Dreams and Illusions
You’re going to get upset with me for making a big deal out of something that probably seems insignificant. Trust me on this one, though. This is a big deal.
As I mentioned yesterday, the famous David Hawkes translation of 紅樓夢, titled The Story of the Stone, completely omits Cao Xueqin’s introductory paragraph.
You don’t have to take my word for it. I’ll show you.
Hawkes ends his introduction with this paragraph:
Note his “one abiding principle,” which is “to translate everything - even puns.”
Hawkes then starts the proper version of the book this way:
Of course, this completely ignores the paragraph that we went over yesterday. None of it is there. There’s no mention here of Zhen Shiyin or Jia Yucun. There’s none of the author’s brooding on the women he knew in the halcyon days of youth and the contrast those memories serve to his “simple hut and clay stove” (蓬牖茅椽，繩床瓦灶). There’s none of the conclusion that their “skirts and hairpins” were far superior to his “mustache and bears” (我堂堂鬚眉，誠不若彼裙釵).
This is a travesty. In fact, I’d argue that Hawkes’ omission represents a complete lack of understanding of what the novel actually is about.
Like I said — this might seem like making a big deal about nothing. But hear me out on this one.
What’s In A Name?
As I explained yesterday — and as most of you probably ignored — the first paragraph of the novel contains a direct reference to the symbolic nature of names in 紅樓夢.
Cao Xueqin mentions two characters by name in the opening paragraph: 甄士隱 (Zhen Shiyin) and 賈雨村 (Jia Yucun). The way both names are mentioned, however, indicates that the names are a pun — a play on words.
Zhen Shiyin’s name is directly mentioned in the same sentence in the phrase 故將真事隱去, or “and thus I took true things and hid them away.” In Chinese, it’s not even ambiguous: it’s exactly the same phrase. The name 甄士隱 is a homophone with the phrase 真事隱.
Similarly, the name Jia Yucun is also a reference to the self-depricating sentence that comes right before its first mention. Jia Yucun literally comes up in the phrase 我雖不學無文，又何妨用假語村言敷衍出來, or “Although I’m ignorant and am not particularly literate, what harm is there in using a few fake words and country phrases to fashion my tale?” The name 賈雨村 is a homophone with the phrase 假語村.
Note also that the four letter phrases 真事隱去 (hiding away true things) and 假語村言 (false words and rustic language) aren’t really idioms in Chinese — or, rather, they probably weren’t when this was written in the mid-18th century. These phrases are the invention of Cao Xueqin himself, and are likely used here both to tell us what he’s trying to do (create subtle literature to disguise his true intent and wrap his story up in invented language and colloquial speech) and to tell us how to interpret his book (the names throughout the book are plays on words).
Scholars far above my paygrade, such as the late Professor Anthony Yu, have commented on what they call the “zhen-jia dichotomy” in the book. That’s not a particularly helpful phrase for students who aren’t intimiately familiar with the work, of course. What these scholars are referring to is the constant contrast in the book between things that are real (zhen, or 真) and things that are fake (jia, or 假). And that’s the hidden meaning that Cao Xueqin is telling us here. He’s suppressing the truth — perhaps even his true feelings — and is emphasizing the fictitious to tell his tale.
Subverting Gender Roles
You can’t read 紅樓夢 without being amazed at how subversive Cao Xueqin really is.
Though it’s a somewhat politically sensitive topic these days, the truth is that the arbitrary nature of gender roles is nothing new. Dream of the Red Chamber is a novel about the interplay between men and women in society more than anything else. The women in this book are more than clever and sly: they are full fledged characters, people with their own hopes and dreams, unforgettable people with talents and strengths and flaws and weaknesses just like any in real life.
The denziens of Reddit would love the women in this novel. This isn’t “men writing women.” This is a full and unvarnished look at the reality of life, both good and bad — and is something that most modern authors would be wise to learn.
This is why I find Hawkes’ phrase “slips of women” so offensive. The phrase he tried to translate, 忽念及當日所有之女子，一一細考較去，覺其行止見識皆出我之上，我堂堂鬚眉，誠不若彼裙釵, or “I suddenly started to think about the women I knew in those days — and when I really thought carefully about them, I realized that their actions and insights far surpassed my own: my full mustache and beard cannot compete with their skirts and hairpins,” is anything but a reference to women as a stereotype. I’d argue that Hawkes’ mistranslation here says a lot more about his view of women than what Cao Xueqin was trying to say.
