(9789004167070 - Modernist Aesthetics in Taiwanese Poetry Since The 1950s) Modernist Aesthetics in Taiwanese Poetry Since The 1950s

Modernist Aesthetics in Taiwanese Poetry
since the 1950s
Chung-to Au - 978-90-47-44299-8
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Sinica Leidensia
Edited by
Barend J. ter Haar
In co-operation with
P.K. Bol, D.R. Knechtges, E.S. Rawski, W.L. Idema,
E. Zürcher, H.T. Zurndorfer
VOLUME 85
Chung-to Au - 978-90-47-44299-8
Modernist Aesthetics
in Taiwanese Poetry
since the 1950s
By
Au Chung-to
LEIDEN • BOSTON
2008
Chung-to Au - 978-90-47-44299-8
Cover illustration: Another view of the ‘food-steamer lamp’. Photo courtesy of Ivan
Chan.
This book is printed on acid-free paper.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Au, Chung-to.
Modernist aesthetics in Taiwanese poetry since the 1950s / By Au Chung-to.
p. cm. — (Sinica leidensia ; v. 85)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-90-04-16707-0 (alk. paper)
1. Chinese poetry—Taiwan—History and criticism. 2. Chinese poetry—20th
century—History and criticism. I. Title.
PL3031.T3A86 2008
895.1’15209951249—dc22
2008009746
ISSN 0169-9563
ISBN 978 90 04 16707 0
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Chung-to Au - 978-90-47-44299-8
For Theo
Chung-to Au - 978-90-47-44299-8
Chung-to Au - 978-90-47-44299-8
CONTENTS
Acknowledgements ............................................................................ ix
List of Illustrations ............................................................................. xi
Notes on Translation and Spelling .................................................. xiii
Chapter One Introduction ............................................................ 1

‘Place’ and ‘Placelessness’ ............................................................. 7
The Mutable and the Immutable ................................................ 8
The Poetic Space ............................................................................ 16
Taiwanese Modernist Aesthetics ................................................. 18
Chapter Two Unhomely Houses .................................................. 27

‘Homely’ and ‘Unhomely’ ............................................................. 28
Buried Alive .................................................................................... 33
Transparent Space .......................................................................... 35
The Dark Space .............................................................................. 47
The Window as an Opening to the Public Realm ................... 55
Chapter Three Imagining Taipei .................................................. 61

Modernism in Imagination .......................................................... 62
The Unreal City ............................................................................. 64
The Disappearance of the Crowd ............................................... 67
An Invisible Persona ..................................................................... 71
The Urban Uncanny ...................................................................... 79
Gender Space ................................................................................. 82
Estrangement .................................................................................. 89
Chapter Four Homelands as Shifting Ground ........................... 101

Yearning for the Lost Origin ....................................................... 104
Quest for a Mythic Origin ........................................................... 110
Searching for a Cultural Identity ................................................ 114
The Uncanniness of Homecoming ............................................. 124
Traveling as Collecting of One’s Identity .................................. 129
Making Exile His Homeland ....................................................... 132
The Origin is a Shifting Ground ................................................. 134
Finding Stability in Instability ..................................................... 139
Chung-to Au - 978-90-47-44299-8
viii contents
Chapter Five Imagined Literary Community: Language,

Memory and Nature ...................................................................... 141
Horizontal Comradeship .............................................................. 145
Vertical Comradeship ................................................................... 147
Language as Home ........................................................................ 148
Fabricating Memories ................................................................... 157
Return to Nature ............................................................................ 175
Homeland (Re)located .................................................................. 190
Chapter Six Conclusion ................................................................. 193
Bibliography ........................................................................................ 197

Index .................................................................................................... 203
Chung-to Au - 978-90-47-44299-8
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This book is full of beauty. This is not only because the subject of my
discussion is poetry or aesthetics. It is rather also because of the people
I met or worked with during these years. I wish I could include all their
names here. For those names I have omitted, I will never forget you or
your contributions.
My first thanks go to Professor Esther Cheung (University of Hong
Kong). Her criticisms on drafts of this book drove me in a direction I
never dreamed of, or had feared to tread. Nevertheless, I am more hap-
pily at home there now. Although the ideas she introduced to me some-
times drove me crazy, most of the time, I was intoxicated by them.
However, it is Professor Tom Rendall (Peking University) who really
saw me embark on this intellectual journey when I was an undergraduate
student. He not only taught me to appreciate the beauty of English, by
extension, but also of Chinese literature. His trenchant comments and
queries helped to better structure the book and made it more readable.
His graciousness and concern have been a moral support.
My thanks also go to the poetic couple Lomen and Rong Zi, who
invited me to visit their ‘House of Light’ in Taipei. I will never forget
the time and thoughts we shared together. Above all, the publication of
this book would not have been possible without the generous support
and assistance of Professor Ngai Ling Tun (Chinese University of Hong
Kong) and Lucy Moore.
Finally, I express heartfelt thanks to my family for their support;
without them, I could not have completed this project.
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Chung-to Au - 978-90-47-44299-8
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Figures
2.1 The location of Lomen’s ‘House of Light’ in Taipei.

