quinta-feira, 2 de julho de 2009

Os lagos da China

Visitei dois lagos na China, ambos dentro de universidades.

Um dos lagos ficava dentro da Tsinghua University:



O lago não é lá grandes coisas, mas ele ficou famoso porque tem um poema dedicado a ele (cuja versão em inglês está no final do post). Segundo meus guias turísticos, alunos da faculdade de direito da Tsinghua, o poema foi escrito pelo famoso poeta Zhu Ziqing na década de 20 ou 30 e hoje é leitura obrigatória em todas as escolas da China. Turistas de todo o país vêm visitar o lago.

O outro lago foi na Peking University, e chama literalmente lago sem nome.



Meu tour guide dessa vez foi um colega de Yale que, assim como eu, está se matando para conseguir tenure por lá (mas ainda assim achou um tempinho para fazer um tour comigo pelo campus).



Minha conclusão é que esses chineses entendem das coisas: enquanto o Imperador tem um jardim privado, os acadêmicos ganham um lago.


The Lotus Pool by Moonlight
By Zhu Ziqing (1898-1948)

I have felt quite upset recently. Tonight, when I was sitting in the yard enjoying the cool, it occurred to me that the Lotus Pond, which I pass by everyday, must assume quite a different look in such moonlit night. A full moon was rising high in the sky; the laughter of children playing outside had died away; in the room, my wife was patting the son, Run-er, sleepily humming a cradle song. Shrugging on an overcoat, quietly, I made my way out, closing the door behind me.

Alongside the Lotus Pond runs a small cinder footpath. It is peaceful and secluded here, a place not frequented by pedestrians even in the daytime; now at night, it looks more solitary, in a lush, shady ambience of trees all around the pond. On the side where the path is, there are willows, interlaced with some others whose names I do not know. The foliage, which, in a moonless night, would loom somewhat frighteningly dark, looks very nice tonight, although the moonlight is not more than a thin, grayish veil.

All over this winding stretch of water, what meets the eye is a silken field of leaves, reaching rather high above the surface, like the skirts of dancing girls in all their grace. Here and there, layers of leaves are dotted with white lotus blossoms, some in demure bloom, others in shy bud, like scattering pearls, or twinkling stars, or beauties just out of the bath. A breeze stirs, sending over breaths of fragrance, like faint singing drifting from a distant building. At this moment, a tiny thrill shoots through the leaves and flowers, like a streak of lightning, straight across the forest of lotuses. The leaves, which have been standing shoulder to shoulder, are caught trembling in an emerald heave of the pond. Underneath, the exquisite water is covered from view, and none can tell its colour; yet the leaves on top project themselves all the more attractively.

The moon sheds her liquid light silently over the leaves and flowers, which, in the floating transparency of a bluish haze from the pond, look as if they had just been bathed in milk, or like a dream wrapped in a gauzy hood. Although it is a full moon, shining through a film of clouds, the light is not at its brightest; it is, however, just right for me - a profound sleep is indispensable, yet a snatched doze also has a savour of its own. The moon light is streaming down through the foliage, casting bushy shadows on the ground from high above, dark and checkered, like an army of ghosts; whereas the benign figures of the drooping willows, here and there, look like paintings on the lotus leaves. The moonlight is not spread evenly over the pond, but rather in a harmonious rhythm of light and shade, like a famous melody played on a violin.

Around the pond, far and near, high and low, are trees. Most of them are willows. Only on the path side can two or three gaps be seen through the heavy fringe, as if specially reserved for the moon. The shadowy shapes of the leafage at first sight seem diffused into a mass of mist, against which, however, the charm of those willow trees is still discernible. Over the trees appear some distant mountains, but merely in sketchy silhouette. Through the branches are also a couple of lamps, as listless as sleepy eyes. The most lively creatures here, for the moment, must be the cicadas in the trees and the frogs in the pond. But the liveliness is theirs, I have nothing.

Suddenly, something like lotus-gathering crosses my mind. It used to be celebrated as a folk festival in the South, probably dating very far back in history, most popular in the period of Six Dynasties. We can pick up some outlines of this activity in the poetry. Then I recall those lines in Ballad of Xizhou Island:

Gathering the lotus, I am in the South Pond,
The lilies in autumn reach over my head;
Lowering my head I toy with the lotus seeds.
Look, they are as fresh as the water underneath.

If there were somebody gathering lotuses tonight, she could tell that the lilies here are high enough to reach over her head; but one would certainly miss the sight of the water. So my memories drift back to the South after all. Deep in my thoughts, I looked up, just to find myself at the door of my own house. Gently I pushed the door open and walked in. Not a sound inside, my wife had been fast asleep for quite a while.




Nenhum comentário: