We call this house a knocking shop, It’s cash up front or drawers don’t drop – I’m only in it for the money,
So take your “love” and beat it, honey!
Now get out! Scram!
In Iunn/Sung-lin Tsiu Sing leaves of his own accord, but in Chu-lin/Ng (Part I, qtns. 35-36) and Hsing-hsin the brothel’s proprietress calls on bouncers to remove him. When the toughs order Tsiu to go and he curses them, whereupon they beat him savagely.
Literal translation:
老蔥儂叫規房間 The madam called to all the house 無做事業閒閒閒 [Tsiu Sing] is an unemployed idler
講着肖拍大家興 Word of a fight aroused everyone’s interest
規陣等卜拍周成 They were all eager to beat Tsiu Sing (Chu-lin/Ng 23) Synecdochic translation:
When she heard Mi-a’s shout, The bawd called all the bouncers out.
The speaker who orders Tsiu Sing to go is unidentified in the original. I took that person to be the head of the bouncers, adding description to hint at his appearance:
Literal translation:
量早共我閃恰邊 Get out and be quick about it
唔通合儂店咧纏 You can’t stay hang around here pestering people”
周成听着面就變 Tsiu Sing’s face reddened when he heard this 罵因大家那牲牲 He swore at them all, calling them animals (Chu-lin/Ng 22-23)
The final line is different in the corresponding Hsing-hsin stanza:
罵因趁食查某生 He cursed [the bouncers], calling them sons of whores
(Hsing-hsin NMTL)
The Chu-lin/Ng and Hsing-hsin stanzas differ significantly only in their respective final
lines. In Chu-lin/Ng, Tsiu Sing calls the bouncers tsing-senn (牲牲; MOE: 精牲), a harsh invective in Taiwanese but one that loses much of its force in translation (“animals”). In Hsing-hsin, Tsiu Sing brands them “sons of whores” (趁食查某生 tan-tsiah tsa-bo sinn), a stronger insult when translated directly into English. Enraged, the bouncers attack Tsiu Sing. At this point in the story, the Chu-lin/Ng Hsing-hsin texts are virtually identical, therefore only Chu-lin/Ng appears below:
Literatl translation:
听佫應話迹酷刑 Hearing Tsiu Sing’s insult them so vilely
出手共伊拖咧舂 The bouncers dragged him out and beat him with fists 看汝有甲偌本領 “Let’s see how much ability you have now”
跤櫼拳頭拍無停 (Chu-lin/Ng 23) They beat and kicked him ceaselessly
一儂一下無讓手 One man, one blow – they savaged him in turns 簡那親像躂跤球 Kicking him as though he were a football 周成出聲就喝救 Tsiu Sing cried out for help
台灣流氓誠虎鬚 (Chu-lin/Ng 23) Riling Taiwanese hooligans is like tweaking a tiger’s whiskers
A synecdochic translation:
At the head of the mob, a big galoot, a thoroughly mean and nasty brute –
Tattooed with a dragon, a brow like Cro-Magnon, In manner aggressive and rude,
used language abusive and crude:
“Get the hell out and be quick about it!
We’re runnin’ a business – we’re in it for profit.
Don't come around if you ain’t got the cash, This cathouse don’t cater to indigent trash!”
His face aflame with rage and shame, Sing cursed the rowdies, “Sons of whores!”
The thugs came at him in rush, And drove him out the brothel doors.
They dragged him out of the bawdy house Onto the open ground,
With bamboo canes and clubs in hand The ruffians gathered ’round.
“You talk mighty tough but you’re one against ten.
Let’s have ourselves some fun, boys” said the leader to his men.
They beat him near senseless with punches and kicks, Hit him with blackjacks, cudgels, and bricks.
His ribs were all shattered; they’d broken his nose, Battered and bruised, blood covered his clothes.
Sing cried out for help but none was forthcoming, A wonder at all that he lived through the drubbing!
Better to tousle a tiger’s ruff than to tangle with Taiwanese hooligans.
The scene ends as Tsiu Sing, beaten and disgraced, goes to a river to drown himself as atonement for his shameful behavior:
The thugs had nearly maimed him Clubbed and caned him
But the thing that really pained him Was the way the woman gamed him Dissed him and disdained him.
