Explore Chapter 1 of 'Sinking' with the original Chinese text, English translation, detailed Chinese vocabulary explanations, and audio of the Chinese original. Listen and improve your reading skills.
His precocious disposition had pushed him into a state of utter incompatibility with the rest of the world. The barrier standing between him and others was being built ever higher. Day by day, the weather grew cooler. It was now almost a fortnight since his school had reopened. The date was the twenty-second of September.
The sky was a pure, boundless blue, cloudless. The eternal, ever-new brilliant sun moved steadily along its course. A soft breeze from the south, like a sobering nectar, carried a faint fragrance that wafted over him in gentle breaths. Amidst the yellowish, unripe rice paddies, along the winding country road that stretched like a white thread, he walked slowly and alone, a six-inch copy of Wordsworth's Poems in hand. Across the vast plain, not a soul was in sight. From somewhere unseen came one or two barks of a dog, drifting melodiously to his ears. His eyes left the page, and as if in a dream, he gazed toward the sound. He saw only a clump of trees, a few dwellings, and above the fish-scale-like roofs, a thin veil of mirage shimmering and floating like the finest silk.
Upon uttering this cry, two clear tears welled in his eyes, though he himself did not know why. He stared blankly for what felt like an age. Suddenly, he felt a cool breath upon his back; with a faint rustle, a blade of grass by the roadside broke his reverie. Turning, he saw the blade still quivering. A breeze, carrying the scent of violets, brushed warmly against his pale face. In this clear, harmonious world of early autumn, within this pellucid ether, his body grew soft and pliant, as if in a swoon. It was like being cradled in a loving mother's arms. Like dreaming of the land of Peach Blossoms. Like lying on a lover's lap along some southern European shore, lost in an afternoon nap.
Looking around, it seemed to him that every plant and tree was smiling in his direction. Looking up at the azure sky, he felt the eternal, infinite Nature nodding to him ever so slightly. After staring motionlessly at the heavens for a while, he saw in the sky a host of little angels, wings upon their backs, bows and arrows on their shoulders, dancing there. He felt supremely happy. Unconsciously, he opened his lips and began to speak to himself:
"This is your sanctuary. All the mediocre people of the world-they envy you, they snigger at you, they make sport of you. Only this Nature, this eternally renewed expanse of blue sky and bright sun, this late summer breeze, this early autumn freshness-only these are your friends, your nurturing mother, your beloved. There's no need to return to that world and mix with those frivolous creatures. Stay here, in the embrace of Nature, in this simple countryside, and live out your days."
Behold her single in the field, You solitary Highland lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass, Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; Oh listen! for the vale profound Is overflowing with the sound.
After reading this stanza, he suddenly turned the page and, without rhyme or reason, skipped to look at the third stanza.
Will no one tell me what she sings? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of today? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again!
This was another of his recent habits-reading with no particular order. With hefty tomes of hundreds of pages, it went without saying; but even with slim booklets of a few dozen pages, such as Emerson's On Nature and Thoreau's Excursion, he had never managed to read one completely from beginning to end. When he first opened a book, after reading four or five lines, or a page or two, he was often so moved that he felt he wanted to devour the entire volume in one breath. Yet after reading three or four pages, a feeling of pity would arise within him. It seemed his heart was saying:
"A miraculous book like this should not be read through in one go. One ought to keep it to savor slowly. If I finish it all at once, my fervent longing would then have to disappear. Then I would have no hopes, no dreams left. How could that be right?"
Although such thoughts crossed his mind, in truth his heart had already grown a little weary. At such times, he would always set the book aside and read no further. A few days, or even a few hours later, he would again apply his full-hearted ardor, just as when he first began reading, to another book. The book that had moved him so deeply days or hours before would inevitably be forgotten.
Look at that girl, she is all alone in the field. Look at that Highland lass yonder, she is by herself, so utterly alone! She reaps the rice while singing endlessly there; Now she pauses, now she moves on again, her graceful form, so delicate and fine! Alone, she reaps, and binds the sheaves once more. The mountain song she sings holds a somewhat mournful air. Hark! Hark! This deep, secluded valley is wholly filled with the clear sound of her singing.
Can anyone say what it is she sings? Or do her countless artless words Sing of ancient sorrows, long past and unhappy, Or battles of bygone dynasties, with a thousand troops and ten thousand horses? Or are they common tunes of the streets, The idle gossip of everyday life? Or are they natural sorrows, inevitable losses, inherent griefs, These things that, though recollections of the past, will surely, in the future, find someone to give them voice.
As he uttered this, he found himself smiling faintly, quite without thinking. Looking about him, he saw the sun was already slanting westward. On the far side of the great plain, along the western horizon, a high mountain seemed to float there, bathed in the day's dying light. A hazy aura had gathered around its slopes, reflecting a vague, indistinct hue that hovered between purple and red.