Literature Live Around the World - Shanghai
-
I have dispelled all figments of / Truth in departure. When the silver bright rain of night / Imbues my garden with babbling glass / When stars fall into revolving buds / Bringing a crisp chill; when I know stars / Merely derive from Man’s pupils: those who on the ground collect light and void / Should in the sky etch light and void. The creation of stars / Originates from gaze: so steady, so precise.
-
Jeg har ikke flere unnskyldninger / for å dra på en reise, når det sølvfargede natteregnet / øser glass i hagen min / når stjernene faller som roterende knopper / og har med seg en frisk kulde; når jeg innser at stjernene / er født i menneskenes pupiller. De som samler lys og tomhet på bakken / meisler frem lys og tomhet på himmelen. Stjernene ble først skapt / i et stirrende blikk: så stødig, så nøyaktig.
-
Like før skumringen går redaktørene, den ene etter den andre, fra jobb. De samler skrivepapirene sine sammen i stabler, og med et knepp slukkes det oransjeglødende lyset under de grønne lampeskjermene. Kontorene mørkner. Korridorene som kobler kontorene sammen, blir tomme. På sitt sedvanlige tidspunkt kommer vakten frem, men et kultivert sted som dette har ingen skremsler, ingen farer. Innen vakten har tatt, på sitt bedagelige vis, runden i etasjene, og slukket alle lampene unntatt én i hver etasje, er natta blitt ugjennomtrengelig svart. Det lille bygget hvor forlaget har sine kontorer er fullstendig stille. I dette øyeblikket forlater forfatteren sitt rom, og går ut.
-
Before the first signs of dusk show in the sky, the editors start to call it a day, stacking the pages of their half-finished manuscripts and clicking off the green-lampshaded lights above their desks. Offices fall dark one by one. The corridors connecting these offices clear a floor at a time. At his usual hour, the security guard appears – this house of culture promises no shocks, no surprises, nothing to fear – and by the time he has completed one lackadaisical patrol of the building, leaving a single lamp lit on every floor, the sky outside is pitch black. The small building that houses the publisher has fallen absolutely still. This is when the novelist chooses to step out of his room.
-
The communal bins on this estate are horrendous in summer. They reek, especially around daybreak during the season’s hottest few weeks. Half-tied plastic bags of leftovers, fruit peelings and soup slops fester through the night and by morning the stench is everywhere. How to describe that smell? Imagine being on a packed bus in the morning, stewing in a fug of passenger sweat and armpit odour. Scallion-andegg breakfast breath is in the mix, along with the occasional muffled fart expelled into the aisle. You’re feeling nauseous and groggy, practically gagging on the fumes. Well, that’s how it is for residents in the ground-floor flats opening directly onto the bins – it’s like riding that wretched bus from the moment they get up. The smell of refuse haunts them while they’re brushing their teeth, while they’re having a dump and while they’re eating breakfast. On it goes until someone finally sticks their head out the window and yells: ‘Rubbish Man! Where the hell are you?!