Working on the translation of a French poem, I thought about dad. I saw him, surrounded by piles of old books, writing notes on the margins of the yellowing page with an ink pen and, occasionally, sounding a word or two of the text that he was reading. For hours, he seemed to be in a different world all by himself.
Despite of the decades between us, dad and I shared an innate appreciation for each other. As a kid, I knew that he was working on something meaningful, something that, at least to him, was worthy of years of effort.[1] In many ways, I wished to be like him, knowledgeable and devoted to his work. Often, I pondered how I would be when, one day, I would be of his age. Because of dad, I took academic study of music seriously; because of dad, I maintained great interests in language and literature.
Finally, I caught up with him. I am at the same age as dad was when I was born. I love playing with words, just like him. I love tracing the roots of words, turning them inside out, and sounding them, just like how dad used to do. I envision how each word effected composers, either with its sound or with the image it conjured—be it beauty or atrocity.
I also began to understand the ideal that sustained him through years of labor, seemingly unrewarded. Words were, for him, tools of bridging times and cultures. He was chasing the universality of humanity. These days we have a fancy word: cross-culture.
Fancy, nevertheless, does not mean easy. Ironically, the business of connecting people and cultures is a lonely one. People have lives to live and works to do. Understanding a foreign culture is hardly anyone’s priority. From time to time, we encounter someone from a different part of the world and become interested in knowing his/her culture. Right away, we realize it takes patience, diligence, and persistence to learn the history, the tradition, and the language of an unfamiliar land. It also forces one to be open-minded, to not object to something that we might find strange.
Last year, a new acquaintance asked about my father. Right away, her reaction was: “What was he doing teaching German in Taiwan?” I didn’t try to explain. Instead, I was wondering what she might have said about American scholars teaching Chinese at an Ivy League school.
I cannot fathom the profound loneliness that dad must have felt in those years. If he were around, I would have told him that we could share the burden together. I would have said to him that I were lucky. In addition to words, I also have music as a tool of expression.
Would it be possible for me to share my understanding of Western culture with young people in Taiwan? Vice versa, would it be possible for me to interest more Westerns with my traditions? I know that dad would have approved of my wishes.
[1] Dad’s translation of Faust in prose was first published in 1935 in Shanghai. The revision in verse form was published in 1978 in Taipei. He wished to stay as close as to the original work in style as well as in structure.