong in my mind with taking a category word and applying it to something new. Doesn't that do a service to the category itself, by broadening and deepening it? By being included in magical realism, Creta Kano and other stories improve the genre. That is to say, as Lu Xun and Schleiermacher show, the translation improves the target language.

Jan 30th Response - Wesley

 

Jan. 30 Response - Gisele

       Ken Liu's talk was very engaging as a result of his charismatic personality and passion for literary translation. I found his entire perspective on translating really inspiring and I hope to one day obtain his level of security and confidence in writing. I appreciated the way he described translation as an extension of the original text rather than a word-for-word recreation; Liu made me realize that fidelity is much more dynamic than taking a metaphrase approach to translation. I especially liked when used actors and playwrights as an analogy for translators and writers, it put the process of translation in perspective. Translation as a "service" is a wonderful way to think of it, and I know intend on keeping that in mind for the future. 

    I've read "The Wind-up Bird Chronicle" before, in fact, it was the very book that introduced me to 'magical realism' and translated literature. As a result, I had some idea of Haruki Murakami's writing and his habit of over-sexualizing women when I began reading "Creta Kano." Therefore, his overt descriptions of sexual violence, though shocking at first, unfortunately, didn't seem uncharacteristic of Murakami. Aside from that, I think Gitte Hansen's decision to refer back to "The Wind-up Bird Chronicle" for Creta Kano's name was really interesting, not only because it as it was a nice example of collaboration, but also because it probably contributed to consistency throughout Murakami's Engish translations. I knew I'd recognized the name "Creta Kano," and after reading the translator's note I felt a wave of satisfaction come over me when he mentioned her appearance in "The Wind-up Bird Chronicle," an experience I am sure many of Murakami's readers must have as a result of Hansen's well thought out decision.  

    Personally, this was my first introduction to Hiromi Kawakami's work—and I loved it! I found her stories incredibly funny and beautifully absurd. As pretentious as that sounds I really have no other way to go about it—her writing was incredibly engaging. In reading Kawakami's work I began to wonder what the process of translating "absurdity" is like—do translators ever question what they've just read? Does having such an out-of-this-world setting and characters make it difficult to find the right words to create the same feelings and sensations one might get from the original? Having Ted Goossen's interview alongside the stories helped me understand how I should read Kawakami's work, had I not had them I might've been inclined to question things, like the timeline or fantastical characters, that were supposed to be accepted as part of the collection's dreaminess.

Ted Goossen Response by Suis

Ted Goossen’s comment about time in regards to Kawakami’s works interested me:

“The issue of time in general pertains not just to Japanese literature, but also to Japanese film and to many non-Western cultures in various ways (I’m thinking of the indigenous peoples of North America, for example). It’s such a tricky concept, and modernity has packaged and limited and boxed it; we’re all forced to accommodate time in a way that allows our modern systems to work efficiently. When it comes to literature, though, we’re operating in a somewhat different arena, and I think we take pleasure in being free from the dictates of modern, waking time. Kamakami certainly accomplishes that in this collection: if one tries to read it in a very narrow, linear way, it’ll be frustrating. We tried to rearrange the stories a little bit for the comfort of the English-speaking reader, but we didn’t want to do too much of that.”

I thought this also pertains to what Ken Liu discussed during his lecture regarding modernity as well as the dangers of categorization of non-Western literature. I read The Tale of Genji last semester for an elective course I took and this theme of nonlinearity came up constantly. Historians have debated on which chapters of the Genji were written first in order to fit it into a linear narrative. Same goes for Sei Shōnagon’s Pillow Book. However, these works were not read in a linear fashion when they were produced in their era. Furthermore, the Genji was written on scrolls, and one would be picked out randomly to be read on a given day. The themes within the story touch on the cyclicality of life; both the physical form of the written work and the themes within it were/are circular. Goossen says that it would be “frustrating” to read them in a “very narrow, linear way” and that is because they aren’t meant to be viewed through that lens.