“The fault all’s mine, I must admit – She set the trap; I fell in it.
Gotta find a way to leave this life, I’d cut my throat if I had a knife.”
With broken spleen and battered liver,
He dragged himself down to the edge of the river.
Sychecdoche: creative infidelity
In Robinson’s tropological model synecdoche takes a part and creates a whole.
Similarly, creative infidelity gives translators license not only to augment scenes but to supplement original texts as well. Further commenting on Mardrus’ Thousand and One Nights Borges wrote:
Mardrus continually strives to complete the work neglected by those languid, anonymous Arabs. He adds Art Nouveau passages, fine obscenities, brief comical interludes, circumstantial details, symmetries, vast quantities of visual Orientalism (44).
In Borges’ view, translators should be at liberty to work as Mardrus did, complementing or “completing” works their own additions and invention – after all, there are no definitive texts, only drafts.
Like The Thousand and One Nights, songbook texts also leave room for further creative development – although they are complete works in and of themselves, they tell only parts of the stories they record:
Kua-a-tsheh are written scripts for shuochang [liam-kua); the spoken parts are ordinarily omitted. The performers add or omit spoken parts as called for by audiences and occasions (Wang, Z.F.
54) [my translation].
Concrete details not present in the source texts – visual and tactile elements – show rather than tell readers what is happening in the story. Chu-lin/Ng and Hsing-hsin describe Tsiu Sing’s beating but I supplied his attackers with weapons, using hard, alliterative initial consonants (e.g., “cudgels,” “kicks,” “battered,” “bruised,”) to suggest the force of the blows raining down on him. The bouncer’s tattoo adds color (as does the blood on Tsiu Sing’s clothing) and his “Cro-Magnon” features hint at imposing
physicality. A sketch of the murderous servant Gong-thau:
The man was pure badness, an image of evil, Teeth stained red from chewing on betel – Chawing away like a cow on a cud,
When he spit out the juice it looked like blood.
Description brings sensory details into play; dialogue moves stories forward, offering insights into character and motivation.
Synecdoche: dialogue
Characters (角色) in songbook stories are flat or, at best, are presented in low relief only; thus, it is up to the storyteller – kua-a-sian or translator, as the case may be – to provide an illusion of roundness and depth while working within the genre’s formal constraints. Dialogue is one way of achieving that.
Iunn Siu-khing generates interest and excitement by voicing each character’s part, mimicking both male and female vocal qualities, modulating tone, pitch, and volume to express a full range of emotions. While a paper-and-ink translation cannot attain the same degree of expressiveness, written dialogue can advance plot and provide readers with an understanding of what motivates characters to do what they do. In the preceding section, the bouncer’s manner and speech are indicative of his character and social background:
“Get the hell out and be quick about it!
We’re runnin’ a business – we’re in it for profit.
Don't come around if you ain’t got the cash, This cathouse don’t cater to indigent trash!”
Coarse language and nonstandard grammatical usages suggest a surly, intimidating manner, marking the man as belonging to a segment of society in which such means of expression are the norm.
Gong-thau’s speech also defines him. Although he acted at A-mi’s behest and with Tsiu Sing’s tacit approval, he obviously took sadistic delight in poisoning Guat-li and disposing of her corpse. Here, he reports the completion of his mission to Tsiu Sing:
Flushed with wine and revelry, Gong-thau bragged of his devilry:
“I sent the baggage straight to hell, Dropt ’er down a dried-up well!
Boss, I swear upon my soul,
I tossed ’er in, then filled the hole.”
The flunky laughed a great guffaw – It was then the crows began to caw.
Dialogue also reveals implicit or explicit attitudes and emotions. Earlier in the story, when Guat-li spot Tsiu Sing in front of his place of business, she publicly identifies him as her husband. Embarrassed, Tsiu Sing denies the relationship, affecting the lofty register and supercilious manner he deems appropriate to his newfound status as a wealthy entrepreneur. The following scene is composite of four stanzas (Chu-lin/Ng, Part II, qtns. 95-98), the first of which is included below:
周成見笑面煞紅 Tsiu Sing’s face flushed red with shame 反講資本規百萬 He turned the talk to his riches
啥儂是汝兮親翁 Who is you husband?
