Forlorn and lonely, my time will never come;
Day after day, I return by myself in vain.
I wish to go away, to seek fragrant herbs,
But regret that I must leave an old friend behind.
On whom among those in power might I depend?
Few in this world hear the same music as I.
All I can do is keep to my lonely solitude,
And just close the gate of my old garden.
translated by Daniel Bryant
Month: November 2022
W. Somerset Maugham on writing
To write simply is as difficult as to be good.
No Word by Tu Fu
Haven’t seen my friend Li Po for some time:
It’s really too bad, his feigning madness.
The whole world would want him executed,
Save I,who cherrish his abilities.
A thousand fine and spirited poems he’s written,
With a cup of wine, and wandering in solitude.
Here I am in K’uang Shan, where he used to study:
He’d do worse than come back—now that his hair’s turned white.
translated by Eugene Eoyang
At Horizon’s End, Thinking of Li Po by Tu Fu
Chill wind stirs at horizon’s end:
My friend, what news?
When will the geese arrive?
Autumn swells river and stream.
Writers abhor worldly success;
Mountain demons like to entrap us.
Perhaps we should talk with the abused soul,
By sending a poem to the River Mi-lo.
translated by Eugene Eoyang
Agatha Christie on inspiration
The best time for planning a book is while you’re doing the dishes.
William Faulkner on what he needs to write
The tools I need for my work are paper, tobacco, food,
and a little whiskey.
from The Road to Shu Is Hard by Li Po
The Brocade City might be a place for pleasure,
But it’s far better to hurry home.
The road to Shu is hard, harder than climbing to the heavens.
Sideways I look westward and heave a long sigh.
translated b y Irving Y. Lo
from Seven Songs Written While Living at T’ung-ku in 759 : 7 by Tu Fu
I am a man who’s made no name, already I’ve grown old,
Wandering hungry three years on barren mountain roads,
In Ch’ang-an the ministers are all young men;
Wealth and fame must be earned before a man grows old.
In the mountains here are scholars who knew me long ago.
We only think of the good old days, our hearts full of pain.
Alas! This is my seventh song, oh! with sorrow I end the refrain,
Looking up to the wide sky where the white sun rushes on.
translated by Geoffrey Waters
Emily Bronte on writing
If I could I would always work in silence and obscurity, and let my efforts be known for their results.
William Faulkner on learning the craft
Read, read, read. Read everything—trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it. Just like a carpenter who works as an appretice and studies the master. Read! You’ll absorb it. Then write. If it is good, you’ll find out. It it’s not, throw it out the window.
Leonard Durso 