弁言 Foreword

Preface

使Life is inherently joyless; the only hours that afford one even a little ease are those spent lying in bed—but within that brief

生本不乐,能够使人觉得稍微安适的,只有躺在状上那几小时,但要在那短促

span of time, to hope for perfect bliss is likewise impossible.

的时间中希冀极乐,也是不可能的事.

Ever since entering the world, I have repeatedly met with upheaval and hardship, wandering from place to place, and have never lain down to sleep with an unburdened heart. When sleep would not come, I took those things in my mind, half recollection and half reverie,

自入世以来,屡遭变难,四方流离,未尝宽怀就枕.在睡不着时,将心中似忆似想

and recorded each impression as it arose;when sleep did come, my soul would sometimes leave its mortal shell and lead me to the land of memory, there to pass those drifting days; all the more

的事,随感随记;在睡着时,偶得趾离过爱,引领我到囘忆之乡,过那游离的日子,更不

was I compelled to record them whenever I awoke. Accumulated over days and months, they became this little volume. Because they are jumbled and manifold, without the least connecting thread, I have named it Spiritual Rain on an Empty Mountain.

得不随醒随记.积时累日,成此小册.以其杂沓纷纭,毫无线索,故名空山霝雨.

January 25, Year Eleven — Luohuasheng

十一年一月二十五日 落华生

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What it’s about

Xu Dishan opens by refusing the usual promise that a book will offer order or pleasure. Life, he says, is not naturally happy; even the few hours spent in bed bring no guarantee of ease. During years of upheaval and travel he could rarely lie down with a quiet mind. When sleep would not come, he wrote whatever memories and thoughts happened to rise; when dreams carried him into the country of recollection, he wrote again on waking. The collection therefore begins in insomnia, displacement and the involuntary return of experience rather than in a carefully announced program.

The foreword explains the title by describing these records as confused, crowded and without a thread. Empty mountain and spiritual rain are not a setting that will organize everything, but an image for a mind receiving scattered impressions. The miniature also establishes the book's intimate scale: a bodily circumstance, sleeplessness, produces a form made of fragments. Its closing date and the signature Luohuasheng make the page feel like a private note offered to readers, while its bleak first sentence prevents the lyrical landscape imagery of later pieces from becoming easy consolation.

When it was written 背景

The foreword is dated 25 January of the eleventh year of the Republic, or 1922, and bears Xu Dishan's pen name 落華生, an older spelling of the name usually written 落花生. The Commercial Press collection published in 1925 gathered short prose written across the early May Fourth years, when the vernacular essay was still an unusually flexible form: memoir, prose poem, parable and philosophical dialogue could sit together without firm generic borders. Readers should notice the period use of 底 where modern standard writing generally uses 的, as well as the deliberately elevated compounds around dreams and memory. The title appears in the source printing as 空山霝雨; this edition normalizes the rare 霝 to 靈.

Words in this chapter 生词