同樣是秋天， 李白和Keats的浪漫如何不同？

中國：秋天和猴子都是悲傷的
Anyone who is happy enough to have leafed through a volume of Tang poetry will be familiar with the imagery of apes wailing from the canopies of misty forests. This literary trope is often used as a proxy for the poet's own woes. Take "Climbing High" by Dufu for example:

Excuse the maverick translation, but it serves the point well enough. The forlorn apes set the somber tone of the poem, howling above a restless landscape. Scenes of this kind are excessively common throughout Tang and later poetry. Sometimes I think that, in the history of world literature, there has been no sadder animal than the ape.

In rushing winds, under lofty skies, an ape moans with grief. Above sandy islets of unsullied white, birds fly home. The hush, the hush of falling leaves, all encompassing. The surge, the surge of the great river, ne'er weakening. In the boundless sorrow of autumn, I'm ever abroad. Old and often ill, I scale a terrace alone. My temples are whitened by regrets and travails. Wretchedly, I forego my usual cup of cloudy ale.

登高 杜甫
風急天高猿嘯哀，渚清沙白鳥飛回。 無邊落木蕭蕭下，不盡長江滾滾來。 萬里悲秋常作客，百年多病獨登臺。 艱難苦恨繁霜鬢，潦倒新停濁酒杯。

Excuse the maverick translation, but it serves the point well enough. The forlorn apes set the somber tone of the poem, howling above a restless landscape. Scenes of this kind are excessively common throughout Tang and later poetry. Sometimes I think that, in the history of world literature, there has been no sadder animal than the ape.

Westerners who first come across Chinese poetry are often surprised by how consistently autumn is treated as the season of lament. Almost every major Chinese bard has indulged in this sentiment. In Libai's "Recalling the Past while Moored at Night by Niuzhu Mountain," there is no mention of primates, but the timbre of the poem is sober enough. 

Night settles on the river west of Niuzhu Mountain, The sky is dark blue and not a cloud is in sight. From my boat I gaze up at the autumn moon, And remember General Xie in vain. I too can sing lofty verses, But he cannot hear me. When morning comes, I’ll raise my sheeted sail, While the maple leaves fall on and on.

夜泊牛渚懷古 李白 牛渚西江夜，青天無片雲。 登舟望秋月，空憶謝將軍。 吾亦能高詠，斯人不可聞。 明朝掛帆席，楓葉落紛紛。

According to my glossary, Xie Shang （謝尚）was a general of the Eastern Jin （東晉）dynasty, once posted to defend Niuzhu Mountain. He also ventured out onto the water to admire the autumnal moon and happened to hear a 'poem on history'（詠史詩）recited by Yuan Hong （袁宏）, whom he immediately recognized as a genius. The brilliance of Libai's verse lies in the prism formed between the allusion and the image. Yuan, who features here only elliptically, recited a poem dwelling on the past. Libai mirrors his act, just as we imagine the clear moon mirrored on the water's surface. But Xie is no longer alive to appreciate Libai's talent and tomorrow he will part, dejected, through a landscape shaded with sorrow. In a few simple lines, we discover the more complex interplay of history, time, personality and place. This is the signature of the Tang poem.

濟慈的《秋頌》告訴你秋天有多美
Autumn is not the subject of as much verse in English as in Chinese. There is, however, one poem that is known to all school children and most adults with a memory untarnished by too much alcohol. This is "To Autumn" by John Keats.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

There is no room here to include the full poem, but you will readily observe that it is a celebration of autumn. The meter runs fast and quite merrily through its string of imagery, as if breathlessly counting the blessings of the season. "And still more," Keats exclaims. The joys of autumn are inexhaustible. There is no desolation of nature on display here. All the verbs are rich and appetizing: load, round, bend, swell, plump. We are in the time of gluttonous harvest. And yet there is a hazy melancholy to the piece. While writing, Keats was beset by financial troubles and ill health. He was to die only a year later. Fruit, once ripe, must necessarily rot. Poetry endures, but poets never do.

柏林動物園憶唐詩--無聲的哀鳴
While studying in Taipei, my local friends would often protest the island's lack of wintry romance. But it was autumn that I missed the most. Snow is a pleasure for one hour and a pain for days thereafter. Red leaves are by far the more preferable form of precipitation. Now I live in Berlin, which has the full benefits of each season. In the last weekend of October, I walked out into the clear air and waded, through drifts of leaves, along the avenues leading east. Before long, I found myself standing outside of the zoo. Having bought a ticket, I wandered idly between the caged attractions. Hyenas paced restlessly in their compound. Two elephants greeted each other with tender, fondling trunks. Proud giraffes snorted, like bored royalty at a dull banquet. Walking further, I paused before the incarcerated apes. They sat peacefully behind their bars, watching their distant cousins, the homo sapiens, with an indifferent gaze. I sat down on a neighbouring bench. The leaves were falling swiftly in the wind. Autumn had never been finer. But none of the apes wailed. Still I waited, as the sun set and the leaves fell on and on.■

本文收錄於英語島English Island 2015年12月號
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