敢是汝認唔着儂 (Chu-lin/Ng 41) Can it be you’ve mistaken me for someone else?
Tsiu Sing blushed, then said with a sneer,
“Your husband? Not I! You’re mistaken, I fear.
Out of my sight, calumnious wench!
You foul the air with your beggarly stench.”
Enraged at her husband’s denial, Guat-li curses him, reminding him that it was she who borrowed the money to send him to Taiwan. Passersby gather to watch as the drama unfolds – although the following lines are not found in the source texts, both Chu-lin/Ng and Hsing-hsin allude to the presence of bystanders at the encounter:
And now the crowd began to murmur,
“Is it true what she says?” “Should we believe her?”
Panicked that Guat-li’s claims might be taken for truth, Tsiu Sing loses his temper and picks up a switch, intending to drive her away. Still, he maintains the high register, lest he reveal that he too is of humble origin:
“Desist with you falsehoods –
Enough! Damn your eyes!
I’ll put a stop to your odious lies!”
He picked a switch to drive her away, Like a pestilent rodent or flea-bitten stray.
Before striking his wife, however, Tsiu Sing realizes it would not befit a man of his station to attack a helpless beggar when he has a servant to do his bidding; hence he orders Gong-thau to flog Guat-li.
After she is poisoned and dies, Guat-li descends to the realm of the dead, where she pleads her case before King Giam-lo, ruler of the netherworld. In a play on the two meanings of “underworld” – the afterlife in certain religious traditions, the world of organized crime in modern parlance – King Giam-lo appears not in in the guise of a stern imperial official, as he is usually depicted, but as a benevolent Mafia chieftain. The translation is a composite of source text stanzas (Chu-lin/Ng) and my own material:
She went down to place where souls resided, Where Giam-lo, Don of the Dead, presided, Ruler of Hell and its ghostly mob,
24/7 he was on the job.
He sat on his throne, dressed like a mobster, Drinking champagne and dining on lobster.
Wearing Armani and wrap-around shades,
A sign on the wall said “Welcome to Hades.” [eye rhyme]
Kneeling before the king, she reports on her marriage and murder:
“Eleven years we lived as one, The child of two’s his natural son The evil done I quake to tell,
My corpse lies down and ancient well!”
“Dead and gone before my time, Victim of an heinous crime;
A fate befell me most unjust –
In you, m’lord, I place my trust!”
Giam-lo listens and offers to mete out (anachronistic) justice:
The potentate nodded and said with a chuckle,
“Drop the ‘lord,’ just call me ‘Uncle.’
As for your hubby, we’ve already tracked him – I’m sending a wiseguy up there to whack him:
“I’ll see he gets what he deserves:
I’ll send him to a place reserved For those who deal in death – Stalin, Hitler, Mao, Macbeth.”
But Guat-li makes it clear that she prefers to exact her own revenge:
“He let his wife and baby starve While he enjoyed his wealth.
So, please, m’lor– er, Uncle, grant me leave, I’d rather do the job myself!”
I wanted to portray Guat-li as independent and determined, capable of taking her (post-mortem) destiny into her own hands. Just as she braved the dangerous sea crossing to Taiwan, so too will she venture back to the world of the living. Giam-lo’s transformation, on the other hand, came as a surprise to me, the result of doing what Robinson suggested – metaleptically playing around with the text. Like the “rap” verse seen earlier, this version may or may not appear in the final draft; I include it here as an example of the possibilities that are open to translators working outside of prescribed parameters.
Following the lead of both Dr. Mardrus and Iunn Siu-khing, I have tried to create scenes as an illustrator or playwright would, portraying sequences of events as they might play out in a drama or as a kua-a-sian might relate them to an audience. The overall approach is metonymic; at the level of stanza and scene, synecdochic, and to a lesser degree, metaleptic; creative infidelity and elements borrowed from the postwar liam-kua tradition were the palettes, paints and brushes, the means of putting the tropes into practice.
Some in translation studies would argue that creativity is “a province that belongs more properly to an original writer” and that “a translation must be a mirror image of the original, for which the translator has no business other than to make sure not to cast too long, too short or too oblique a shadow” (Zheng I42). Others, however, define the translator’s role as that of “inventive interventionist” rather than “faithful reproducer”
(Boase-Beier and Holman (14). Moreover, the original versus translation dichotomy, the hierarchical arrangement in which the original is accorded greater status and respect, has increasingly been called into question (Bassnett “Meek” 10-23).
