Though translation, Taiwan has been exporting and importing literature and building literary links with the rest of the world.
The year of 1972, one year after Taiwan withdrew from the United Nations, was for many people in Taiwan a time of suffocating isolation. For Taiwan's literary circle, however, that year saw the start of The Chinese PEN, a major milestone in the process of connecting Taiwan with the rest of the world through literature. "We're the only periodical in Taiwan that publishes translations of Taiwanese literature on a regular basis," notes Kao Tien-en, editor-in-chief of the quarterly and chairman of the Department of Foreign Languages and Literatures at National Taiwan University. It is generally recognized by International PEN members, Kao adds, as one of the best publications of the London-based international organization, which was established in 1921. Indeed, when it comes to the effort to make Taiwanese literature accessible to the rest of the world, much credit should go to The Chinese PEN , which has introduced English translations of Taiwanese prose and poetry to the international community for three decades without interruption.
The Chinese PEN's unflagging efforts in promoting Taiwanese literature to the rest of the world is partly the result of the stewardship of Nancy Chang Ing, the periodical's editor-in-chief for its first 20 years as well as its major sponsor through the Hao Ran Foundation, established by her husband to support cultural activities in Taiwan. Ing, an avid lover of literature, not only helped Taiwan communicate with foreign literati at international occasions but also opened the door to many emerging translators, such as Howard Goldblatt, an American sinologist and a well-known translator today. "Taiwanese literature and many writers and translators owe her a huge debt of gratitude," says John J.S. Balcom, another established translator who got his start at The Chinese PEN.
Meanwhile, Taiwanese literary society is trying to establish another chapter of International PEN called Taiwan PEN, to promote the individuality of literary creations written in Taiwan. Taiwan PEN, a private organization founded in 1987, has yet to be accepted by the international body, which now has 130 centers around the world, including the Taipei Chinese Center that publishes The Chinese PEN. It is possible to have more than one center in one country or area, however, as is the case in the United States and China, and Taiwan PEN believes it is worth a try to join the International PEN. In the meantime, Taiwan PEN has just last year started to promote Taiwanese literature in translation, such as the works of the well-known poet Lee Kuei-shien.
The Chinese PEN, one of the earliest promoters of Taiwanese literature abroad, has in recent years been joined by a chorus of other voices. In 1996, for example, Taiwanese literature in translation got a tremendous boost when the Chiang Ching-kuo Foundation for International Scholarly Exchange (CCKF) began to sponsor the publication of 20th-century Taiwanese novels and poems in English by Columbia University Press, a prestigious academic press in New York City. The CCKF, established in 1988, is hoping that Columbia University Press will publish around 20 local works in translation by 2007. Meanwhile, the eight titles that have already been released have received considerable attention. Chu Tien-wen's Notes of a Desolate Man, for example, co-translated by Howard Goldblatt, was among the New York Times' "Notable Books of 1999" and the Los Angeles Times included it in its list of "Best Books of 1999." And another work in the series, Cheng Ching-wen's Three-Legged Horse, won the Kiriyama Pacific Rim Book Prize in 1999.
Another sponsor of the Columbia University Press project is the Cabinet-level Council for Cultural Affairs (CCA), which since 1990 has been working on a Chinese Literature Translation Project to drum up interest in the island's literature among foreign publishers. In total, more than 90 books have so far been translated under the government-sponsored program. Most of the works have been translated into English, but increasing attention is being paid to Taiwan literature translated into Japanese, according to Huang W-chung, who is overseeing the CCA's translation project. Since 1998, the CCA has launched several programs in collaboration with Tokyo University Press and five other publishing houses to translate Taiwanese novels, poetry, and aboriginal literature into Japanese. "In the past, literature from the Chinese mainland drew much more attention than Taiwanese literature from Japan's university students, but in the past ten years the latter is gaining ground," notes Huang, who was surprised by the warm reception he got when he visited Japan last June for the release of Hakka Women, an anthology of Taiwanese stories.
On the other hand, foreign literature rendered into Chinese is increasing in quantity and quality. In the past, readers were easily satisfied consumers, but now they refuse to keep quiet about mistranslations or awkward passages. According to Chen Yu-hang, the head of iFRONT Publishing Company, the new demands placed on translators have been beneficial to the publishing industry as a whole. As a result, there are times when translators themselves take the initiative to revise their works for fear of being criticized.
Chen also notes that the availability of qualified translators in languages other than English and Japanese--the two most popular foreign languages in Taiwan--is resulting in more accurate translations. "In the past, it was quite common to introduce a non-English work by translating its English version," Chen explains. "That created a gap between the original and its Chinese translation." The situation has changed since qualified translators in languages other than English and Japanese are so much more common now. Take French for example, Chen used to first search for a qualified French-Chinese translator before talking to a publishing company for reprint rights, but now he can ignore the procedure since he can always find people good at French-Chinese translation. "Meanwhile, French publishing companies are becoming more willing to add English introductions to their book catalogs, which makes it easier for us to choose books for translation," he adds.
