Sunken Fish - Chapter 2
This book is perhaps the most important language version of *The Sunken Fish* outside of the original English text. Because of Amy Tan's own Chinese heritage and the protagonist's connection to China, this Chinese version of *The Sunken Fish* holds a very special significance. Therefore, both Amy Tan and the book's American publisher, Random House, have high hopes for the Chinese edition.
As is well known, due to the vast differences between languages, translated works generally suffer from linguistic awkwardness, often feeling like reading meat that has been chewed up by someone else. This is especially true for Chinese readers, whose reading habits often struggle to adapt to original Western novels. Many classic Western works lose much of their brilliance when translated into Chinese. The more beautiful the language of a work, the greater the loss during translation—a significant regret for over a billion Chinese readers.
To make this book more accessible and enjoyable for Chinese readers and to minimize language barriers, the Chinese edition of *The Sunken Fish* employs a unique approach. First, the translator completes a basic draft, adhering to the single principle of accurately conveying every sentence and word from the original text. Second, a Chinese author meticulously rewrites the basic draft using modern Chinese literary language. While remaining faithful to the original plot, the rewritten version enhances the language's Sinicization, making it suitable for the reading habits of most Chinese readers and allowing a wider audience to grasp the book's essence.
I was honored to be in charge of the second stage of the process—translating *The Sunken Fish* into Chinese based on the initial translation. This was during the FIFA World Cup in Germany, and while watching the games (it was a pity my beloved Argentina team didn't make it to the semi-finals), I worked day and night on the translation, even meticulously revising it word by word. In this process, I deeply appreciated the differences between Chinese and English. The initial translation accurately conveyed the original text, but English works often repeat certain words repeatedly, such as "attempt" and "hope," which are countless. In fact, there are many different vocabulary choices available in Chinese. Chinese is also a highly aesthetic language, more suitable for expressing literary works than other languages, which gave me greater flexibility in my Chinese translation.
In fact, this form of translation has existed for a long time. In modern China, there was a great translator named Lin Qin'nan (Lin Shu), who received a traditional Chinese education and did not understand foreign languages. When translating Western literary works, Mr. Lin Qin'nan would have someone fluent in Western languages orally translate the original text, and then he would transcrib it in classical Chinese. The works he translated seemed to be re-created, telling European and American stories in elegant classical Chinese, giving them a unique flavor. Most of the earliest Chinese versions of Western classics were translated by Lin in classical Chinese, such as *La Dame aux Camélias* (also known as *The Lady of the Camellias*) and *Uncle Tom's Cabin* (also known as *Uncle Tom's Cabin*), totaling over a hundred, a truly remarkable achievement.
The original English title is *Saving Fish From Drowning*, which can be directly translated as "Saving Drowning Fish." To make the title more fitting for Chinese, I translated the Chinese version as *The Sinking Fish*, which is also close to the original title, "The Drowning Fish." Besides the linguistic changes, I also cut some plot points and streamlined some of the more lengthy content. Furthermore, I added several sections, such as a fictionalized account of the brief history of the Kingdom of Lanna. I also rearranged the chapters, dividing the original text into more detailed sections, and drafted chapter titles for the Chinese version. In short, I have done my best to make the Chinese version of *The Sinking Fish* more suitable for Chinese readers and to allow more Chinese readers to enjoy this work.
five
Chen Bibi, the protagonist of *The Sunken Fish*, was born in Shanghai and spent her childhood on Rue Massenet—a street that still exists in Shanghai's Luwan District today, though its name has changed to Sinan Road. This quiet little street is quite famous, connecting to the bustling Huaihai Road at its northern end. Along it are many French-style houses from the 1930s, and famous figures such as Zhou Enlai and Mei Lanfang once lived here. As a young person born and raised in Shanghai, I think I was destined to be connected with this book. Even more coincidentally, I also worked on Sinan Road for several years and am familiar with many parts of this street. Perhaps one of those old houses was where Chen Bibi's family lived; her biological mother, father, and stepmother all walked this street, as did that eternally lonely little girl.
Cai Jun
Summer 2006 in Shanghai
Almost all evil in the world stems from ignorance; without understanding, good intentions can cause just as much harm as malice.
—AlbertCamus
A devout man preached to his followers: “Taking lives is evil, saving lives is noble. Every day, I promise to save a hundred lives. I cast my net into the lake and catch a hundred fish. I put the fish on the shore, and they wriggle and jump. Don’t be afraid, I tell the fish that I have saved you from drowning. After a while, the fish calm down and die. Yes, it’s tragic, I always save them too late. The fish are dead. Because wasting anything is evil, I take the dead fish to the market and sell them for a good price. With the money, I can buy more nets to save more fish.”
—The Anonymous
To the Readers (1)
The idea for this book came from a thunderstorm.
That summer, I was walking on the Upper West Side of Manhattan when a torrential downpour began without warning.
Soaked to the bone by the rain without an umbrella, I frantically searched for shelter. Suddenly, a brown rock-colored house appeared before me with a gleaming black door, like Ali Baba's treasure, beckoning me inside.
The brass plaque above the door read "American Society for Psychical Research." Instantly, as if under some kind of spell, I rang the doorbell.
So, for the rest of the day, I swam into the association's archives as if I were a fish in water.
This archive is like the first public library I ever entered as a child, crammed from floor to ceiling with old books, like tombstones of thought and history, wrapped in dark blue, purple, brown, and black cloth, with titles embossed in faded gold lettering. In the center of the room are tall stools, narrow wooden tables, and wooden cabinets containing index cards.
In the "A-Ca" section of the index card, I found the entry for "Automatic Writing," which describes "messages from the world we cannot see." These messages are in languages including Chinese, Japanese, and Arabic, and are said to have been written by people who do not understand these languages at all. Some messages come from royalty and famous figures, and are prominently labeled "verified by experts."
I became extremely interested in the messages received by Pearl Karan, an “ordinary housewife” in St. Louis, between 1913 and 1937. Pearl Karan received no formal education after the age of fourteen and later received stories from the ghost of a man named Patience Worth. Patience was supposedly a seventeenth-century writer with a deep understanding of ancient colloquialisms and social customs. Pearl Karan used a non-medieval language, free from errors that occurred after the seventeenth century; one chapter begins: “Dewdrops fall on the blades of grass in yesterday’s harvested field.” Such a writing style gives one reason to either admire or despise her. Even more astonishing is that one of her short stories was written in thirty-five hours.
But another document on the shelf caught my eye more. It was written through an intermediary named Kren Lundga, who lived in Berkeley, California. She had received a story divided into fifty-four parts, from a ghost named "Chen Bibi." This mysterious tale was sometimes stirring, sometimes soothing.
Good heavens, it's Chen Bibi!