2. Lie Zi (Peking: Wenxue guji kanxingshe, 1956), Book 8, pp. 10–11.
3. It may be amusing to note in passing that the latest discoveries of modern physics seem to verify the oldest notions of Chinese cosmology. Discarding the theory according to which the universe was the product of an explosion, some scientists are now propounding the theory of an original “bubble”; according to these views, as a cosmologist from MIT put it, “it is very tempting to assume that the universe emerged from nothing… Possibly the most far-reaching recent development… in cosmology is [the] realisation… that the universe is a free lunch.” (Newsweek, 7 June 1982, p. 83.)
4. On this question, one should read the masterful essay by A.C. Graham, “Being in Western Philosophy Compared with Shih/fei and Yu/wu,” Asia Major, VII (1959): pp. 79–112.
5. The best study on this subject is still Qian Zhongshu’s “Zhongguo shi yu Zhongguo hua” in Kaiming shudian ershi zhou nian jinian wenji (Shanghai: Kaiming Shudian, 1947). I have briefly outlined Qian’s theory in Les Propos sur la peinture de Shitao (Brussels: Institut belge des hautes études chinoises, 1970), pp. 98–9 (new edition: Les Propos sur la peinture du Moine Citrouille-amère, Paris: Plon, 2007). A new version of Qian’s essay can be found in Jiu wen si pian (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1979).
6. This phenomenon was analysed with great perception and subtlety by François Cheng in his book Chinese Poetic Writing (Indiana University Press, 1982) — an admirable work to which I shall never adequately acknowledge all my debts. Later on in this essay, I also borrow freely from James J.Y. Liu, The Art of Chinese Poetry (University of Chicago Press, 1962).
7. See Wai-lim Yip, Ezra Pound’s Cathay (Princeton University Press, 1969), and more specifically, the very important article by Y.K. Kao and T.L. Mei, “Syntax, Diction and Imagery in T’ang Poetry,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies, 31 (1971): pp. 51–136. Like François Cheng (mentioned earlier), Y.K. Kao provides us with fundamental insights on the nature of Chinese poetry. Without such guides, I would never have ventured to write this little essay. On the merits of Pound’s translations, see also some interesting examples in S.W. Durrant, “On Translating Lun Yü,” Chinese Literature: Essays, Articles, Reviews, 3, No. 1 (January 1981): pp. 109–19.
8. On the combination of discursive and imagist modes in Chinese poetry, see the article by Kao and Mei (cited above) and also the beautiful book by Kang-i Sun Chang, The Evolution of Chinese Tz’u Poetry from the late T’ang to the Northern Sung (Princeton University Press, 1980).
9. The expression “Creator” with a capital C is used here as a convenient shorthand for what would otherwise require a lengthy paraphrase: “The inner driving force that moves the entire process of cosmic creation.” The notion of a personal God, exterior to His creation, is utterly foreign to Chinese cosmology. (Classical Chinese treatises do sometimes speak of the Creator in a personified way, but this is a mere literary device — similar to our metaphors the “smiles” of Spring, the “anger” of the ocean, and so on.) Natura naturans would probably be a more appropriate term, but since I am trying to express myself in English, I am reluctant to use it.
10. A.D. Hope, The Pack of Autolycus (Canberra: Australian National University Press, 1978).
11. Quoted by Maurice Nadeau in his introduction to the new edition of Madame Bovary (Paris: Folio, 1981), p. 6.
12. P. Claudel, Journal 1 (Paris: Pléiade, 1968), p. 473.
13. F. Gilot, Vivre avec Picasso (Paris: Calmann-Levy, 1965), p. 69.
14. Quoted by D. Kahnweiler, Juan Gris (Paris: Gallimard, 1946), p. 188.
15. On this question, see D. Pollard, “Ch’i in Chinese Literary Theory,” in A.A. Rickett, ed., Chinese Approaches to Literature from Confucius to Liang Ch’i-ch’ao (Princeton University Press, 1978), p. 56.
16. Quoted by Nadeau in his introduction to Madame Bovary, p. 8.
17. Or in music. A good introduction to this topic can be found in R.H. van Gulik, The Lore of the Chinese Lute (Tokyo: Tuttle, 1968). The melodic repertory of the zither is limited, although it presents extraordinarily rich variations and nuances of timbre: “The [zither] is not easy to appreciate, chiefly because its music is not primarily melodical. Its beauty lies not so much in the succession of notes as in each separate note in itself. ‘Painting with sounds’ might be a way to describe its essential quality. The timbre being thus of the utmost importance, there are very great possibilities of modifying the colouring of one and the same tone. In order to understand and appreciate this music, the ear must learn to distinguish subtle nuances: the same note, produced on a different string, has a different colour; the same string when pulled by the forefinger or the middle finger of the right hand, has a different timbre. The technique by which these variations in timbre are effected is extremely complicated: of the vibrato alone, there exist no less than twenty-six varieties.” (van Gulik, The Lore of the Chinese Lute, pp. 1–2.)
18. M. Proust, “A propos du style de Flaubert,” in Contre Sainte-Beuve (Paris: Pléiade, 1971), p. 595: “To my mind, the most beautiful thing in Sentimental Education is not a sentence, it is a blank. Flaubert has just described in many pages the minutest moves of Frédéric Moreau. Then he tells us that Frédéric sees a policeman charging with his sword against a rebel who falls dead: ‘And Frédéric, open-mouthed, recognised Sénécal.’ Then, a ‘blank,’ a huge ‘blank,’ and without the slightest transition, suddenly time is no longer measured in quarters of an hour but in years, in dozens of years; I repeat the last words I just quoted in order to show this extraordinary shift of speed for which there was no preparation: ‘And Frédéric, open-mouthed, recognised Sénécal. He travelled. He came to know the melancholy of the steamboat, the cold awakening in the tent, etc….’”
19. Maurice Nadeau in Introduction to Madame Bovary, pp. 15–16. Claude Roy made similar observations on Stendhal (Stendhal par lui-même [Paris: Seuil, 1971], p. 47): “A novel by Stendhal is written in a way that is the exact opposite of nine out of ten of the great novelists who came before him. The narrative progresses as much through what is said as through what is omitted. There are two novels within Red and Black—the novel of the events that are printed, and the novel of the events that are eluded: the latter are no less important. One could write another version of Julien’s story, simply by filling in all the blanks of the narrative. Just imagine another writer describing the first night which Julien spent with Mathilde: all the things he would have to write, Stendhal puts in a semicolon: ‘Julien’s prowess was equal to his happiness; “I cannot go down the ladder,” he said to Mathilde when he saw the dawn appear…’ A semicolon alone accounts for a whole night, two lovers in each other’s arms, their ecstasy, their mutual love-confessions, their pleasure, etc. In Vanina Vanini, the entire story ends with a two-minute scene that occupies three pages of dialogue. Then, two lines only: ‘Vanina stood dumbfounded. She returned to Rome; and the newspaper is reporting that she just married Prince Savelli.’” Stendhal’s latter quote is remarkably similar to the Flaubert passage that Proust admired so much (see previous note). Strange power of litotes! Because it relies on the reader’s imagination, it is more effective than an explicit description. Claude Roy pursues: “What seems to us discretion on Stendhal’s part appeared in his time as impudence. He shocked his readers, who felt that he was telling too much.” Splendid illustration of the aesthetic principle “less is more.” If literature has its litotes, and painting its blanks, music also has its silences: it may be apposite to quote here Daniel Barenboim’s warning to the musicians of his orchestra that they should carefully observe the pauses of a score: “Silence is the paper on which all music is written.”