We’ll see the inversion of gender roles throughout this book. It’s one of those things that you simply can’t unsee once you start to notice it. From beginning to end, the women in this novel wind up being the victims of foolish men, and the victims of a society that clearly underestimates them. As we’ll soon see, the main character, the everyman Jia Baoyu thinks he gets it, and goes to great lengths to declare women his superior — but, in the end, his lack of respect for the women around him shines more brightly than anything he says.
Dreams and Illusions
I have great respect for the late Gladys Yang and her husband Yang Hsien-Yi. They worked tirelessly during the worst days of the Cultural Revolution to craft an acceptable translation of 紅樓夢. I’m proud to be the owner of a first edition of their English work, and wouldn’t trade it for the world, regardless of its value (or lack thereof).
The Yangs made me happy by translating the first paragraph. However, they also incited my rage by omitting the most important part, which is the final sentence.
This is the cryptic sentence at the end, the one that I’d argue even most Chinese readers would have a hard time grasping. It reads 更於篇中間用「夢」「幻」等字，卻是此書本旨，兼寓提醒閱者之意, and is properly translated as something like “similarly, the use of words like ‘dream’ and ‘illusion’ in this book reflect its main theme, and serve as a reminder to its readers.”
As I understand it, the combined term 夢幻 is a combination of Buddhist and Taoist concepts. 夢 is a reflection of the Buddhist concept Māyā (माया), which refers to the inherently deceptive nature of things (you can read more here if you’re bored). Similarly, 幻 refers to illusion and emptiness (think about Zhuangzi’s “Butterfly Dream” for example). Of course, you don’t need to be a scholar of Buddhism or a practitioner of Taoism to understand what Cao Xueqin is saying here. The two ideas are basically the same concept — that the things around us are illusory and deceptive, which, naturally, implies that we need to get to the real nature of things.
In other words, 夢 and 幻 are another way of reminding us of that “zhen-jia dichotomy.” Cao Xueqin is reminding us that the things in his book are fictional and fleeting — and that we need to search for that hidden truth (Zhen Shiyin).
One more thing, and I’ll stop rambling for today. The use of the word 夢 in that last paragraph also alludes to the true name of this book, which I am convinced is correctly termed 紅樓夢, or Dream of the Red Chamber. The 夢 part of the name is best translated as “dream” (which, of course, includes that idea of the deceptive nature of things, even if you’re Jung). 紅, or “red,” is a reference to 紅塵, a Taoist and Buddhist phrase referring to the mortal world: in fact, the reason why the color red comes up so many times in this book is because of that reference. And, as others have noted before, 紅樓 is another name for a woman’s bedroom (or boudoir, if you want to be French about it) — fitting for a book that focuses largely on women (as Cao Xueqin wrote, “可使閨閣昭傳, or “it can also help illuminate the stories from the bedrooms of those women.”) When all is said and done, the book actually is a 紅樓夢, and no other title will suffice.
Long story short:
The first paragraph is really important: it’s the key to the entire novel.
Other translators omit it, mostly because they don’t have enough time or space to explain it.
You cannot understand Dream of the Red Chamber if you skip past it.
Agree? Disagree? Is this boring? Please let me know!
Someone recommended Dream of the Red Chamber to me some time ago, maybe a year ago. I can't remember which translation they recommended, but it certainly wasn't your blog. I didn't get the book because it was unavailable where I lived, but to think that there was a chance I'd have read "slips of women" and blindly accepted that as what was being expressed – boy, am I glad I didn't read it then! The possible omission of the reference to dreams and illusions, too, in whatever version I might have ended up reading, would have deprived me of important context.
I agree that this first paragraph seems to be very important and I think it's certainly the right decision to translate it in its entirety. I like the translation and commentary which are very detailed and enlightening; however, I was curious about a discrepancy between the more literal and complete translation of ｢假語村言｣ in the commentary here (“fake words and country phrases” / ”false words and rustic language“) and in the previous translation post, where it was contracted to ”ordinary language“ (essentially leaving out the ｢假｣).
Was this perhaps in order to make the main text overall more comprehensible / less confusing (and relegate the 真<=>假 complex to the commentary), or was there some other reason?