Interestingly, Taiwan often relies on mainland translators. "You can find translators for a wide variety of languages in China," Chen says. "Many of them are retired scholars, quite available and willing to work for Taiwanese companies." Chen's publishing house has just launched a large project for translating world literature, edited by William Tay, a professor at the Hong Kong University of Science and Technology who has since the 1980s been helping to bring literature in translation to Taiwan. Under Tay's guidance, iFRONT will soon publish a series of Italian literary works expertly translated by a mainland translator. According to iFRONT's publisher, when Taiwanese publishing houses come across a good translation already published on the mainland, they sometimes simply adopt them for readers in Taiwan. "All we have to do is convert simplified into traditional Chinese characters and render certain expressions into the colloquial of local readers," says Chen.
In general, Chinese translations of foreign literature are not uncommon. One major reason is that it is hard for publishers to survive solely on books by native professional writers due to the small domestic market; as a result, local publishing companies have to rely upon Chinese translations of foreign works to make ends meet. Translations of foreign books generally account for over half of the new titles of most publishing companies, although among the translated books nonliterary works outnumber literary ones. "It seems literary works can attract readers' attention if the author is a big name," Chen observes. "So we're serious about adding to our literary publications a detailed introduction about its author, especially a good but lesser known one."
Events such as the Taipei International Book Exhibition (TIBE) have also helped familiarize local readers with overseas literature. Since 1987, the TIBE, organized primarily by the Government Information Office, has taken place 11 times and has recently become an annual event. It now claims to be the fourth largest book exhibition in the world--with 2,092 booths from 49 countries in 2003. Every year the TIBE sets up a section focusing on the literature of a specific country. This year's exhibition featured Czech literature, and writers from the European country were accordingly invited to Taiwan. Other foreign writers also attended, including Wole Soyinka, the 1986 Nobel Prize winner for literature, an author Taiwanese readers might otherwise have ignored.
Despite the improving literary connections between Taiwan and the rest of the world, there is much room for improvement regarding the island's literary globalization, according to some in the publishing industry. Chen En-chyuan, secretary-general of the Taipei-based Publishers' Association of the Republic of China, suggests that the central government should encourage a sustainable translation industry by supporting an outfit of professional translators that are commissioned to bring in foreign literature, as China and Japan have already done. "It's not easy to make a living as a translator in Taiwan," he says. "The government therefore should help create a stable environment for them. That's essential for the task of broadening people's horizons and enriching their spiritual lives."
Kao Tien-en of The Chinese PEN believes that nonprofit publications like his should receive more support from the government since they do so much to bridge the gap between the world and local literature. Indeed, by giving readers in other languages a glimpse at the literary creations of Taiwan, local authors are joining the ranks of "the world community of writers," in the words of the International PEN, and thereby giving Taiwan a distinct voice in an international literary dialogue.
Kobayashi's Umbrella
Publish Date: 06/01/2003
Story Type: ARTS; LITERATURE
Byline: LIN HAI-YIN
TRANSLATED BY ADELA JENG
Lin Hai-yin was born in 1918 in Osaka, Japan, raised in Beijing, and died in Taipei in 2001. A well-known writer and senior member of the Taipei Chinese Center, International PEN, she had written 18 books, including Memories of Peking: South Side Stories and Green Seaweed and Salted Eggs. "Kobayashi's Umbrella" is from Lin Hai-yin's Tung-ching Shu, [The collected works of Lin Hai-yin, Vol. 6, Wintergreen], Taipei: Yiu-mu-tsu Publishing Co., 2000. It was first published in English in The Chinese PEN (Spring 2002).
Adela Jeng is an associate professor of the Department of Foreign Languages and Literatures at National Taiwan University.
Note: The Japanese family name Kobayashi, when transcribed in Chinese characters, reads as "little Lin." And Lin is the author's family name.
It was fairly misty this morning. He was just about to go out the door when he opened the umbrella called "Kobayashi's" and noticed its ribs had parted company with its shaft, and the poor thing plainly wasn't going to hold together a moment longer. He turned to me, his face livid with rage.
"The kids ruined my umbrella again?" Dreading this particular look of his, I lowered my head over the desk, scribbling on the blank piece of paper before me and responding with a "dunno."
"Dunno?"
I could see he was exasperated at my response, and he marched out the door fuming all over.
Speaking of Kobayashi's umbrella. I'd have to go back to our romance. Umbrellas have played quite a role in the history of our courting.
