I saw something white far away at the roadside. At first I took it for a bike, then I realised that it was just a bunch of white umbelliferae. All morning I’d tried to read a poem by Ruan Ji, but with little success. There were too many words there meaning sadness, sorrow, pain and trouble. It seems there are dozens of such words in Chinese: this certainly means that the Chinese had a sophisticated culture of mourning and grieving. Early in the day the sun was shining, then grey clouds began rising from the north and it got chilly, with drizzle from time to time. I felt nearly as sad as the Chinese poet who lived 1,700 years ago. But I know from my own experience that a certain kind of sadness is connected with the birth or rebirth of your poetic gift. It’s painful: poems aren’t born easily, they always break something in you, rip you apart, take away a piece of your flesh, leaving a scar like those you got falling off your bike on a stony road or cutting your finger with a knife.
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