Goossen also expresses his aversion to categorization. He thinks “that what Westerners have tended to call magical realism (starting with One Hundred Years of Solitude) has been a way of normalizing that which doesn’t easily fit into our categories” and that “feminism is [also] a bit like realism, too: there’s a different kind within each culture.” Ken Liu also encouraged a similar idea, that Chinese sci-fi should be read on the level of each individual author rather than as a genre. I think that there is a Western impulse to categorize foreign literature, to fit them in linear perspectives, but their labels serve to be reductive to (foreign) works that are richly different in their histories and cultures. That being said, I particularly enjoyed reading Ted Goossen’s translations of Kawakami Hiromi’s short stories, and his interview is a useful preface to such “nonlinear” works.

The collection of works are entitled “あのあたりの人たち” (The people from that area (unspecified area)), and Ted Goossen renders that as “People From My Neighborhood” because he feels a sense of “familiarity” with the characters in the stories via his experience translating the works. I have always felt reading his translations that he enforces a lot of subjectivity to them. (I will talk more about this in my presentation.) However, I think he did a wonderful job rendering the old man’s voice in “Electrician.” In the original Japanese, certain syllables are omitted in the way he speaks, and in the English translation, Goossen did the same thing by using words such as “ain’t” and “‘em.” I felt that he faithfully translated the Japanese voice into the English equivalent.

Lastly, I was very moved by Ken Liu’s proclamation that translation “is not apolitical” and that we should be “aware of one’s politics” when translating.

Jan 30 Reading Response - Rose

I found Ken’s talk extremely inspiring and well-informed, with a great balance of translation theory and relevant case studies. I loved how Ken broke down translation theory into spectra based on linguistics, culture, politics, and ethics, and he even used one of my favorite translation metaphors: acting and performance. I found some contradictions in his translation strategy, though, such as when he discussed heavily favoring “foreign-soundingness” yet chose to write “Uncle Wang” in "Tongtong’s Summer" instead of the sound of the original characters, which he said he normally does. On the other hand, he also justified his use of “topolect” before the talk, and I have to admit, he convinced me! When I asked him about “faithfulness” in his translations versus when he adds new content to a canonical plot and popular franchise like Star Wars, he mentioned that he does not conform, but he also does not “change the words.” I do see his own work as a reflection of this sentiment, and he made me feel at ease with my own worries about the evanescence of translating by acknowledging that a translation is “for the moment.”

While doing the readings for this week, I was honestly quite disturbed, which I’m not sure has more to do with the content or translations or my unfamiliarity with Murakami’s work in general. For example, I was alarmed by sentences in “Creta Kano” like, “I installed every available alarm system, surrounded myself with electronic locks, and hired a gay guard built like a gorilla” (111). I wonder how the guard being “gay” contrasts with the image of a “gorilla” or why that is relevant, and why victim blaming is included in sentences like, “I must be partly to blame” (110). Otherwise, I like how this story’s translation reflects collaboration, especially with the explanatory sentence about “Creta,” where Hansen looked at Rubin’s translation of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. I think that it was a creative solution to a challenge that echoed the novel's English translation.

When reading Goossen’s translations of Kawakami’s short stories, I was curious about the continuity between them. I noticed this specifically with the repetition of names like “Kanae,” “Michio,” and “Akai,” and phrases like “dog school principal” (although I’m not really sure what that is). I think that Goossen’s comment in Asymptote about the “dream-like quality” of the stories helps elucidate the connection, but I remain curious about the deeper meanings of the stories, which I hope we can discuss in class. I giggled when I saw Beyoncé mentioned in “The Formula” (139), although I find certain translation decisions to be questionable in their redundancy. For example, in “Electricians,” I question why Goossen chose to write “green three-sided triangular prism” (140) if a triangular prism already implies that the shape is three-sided. There is a matter-of-factness to the translations that make them seem like they are adhering to formal equivalence, but I like how renderings like “kunugi and konara oaks” (141) were foreignizing while maintaining ease of understanding for readers.