To begin with, he had a rather exquisite black satin umbrella, which his brother, upon returning from advanced studies in France, had given him. It was among the "surplus material" awarded him, including a tennis racket, an ironing board, a bathrobe, and a couple of posters with Parisian nudes. He often called on me carrying this umbrella with him, and my naughty younger sisters would tease him in half amazement, "What's the umbrella for?" He'd point at a teeny-weeny black cloud in the sky and observe most seriously, "It looks like rain!" But as anyone who's been to Beijing knows, umbrellas and raincoats are not a necessity there, because all outdoor activities are cancelled in a downpour, and it rarely ever drizzles in Beijing. As far as I knew, the kind of umbrella he had was only essential to an Englishman in "foggy London."
But it often happened that whenever we were about to go outdoors, the skies would become difficult and block the sun with a dark cloud. Then he'd step into the yard with his eyeglasses on, and crane his neck at the north-western corner of the sky. He'd turn back into the house to fetch this black satin umbrella from a corner and place it by my handbag just in case it should be left behind. Alas, after a movie, we'd often be dazzled by the sunlight outside! The three of us--he, the umbrella, and me--would walk hand in hand and umbrella in hand in a most discomfited horizontal line along Duke's Well Avenue in the bright sunlight. Yet the worst of all was that in the movie theater the precious thing would be jammed between his seat and mine, and whichever way you turned, there was that long shaft with its Prince of Wales handle protruding right in your way!
Once it happened to be overcast again. Of course he insisted on carrying the umbrella as usual. I dared to bet that we wouldn't be caught in the rain. But he argued, "Better provide against a rainy day. Rather carry it with us than be caught without it. What if it rains? Lest we should be soaked like a chicken in the water!" I couldn't stand it any longer, so I answered, "In case it rains, I'd rather be soaked like a chicken!" While he was still mulling over it, I added one final word, "Take the umbrella and you go without me!" That was when he finally put it away so very reluctantly.
In the cloakroom of many public establishments, you'd see this thing more often than not. What indeed! "When people fetch their coats, we fetch the umbrella." Unfortunately, once after a friend's wedding, this prestigious French umbrella was handed to another guest by a confused cloak man, and we got a shabby old black cotton one in its place. And of all days it had to rain that day; we huddled under the tattered umbrella, with him all clammed up. He must have been deliberating to himself: "What if I post a note in the papers? People would sneer at the pettiness. What if I take it out on the porter? That would be just as pointless." But it would be a shame to discard the shoddy umbrella; soon it ended up in the servants' quarters for the old maid to carry to the market or to the outhouse.
After we defeated the Japs in the Second World War, they were deported home, and left sundry wares to be disposed of. So there we were, browsing second-hand stalls all the time for bargains. Come to think of it, we were the victors, weren't we? So how did we feel when we bought the leftovers off them? This "Kobayashi's" umbrella was purchased from Dongdan Market right at that time. It must have been a long time since he'd longed for another umbrella in the "British gent" style, so when he chanced upon this nearly brand-new umbrella at the knock-kneed stall, his fond expression inspired the peddler to put on a condescending air right away. He fondled it for quite a while, and at last he saw two Chinese characters on the shaft: "Lin, junior," my nickname back in the school years. And that did it: "Look, this is your umbrella!" Kobayashi's umbrella was thus turned over to us for a noble price.
I still remember how we speculated about the identity of this Japanese named "Kobayashi." We guessed Kobayashi might be a scholar, a rather short man in a black suit with his belt barely coming up to the belly button--that sort of Japanese, you know. Or could he have been a warlord? No, no way. A Japanese warlord would not carry an umbrella. Whatever this Kobayashi did, why didn't he even take his umbrella back home with him? He regretted it for Kobayashi, and of course he congratulated himself for it.
Kobayashi did not take the umbrella back to Japan, but he brought "Kobayashi's" umbrella all the way to Taiwan--by sea, by land, and by air. I had come to Taiwan first, and he didn't arrive until a month later. His fifteen-kilogram luggage was still at the customs in Keelung, and he got to Taipei with Kobayashi's umbrella over his head. The moment he came in the door, the kids greeted their dad who'd been absent for a whole month, but at the same time they cried out in amazement, "Mom, Daddy's come with nothing but an umbrella!"
He appeared somewhat embarrassed, pointing at the umbrella, "So hard to carry! Couldn't fit in the suitcase or in the bundle of quilts, so I kept it with me all the way from Beijing to Taiwan, good gracious me!"
Of course he must have jammed it between his legs on the plane, and slept with it in the ship's cabin!
Taiwan is a rainy island, so there's ample room for him and his umbrella to work out together. In two years' time, Kobayashi's umbrella has been broken and mended for heaven knows how many times, and this time it sure is beyond mending. I commemorated the purchase of Kobayashi's umbrella with a brief essay; now that it's passed away I'd naturally offer it a valediction. I congratulate myself that the decease of the umbrella does not count a great loss; what counts is our love growing sweeter as the years go by!
April, 1951
Copyright (c) The Chinese PEN, Spring 2002, pp. 30-34.