《野草》有很多隐晦难懂的指代和情绪，即使了解相关的时代亦或是事件背景，也依然难懂，这应该是鲁迅先生非常私人向的作品。

His articles have never been out of day!

I know we have learned Lu Xun in Elementary School, Middle School, High School and University. We read him, studied him, worshiped him, praised him and recited him. But he is still, in my opinion, the most underrated author in modern Chinese literature realm.

Once a person reached the age that can be defined by decades, please read Lu Xun again and again. Each decade gives a different perspective. But this prose collection is just brilliant.

It was mostly about his dream. Is that THE Lu Xun that we learned ? Is it? The democratic fighter, warrior, poet or writer that we recite with one fist holding tight ? It is simply a wise person telling his dreams. His dream is the portray of the whole humanity, the society, all the creatures parasitising on this planet!

What a brilliant man! Who has ever said that the god who created the world is a coward? Then listed so many reasons that I cannot refute. Ten years ago, I would, but now, I am thinking, oh he is a coward, what a sharp eye!

In this small collection, one finds a real Lu Xun, a lifelike person that dreams, writes down his dreams, sighs, and lives on!

Incredible Book

重读确实是有发汗药的作用

4.5

Lu Xun. Wild Grass: Chinese-English Bilingual Edition. Trans. Yang Xianyi and Gladys Yang. Chinese University Press: Hong Kong, 2003.



When I am silent, I feel replete; as I open my mouth to speak, I am conscious of emptiness. (Foreword, 2)

Despair, like hope, is but vanity. (Hope, 36)

On the boundless wilderness, under heaven's chilly vault, this glittering, spiralling wraith is the ghost of rain....
Yes, it is lonely snow, dead rain, the ghost of rain. (Snow, 40)

The thing was completely forgotten, with no hard feelings. In that case, what forgiveness could there be? Without hard feelings, forgiveness is a lie.
What hope is there for me now? My heart will always be heavy. (The Kite, 46)

This was dead fire. It had a fiery form, but was absolutely still, completely congealed, like branches of coral with frozen black smoke at their tips which looked scorched as if fresh from a fireplace. And so, casting reflections upon the ice all around and being reflected back, it had been turned into countlwess shadows, making the valley of ice as red as coral. (Dead Fire, 68)

Though the wild thistle is virtually crushed to death, it will still bear one tiny flower. I remember how moved Tolstoy was by this, how it made him write a story. Of course, when plants in the arid desert reach out desperately with their roots to suck the water deep below the ground and form and emerald forest, they are struggling for their own survival. Yet the tired, parched travellers' hearts leap up at the sight, for they know they have reached a temporary resting place. Indeed this evokes deep gratitude and sadness.
Under the heading "Without a Title,<" in lieu of an address to the reader, the editors of The Sunken Bell wrote: "Some people say our society is a desolate. If this were really the case, though rather lonely it should give you a sense of infinity. It should not be so chaotic, gloomy and above all so changeful as it is." (The Awakening, 124)

Primeira empreitada que faço na poesia chinesa. Espero que seja a última.
Gostei de algumas coisas, não entendi algumas outras, mas é bem visível a carga sentimental melancólica e até meio pessimista.

Lu Xun (1881-1936) was one of the most important writers of 20th century Chinese literature, and considered to be the 'founder of modern Chinese literature.' He wrote in a variety of genres, and was widely respected by Mao and other leaders of the original communist movement in China. Much of his work has been translated into English, although I had never heard of him before stumbling upon this book.

Wild Grass (1927) is a collection of prose poems that date from 1924-1926, which was translated by Yang Xianyi and Gladys Yang. In the Foreword to this collection, Lu describes wild grass at that which grows from the abandoned clay of life, that which follows from the unhappiness of his past life. This grass is fragile and lacks beauty, yet it is full of vitality during its brief existence.

These prose poems cover a variety of topics: nature, friendship, personal struggle and loss, and betrayal and redemption.

A representative poem is this excerpt from "Hope":

My heart is extraordinarily lonely.

But my heart is very tranquil, void of love and hate, joy and sadness, colour and sound.

I am probably growing old. Is it not a fact that my hair is turning white? Is it not a fact that my hands are trembling? Then the hands of my spirit must also be trembling. The hair of my spirit must also be turning white.

But this has been the case for many years.

Before that my heart once overflowed with sanguinary songs, blood and iron, fire and poison, resurgence and revenge. Then suddenly my heart became empty, except when I sometimes deliberately filled it with vain, self-deluding hope. Hope, hope — I took this shield of hope to withstand the invasion of the dark night in the emptiness, although behind this shield there was still dark night and emptiness. But even so I slowly wasted my youth.

These poems are gentle and deceptively simple, which likely won't affect the reader on a initial examination, but will have greater impact on subsequent readings.

我不如彷徨于无地

其实这本像诗

Desabafos inebriados, para quem confuso está. Pequenos contos desconexos que mostram um pouco da cultura asiática.
A destacar o poema romanticopitoresco que surge na segunda metade do livro: palavras de amor com um toque travesso, retratando situações/decisões mal tomadas de forma leve e irónica.
(aqui fica-)