I also enjoyed the translators’ commentaries on voice, particularly those that mentioned reading aloud, using music to accompany the story, and finding people in real life who remind the translators of those characters. I was fascinated by Shibata’s comments on the difference between watashi, ore, and boku, so I wonder how common switching between variations of the first person singular is in translations of literary works into Japanese versus literary works originally written in Japanese.

-Rose

Jan 29--Ted Goosen response (Soren)

 As an enjoyer of surrealist art and literature, I highly enjoyed reading the Kawakami story, Mysterious Deaths. I loved the distinct characterizations of both the narrator and Kanae, and the mischief they casually got into together. Often times, the story would have me doubling back to make sure that I had read something correctly--the loose structure and borderline chronological insignificance is something I would love to see American authors experiment with more. I thought that certain phrases seemed to remain as faithful as possible to the original, reading a little clumsily, and yet other phrases and lines of dialogue seemed to read as if they were originally written in English. For the most part, Goosen seems to stick to a relatively faithful adaptation of the original text while making sure the characterization is as comprehensible as possible in English. 

Murakami's story seemed less character focused--though told through the lens of Creta Kano throughout, it maintained the short and concise writing style focused on external events as seems consistent throughout Murakami's other works. In short, the characters have things happen to them, and they react. Any growth we get is reactive, not proactive. This seems both appropriate and a little ironic; in a story about the brutalization of women written to highlight the struggles associated with womanhood, Murakami seems to remove much decision making and autonomy from the main character--something that I assume the translator has preserved well. 

An article about topolect

 Here is a link to an article by Victor Mair explaining the use of topolect vs. dialect. 

 What Is a Chinese "Dialect/Topolect"?
Reflections on Some Key Sino-English Linguistic Terms 

http://www.sino-platonic.org/complete/spp029_chinese_dialect.pdf 

 

Anna Elliott 

Wesley's response

 

What stuck out to me in Ken Liu’s Introduction is how diverse Chinese science fiction can be. The stories are vast and varied, just like in any other genre or in any other language sphere. What also resonated with me is Ken Liu pointing out that there is a tendency in the West to view the products of Chinese artist and writers through a biased lens, one that imposes Western ideals onto the artist. Liu urges the reader to see the bigger picture and to think about what these stories reveal about human existence and the problems we all may face. I really think I’m going to read more science fiction.

 

Tongtong’s Summer made me sob uncontrollably, which means the translation did a good job in conveying the emotions in the story. I like how Ken Liu rendered the narrative passages, the dialogue, and the protagonist’s thoughts, everything flowed well. I really appreciate how Tongtong’s thoughts were italicized. In Chinese, and many other languages, text is usually not italicized. I am not sure if they are in the original story, but I like that Liu has the italicized internal monologue. I loved that many interjections and sounds remain in the dialogue, such as “aiya” and “eh”, this contributes to the story feeling more intimate. Overall, I loved Tongtong’s Summer, it made me think of my grandparents.

 

I enjoyed reading Folding Beijing. It’s a fantastical science fiction story, but it’s discussion of pertinent societal issues also really resonated with me. The story alludes to the issues of classism, migration, capitalism, family, etc. I felt very connected to Lao Dao’s pursuits and the story (and translation) really puts the reader in the protagonist’s shoes. There are many parts of the story that address classism, such as the First, Second and Third Spaces, the struggle of trying to get Tangtang into a good kindergarten, the fight for migrant workers to secure a job and remain in a city they built., etc. I also really enjoyed the references to Beijing’s food culture and geography, as I spend much of my childhood there. The description of shops and stalls overflowing with piles of jujubes, cured meats, and other items really painted a vivid picture. Another passage that evoked some memories was on page 229, where the truck drivers admire the city view and the Sixth Ring Road ground rotation from outside of the Seventh Ring Road. The sight is described to resemble an island at sea, which sounds dreamy. You can sometimes see amazing views into the city from the Sixth and Seventh Ring Roads, views of vast flat land, skyscrapers poking into the sky, and tall mountains in the horizon. I think this piece demonstrates effective storytelling because it uses the plight of one specific protagonist to speak on larger global issues. 