As for the Tsiu Sing story, even if it were possible to “mirror” an original, what would be reflected back? Is there, in fact, an original? Each of the three extant songbook texts and Iunn’s oral interpretations are all legitimate versions (Wang, Z.K. 72-76).
However, none can claim to be the original because all are based on a folktale that evolved over time – each version builds on the foundation of earlier versions, and, as Wang Zhaofen has pointed out, no records have yet been found of the tale in its earliest form (53). Thus, all are Borgesian “drafts,” as are opera, television and film adaptations.
The “Tsiu Sing” songbook texts and Iunn’s oral interpretations are folk classics, part of Taiwan’s national literature. My translation is faithful not to a particular text but to the legend itself; however, working within that parameter, I found room for creative expression. I have been true to the essence of the tale, yet at the same time, I have tried to retell it imaginatively.
“Source-target” is another of Chesterman’s translational supermemes.
Traditionally, this has been viewed as a directional movement from source to target language (Chesterman 8; Pym 27), a misleading concept, says Chesterman:
[memes themselves do not move: they are not absent from the source culture when they appear in the target culture. They do not move; they spread, they replicate. In place of the metaphor of movement, therefore, I would suggest one of propagation, diffusion, extension, even evolution: a genetic metaphor [Chesterman’s italics] (Chesterman 8).
The idea echoes Moretti’s evolutionary theory – forms change as they diverge, producing new forms. And though a new form may bear strong resemblances to its antecedents, it
also possesses characteristics uniquely its own. For Moretti, a new form is a new branch on a tree; for Chesterman, a propagation and extension. Thus, I see my translation not simply as an English retelling of a classic Taiwanese folktale, but as another stage in the Tsiu Sing story’s evolution. Susan Bassnett writes:
the primary duty of the translator is to create a text in the target language that can be appreciated by readers and at the same time demonstrates respect for the source. But how to interpret respect is the interesting question. I do not see that a translator has to follow an original slavishly. Indeed, I believe that it is the duty of the translator to rewrite and to recontextualise whatever it is that he or she is rendering (“Interview”).
My translation, I believe, is respectful of the source tradition even as it reinterprets and recontexualizes it for a new audience in a new time and place.
Conclusion
If the translation is going to live for my reader, it has to live for me, and through me.
Douglas Robinson, Who Translates?
“Tsiu Sing” as World Literature
In order to cross over into a world literary canon, a national literary work must be received and read in other cultures, but translators have little or no influence on texts’
circulation and reception. They can, however, strive to produce translations with the potential to generate translational gain, one of the benchmarks of World Literature.
(Damrosch What Is? 292). So, at this point, it behooves me to ask: does my “Tsiu Sing”
translation gain more than it loses ?
Loss
Some loss is inevitable , of course – in ballad translation, the chief casualties are form and sound: the elegant symmetry of the stanzas and the beauty and texture of the Taiwanese language. Formally, the majority of songbook stanzas (in the genre’s mature period) are arranged as follows:
周成在厝 / 真有孝 卜別妻父 / 目屎流 台灣初次 / 則來夠
伊對淡水 / 起定頭 (Chu-lin/Ng 13)
Si Bing-hua 施炳華 divides songbook verses into two “units of meaning” (意義單位 ) (I
have added slashes to mark the division), an “upper-four, lower three” pattern (上四下三 句法) (“Form” 13-14). Carrying that syntactic arrangement over into English results in clumsy literality, a more or less word-for-word translation:
Tsiu Sing at home / very filial Leaving wife and father / wept Taiwan first time / just arrived He from Tamsui / came ashore.
If my purpose were to show English readers how Taiwanese ballads are constructed and function, a literal approach akin to that taken by in David Hawkes A Little Primer of Tu Fu51 would serve. However, the poems Hawkes chose to analyze and explain were all relatively short, whereas the Chu-lin/Ng text comprises 191 quatrains, and my primary aim is not to educate but to entertain. My translation of the above stanza:
At home in the village, a filial son, Sing wept on leaving wife and father.
At home in the village, a filial son, Sing wept on leaving wife and father.