 

Brennan's response

  I thought Ken Liu did an excellent job dispelling the myths around Chinese sci-fi. There are plenty of people in my own life who discuss Chinese science fiction (when they discuss it at all) only to wonder how much this or that element was censored, or what particular policies the writer is taking issue with. I'm glad Ken Liu decided to start off by encouraging the reader to think more broadly. At the same time, it is unfortunate that he had to do it.

One translation choice which struck me was the use of 'topolect' to refer to Grandpa's native language. I commented about this to a friend who is an avid Ken Liu fan, and they sent me an excerpt from Ken Liu's preface to Waste Tide:

"In Chinese, the contested distinction between languages and dialects is neatly sidestepped by the word fangyan—literally, 'regional speech.' I've chosen to follow the modern convention to translate this word as 'topolect' instead of the problematic and inaccurate 'dialect.'"

He doesn't go on to describe what is "problematic or inaccurate" about the word, or why he chose 'topolect' over 'regional speech', as in his literal translation of fangyan. The choice struck me as unnatural in the point of view of a child of Tongtong's age.

Otherwise, I liked the style of translation. I took special note of the phrases that were used to render descriptions of food, because in my experience with Vietnamese, it can be difficult to describe unfamiliar foods briefly but also descriptively. This was important to Folding Beijing, since food is a major symbol of class and upbringing. I was surprised to learn that "stinky tofu" is the standard English translation for a popular dish. 

Ken Liu Response -- Lianbi

    From reading these stories and doing research on him to prepare for my presentation, I find Ken Liu to be an amazingly well-rounded writer, translator, reader, and scholar in science fiction and story telling. His translations are wonderful--this is a very general comment I recognize, but I will say it anyway--always demonstrating his thoughtful engagement with the original text based on close reading. I might not agree with all his choices, but I can almost always see where he is coming from. Every piece of his that I have read so far has moved me. I felt like he was standing there by my side, reading carefully as I was, and contemplating on the process of translingual practices. I admire the effort he puts into translation even though he is an amazing and prolific writer himself, and appreciate so much his advocacy for Western readers to treat foreign literature as they are, by individual authors and works, not with regard to any overarching label and against certain expectations. He has articulated some issues that have been lingering in my head for a long time. 

    I love both of the stories assigned. "Tongtong's Summer" hit me hard. The translation reads very smooth in English, the humor in characterization is so well done, and despite a few additions and omissions, I think all the details of the original are well captured. Word play and thematic sentences are well translated with all nuances preserved. Instances of dialect, opera, dialogue are thoughtfully rendered. The economic and political thinking that shapes "Folding Beijing" were professionally translated, revealing the story's very universal theme of the humanitarian concern in capitalism and global competition. While Ken Liu does not domesticate any part of these stories, he also avoids rendering culturally specific expressions and idioms literally (a marked foreignizing approach); he usually translates the gist of the expressions, which I felt comfortable with. 

    I am curious about how this short story collection came about. I like the curation and I wonder if Ken Liu was the person who proposed the list, or did publishers play a role too. 

    

Audree's Reading Response — Jan 23

 Excerpts from Invisible Planets: An Anthology of Contemporary Chinese Fiction in Translation 

Introduction by Ken Liu

    Liu makes the point that "Chinese science-fiction" is an unhelpful and ill defined category. Anglophone science varies depending on when and where it was written, and so indeed the language itself doesn't seem to be that important of an aspect of distinction. The idea that Chinese science fiction exists as a homogeneous genre feels to me like a thought that comes from people who are ignorant to the culture. It makes me think of the psychological phenomenon that we tend to have where when there are members of a group that is not our own, we generalize it and seem to think that they are homogeneous while our group is diverse and complex. 

    Another thing I found interesting in this introduction was how Liu says that these stories should be looked at as stories not just about China but about people, the world, humanity etc. Writers don't only have the ability to write about their culture, they can also write about universal human experiences and say things with meanings that go beyond boarders.

2. Tontong's Summer by Xia Jia 

    The scene that struck me the most in this story is the scene when Tongtong first finds out about her Grandpa's tumor, and is crying in the arms of her mother. She sees the gray hairs in her mother's eyes, and nothing seems to make sense, everything felt "unreal." I found this to be very poignant, as it illustrates a child coming face to face with mortality. Coming face to face with her loved ones mortality. Her parents, her grandpa, these are people that she looks up to, and understanding that they will not be around forever is something that is hard to understand. I found this especially interesting because of the contrast with the robots, who are not moral, at least not in the way that humans are. It was really touching that the Grandpa's idea was to enable elderly people to help each other out via the robots, by sort of appropriating machines through which they could still be themselves. The robots never became personalities of their own, only tools to help humanity. 

3. Folding Beijing by Hao Jingfang 

    This story is ripe with social commentary, about class, about technology about corruption and our tendency to comply with things we don't agree with when it best suits our own interests. When Lao Ge is explaining to Lao Dao the plans that those in First Space have to increase GDP, it struck me as depressingly accurate. The idea the living is for the lucky. In this story, those who are more privilege quite literally have more time to live, a phenomenon that while not literal in our world, may as well be the case. The workers in Third Space are the backbone of society, but they have the least amount of time to live, they sleep while others get to enjoy life. 

from Marina

I first read Ken Liu’s intro to “Invisible Planets,” and I was so happy somebody put in words what I’ve been thinking for a long time when trying to “describe” what “Mexican literature” is all about.  I’ve been asked numerous times about what Mexican literature is, what Mexican authors talk about, etc. And until now, I couldn’t find a way to explain that Mexican literature is so different and, at the same time so similar to other “world literatures.” As Liu expressed, all authors touch on universal and atemporal themes because we are all humans. And at the same time, all authors focus on themes that are important to them for whatever reason. The difference resides in the author and their context, not geopolitical or geographical divisions. 

I also wanted to comment on how endearing and heartbreaking “Tongtong’s Summer” was. I almost cried! I loved Xia Jia’s creativity and imagination in approaching such relevant and important topics such as men vs. machines, age, family relationships, the language barrier in families, generational differences, and how to take care of the elder in a world where there doesn’t seem to be a place for those who can’t be physically or mentally independent.

I also really enjoyed “Folding Beijing,” but I think that “Tongtong’s Summer” really stole the spotlight for me. I can’t imagine how difficult it was for Ken Liu to translate these incredible stories. I wonder what the translator had to sacrifice in order to make everything work in English. 

Ken Liu Response - Suis

Ken Liu’s introduction to this collection of short stories is extremely important because it serves to dispel any “preconceived” notion of Chinese science fiction (and perhaps Chinese literature as a whole). He states that “it is far more useful … to study the authors as individuals and to treat their works on their own terms rather than try to impose a preconceived set of expectations on them because they happen to be Chinese” when asked to define the genre in contrast to its American counterpart (14). This reminds me of the idea that categories sometimes do more harm than good. Categorizing literature can aid in one’s understanding of it in terms of its genre but such labels can also reduce the work to the category. It’s great how Ken Liu strives to stray from categorization (and perhaps also stereotyping) and asks the audience to view these works without bounds. I think that Ken Liu understands the complex task of a translator and the burden he carries as an English representative of these works.

I was particularly interested in the domestication and foreignization of foods in the two works. In Xia Jia’s “Tongtong’s Summer,” Liu translates the dish “iced sour plum soup” and it reads as a clear attempt to domesticate the dish (118). It stuck out as a little awkward to me because although I understand each of those words individually, I am not familiar with the dish. I can see why he chose not to use the Chinese name for it as it would have been entirely foreign to me, and perhaps to most American readers. However, in Hao Jingfang’s  “Folding Beijing,” he uses “chow mein” (261). This reminds me of the effects of globalization and how some dishes are more recognizable than others due to this phenomenon. I find this interesting and I wonder what determines which dishes become recognized by their original phonetic name and which ones don’t. (Popularity? Pronunciation?) Other examples: he domesticates “sour rice noodles” (221-222) but uses the Japanese term “sashimi” (242).

I was also enchanted by the way he translates the beautiful descriptions of the sky in this novel. The sky, I observe, is an important detail in “Folding Beijing” as it describes the passing of time and more importantly, the privileges of each class (or “Space”). The sky is described most beautifully for the First Space: The sky was a deep and pure azure, with an orange fringe at the horizon, decorated with thin, slanted wisps of cloud” (238). This description conveys the elegance that the First Space is further described with later by use of the terms “fringe” and “decorated.” The language is also delicate, keeping with the theme. Translating literature requires intention. It requires understanding of literary devices and what descriptions are conveying. Although I don’t know the original, I am sure that Liu translates these descriptions full of meaning with intent and understanding.

Suis

Soren Chang Jan 23 Reading Response

Hao Jingfang's tripart city, tearing itself apart to collapse and unfurl on itself, is the setting and also the namesake of her short story "Folding Beijing." As we follow Lao Dao, a man from the city's poorest sector, as he sneaks his way into the city's richer districts, Hao pushes us through the story from intense claustrophobia and sensory overstimulation into a sinister sense of serenity and calm built on the backs of the working class. Lao Dao moves from Third Space into the wealthier Second Space, and the jarring gap in the living styles and wages of those in poverty and the middle class illustrates just how severe the class divide is in Hao's Beijing. The people of First Space are clueless and insensitive, though not of malicious intent, and Lao Ge, the man he meets that had worked his way up from Third Space, is uncaring to the plight of those still trapped in poverty--outside from those he personally knows. The conversation Lao Dao overhears about a new development in machinery that could render his job obsolete creates a tension strikingly different than the one found in Xia Jia's short story "Tongtong's Summer," where innovations in healthcare technology foster opportunities for the elderly and connections between young and old. Tongtong's ailing grandfather experiences the growing pains commonly found in those of his age, with a body slowly shutting down and family with other obligations, with the desire to help the best they can but constricted by time and responsibilities. In the author's note, Xia dedicates the story to the elderly seen out living active and colorful lives, noting "that living with an awareness of the closeness of death is nothing to be afraid of." Tongtong's grandfather, grump and ailing, finds his passion and joy in life in spite of his age once more through a remotely controlled robot named Ah Fu. Tongtong develops a familial relationship with the man controlling Ah Fu, and through the robot, the grandfather is able to help people remotely, care for and interact with his friends, and flourishes in his old age rather than letting himself succumb to what so many elderly around the world do. Xia's world is one of codependence, where tech cannot be successful without human empathy and the quality of life is overall improved by the convenience that new machinery provides. Though the economic status of Tongtong's family is never implied, I do wonder which Space of Hao's Beijing they would exist in, and whether those of Third Space would be provided with technology as revolutionary as Ah Fu (I imagine the answer is resoundingly no). 

I also wonder if the fact that I read these short stories after having read the translator, Ken Liu's, introduction changed my perception of them in any way. He asks us to consider the works as almost independent of their nationality, and given the tendency for readers to entirely interpret foreign literature within their stereotypes of the nation, this is an entirely reasonable request. Literature, however, does not exist in a vacuum, and as important it is to read all works as global works, it is undeniable that authors are influenced by local, as much as worldwide, politics and culture. To find moments and nuances unique to Chinese culture within these texts addressing broader, more general contemporary concerns was special to my reading experience--to be gently reminded that we are all human working through the same questions, but that we each have something different and valuable to contribute. 

On Ken Liu: Jan 23 Reading Response

I was introduced to Ken Liu in 2017 when I read The Legends of Luke Skywalker because I’m a big Star Wars fan. I wasn’t familiar with his other work at the time, but the novel was so enjoyable, hilarious, and at times heart-wrenching that I fell in love with his writing style. After reading the short stories for the week, I see a similar style in Liu’s translations as I do in his own work, which speaks to the translator's ability to also serve as a writer. I particularly enjoyed his introduction to Invisible Planets, where he noted that “science fiction is the literature of dreams” (14). 

I carried this phrase with me as I observed the cautious, detail-oriented decisions Liu made in his English-language translations of Xia Jia’s “Tongtong’s Summer” and Hao Jingfang’s “Folding Beijing.” For example, in his translation of “Tongtong’s Summer,” Liu establishes Tongtong’s initial unease around her grandfather with adjectives like “long, bushy” to describe eyebrows that “stuck out like stiff pine needles” (113-114). The phonetics of these words play with the image Liu paints, contrasting with the deep affection that Tongtong holds in the last line: “when you wake up, everything will be all right” (130). What I thought would be a social commentary on technology's dangerous, exponential growth turned out to be a heartwarming, tender story. I think that choices like keeping “erhu” (124) in the translation and the rendering of “Rainbow Bear Villiage” (127) added great depth to the story, and I’m wondering about Liu’s overall approach to domestication and foreignization in these stories. 

In “Folding Beijing,” I saw Hao Jingfang’s “fabulism and sociological speculation” that Ken Liu mentions in the intro. I noticed it toward the end where Lao Ge explains the class segregation and economic division between the First Space, Second Space, and Third Space, as well as how the First Space “caught up to Europe and America” (255). I wish the story were longer so readers could dive into these issues, but that’s not a statement on the overall translation. Like in “Tongtong’s Summer,” Liu is careful in his word choice so readers can enter this world. For example, I would love to see the original for the rendering, “As soon as he entered, he felt the flavor of the past hanging in the air” (224). Many of these lines are poetic in how they play with the senses and a higher, literary register. I am also interested in how Liu translates markings of time since they are a large part of the story, especially in how exposure to the earth’s surface for the different spaces can be another status symbol. For example, Liu writes “ten after six” and “twenty after six,” and then “six thirty,” “six forty,” and “six forty-five” (258-260), so I’m curious about the original and how time is generally told in Chinese. On a more general note, Ken Liu’s diverse professional background in law, consulting, and programming impresses me, and I wonder how these areas tie to his work now as a full-time writer and translator. I’m looking forward to Lianbi’s presentation tomorrow and Ken’s talk on Friday!

-Rose

Gisele Sanchez - Jan 23 Reading Response

Ken Liu- Introduction

    I am not an avid reader of science fiction, so having a "guide" by the author about how to approach Chinese science fiction in particular was really helpful. While I was reading Ken Liu's introduction, I started to think about the Chinese premodern strange tales are often portrayed as representations of societal fears and insecurities that otherwise went unspoken. I thought the same might be possible for modern Chinese science fiction. However, something Liu mentions is that rather than boxing in Chinese science fiction as a commentary on Chinese society alone, or the Western perspective of Chinese society, Chinese science fiction should be read and analyzed as literature that is speaking to the world as a whole. I hadn't realized how analyzing foreign literature only within the reach of its originating country innately applies a kind of restraint on the narratives. 

Xia Jia- Tongtong's Summer

    I thought of my own childhood alongside Tongtong's descriptions of how she spent her days in Summer, and for that reason, "Tongtong's Summer" felt less threatening than other science fiction stories involving robots that are eerily similar to humans. The final scene was especially touching for me; even though the initial image of a teddy bear's chest rising and falling with life was a bit unnerving, after a while I found the idea of Tongtong caring for her grandfather in her own way was a very sweet sentiment. Considering technology is often a point of contention between the older and younger generations, this story alongside the author's note at the end brought the two sides of life nicely together even in a visibly changing world. 

Hao Jingfang- Folding Beijing

    Reading this story felt like the dystopian novels I used to love as a preteen, and as a result I kept waiting for a familiar revolution to happen. In the end I guess what made this story hit so hard was that nothing did happen, instead, despite the big reveal of a broken and strategically manufactured system that kept the poor poor and the rich rich—life went on as it had. There too seems to be a prioritization of human relationships and love over status which I found interesting. 

Welcome to the class blog!

 I am looking forward to reading your impressions of the assigned readings and Friday lectures.

Anna Elliott