Photo courtesy of Ivan Chan ................................................. 36
2.2 The outside view of the building in which Lomen’s
‘House of Light’ located. Photo courtesy of Ivan Chan .... 36
2.3 A partial view of the ‘House of Light’. Photo courtesy
of Ivan Chan ............................................................................. 37
2.4 The living room of the ‘House of Light’. Photo courtesy
of Ivan Chan ............................................................................. 39
2.5 Third Nature Spiral Structure. Reproduced by
permission from Lomen ......................................................... 41
2.6 The windows in the ‘House of Light’. Photo courtesy
of Ivan Chan ............................................................................. 44
5.1 The ‘old-rattan-chair lamp’ in the ‘House of Light’.
5.2 The ‘food-steamer lamp’ in the ‘House of Light’.
5.3 Another view of the ‘food-steamer lamp’. Photo courtesy
of Ivan Chan ............................................................................. 189
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Chung-to Au - 978-90-47-44299-8
NOTES ON TRANSLATION AND SPELLING
The translation of a Chinese text is mine, if the source is in Chinese. I

use the pinyin system of transliteration in most cases, except for a few
occasions; the Wade-Giles spellings of a name are retained. The English
spelling will follow the American spelling system, except for quotations
of texts published in the British spelling system.
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Chung-to Au - 978-90-47-44299-8
CHAPTER ONE
INTRODUCTION
I have found much of the discussion on Taiwanese modernist poetry

unsatisfactory because the analyses are so frequently mechanical and
political, simplifying Taiwanese modernist poetry into ideological argu-
ments.1 Critics from Mainland China claim that Taiwanese modernist
poetry is a continuation of the Chinese modernist tradition, whereas
Taiwanese critics maintain that their modernist poetry departs from the
May Fourth Chinese literary tradition.
According to many critics from Mainland China, there is no dif-
ference between Chinese modernism as it flourished in Taiwan in the
1960s and Chinese modernism that developed in Mainland China in
the 1940s. Many books have been published on the subject of Chinese
modernism since the nineties, for example, Tang Zhengxu’s 唐正序 Er
Shi Shiji Zhongguo Wenxue Yu Xifang Xiandai Zhuyi Sichao [Twen-
tieth Century Chinese Literature and Western Modernism] (1992),
Zeng Qingyuan’s 曾慶元 Xifang Xiandai Zhuyi Wenyi Sichao Shuping
[On Western Modernism] (1993), Tan Chuliang’s 譚楚良 Zhongguo
Xiandaipai Wenxuelun [On the Chinese Modernist School] (1996), and
Zhang Tongdao’s 張同道 Tanxian di Fengqi [The Flag of Quest] (1998).
In most of these books, the development of Taiwanese modernist litera-
ture is discussed in parallel with that of modernist literature in Main-
land China. In other words, these critics consider Chinese modernist
poetry on the Mainland similar to that in Taiwan.
Although Taiwanese critics’ opinions on modernist poetry are not as
uniform as those of their Mainland counterparts, they tend to agree that
Taiwanese modernist poetry represents a discontinuity with the May
1
It is not my purpose to argue that Taiwanese modernist poetry has nothing to do
with politics in this project. On the contrary, the following discussions demonstrate
that Taiwanese modernist poetry is related to politics to a certain extent. However, the
relationship between art and politics does not neatly fall into ideological arguments as
some critics presented in their works. In fact, the relationship between art and politics
is a paradoxical one. On the one hand, art does not subordinate to political power. On
the other hand, art ties itself closely with society in order to protect its autonomy. I will
discuss the complicated relationship in detail in this chapter.
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2 chapter one
Fourth Chinese literary tradition. There are at least two kinds of opin-
ions on modernist poetry in Taiwan. First, according to Lu Zhenghui
呂正惠 and Guan Jieming 關傑明, most Taiwanese modernist poetry
written in the 1950s and 1960s is an inferior translation of Western
modernist poetry (Lu, 1995, 24). Second, critics like Zhong Zhaozheng
鐘肇正 consider all literary works written by exiled writers anti-com-
munist propaganda (Gong, 1997, 43). Zhong points out that these works
also reflect the writers’ nostalgic feelings for Mainland China. And, he
implies that exiled writers have no interaction with Taiwan’s landscape
and its people (Gong, 1997, 46). Though it is true that most Taiwanese
modernist poets read Western modernist literature, this does not mean
that Taiwanese modernist poetry is an inferior translation of Western
modernist poetry. Gong Pengcheng 龔鵬程 disagrees with Zhong and
questions how exiled writers can live in Taiwan and have no interaction
with the ‘place’ at all (Gong, 1997, 56).2
This simplified dichotomy of continuity and discontinuity not only
ignores much of the significance of everyday experience, but also neglects
the subtlety of modernist aesthetics. Aesthetics or art is not subordinate
to political power. The critics from the Mainland and Taiwan seem to
ignore the autonomy of aesthetics and stress its subordinate status. They
also introduce their political stances in explaining the modernist move-
ment in Taiwan.
When Terry Eagleton discusses the emergence of aesthetics in eight-
eenth century Germany, he points out that aesthetics “is among other
things a response to the problem of political absolutism” (Eagleton,
1990, 14). However, the aesthetic is not simply an oppositional force to
the political hegemony. In fact, according to Eagleton, the concept of the
aesthetic embodies contradictory forces.
The aesthetic, then, is from the beginning a contradictory, double-edged
concept. On the one hand, it figures as a genuinely emancipatory force—
as a community of subjects now linked by sensuous impulse and fellow-
feeling rather than by heteronomous law, each safeguarded in its unique
particularity while bound at the same time into social harmony. . . . On
the other hand, the aesthetic signifies . . . a kind of ‘internalised repression’,
inserting social power more deeply into the very bodies of those it sub-
2
In her Modern Chinese Poetry, Michelle Yeh tries to ignore the politico-geographical
domains and to focus her discussion on the intrinsic elements of poetic art, for example,
images and forms. The relationship between place and the Taiwanese modernist poets
is not examined.
Chung-to Au - 978-90-47-44299-8
introduction 3
jugates, and so operating as a supremely effective mode of political hege-

mony. (Eagleton, 1990, 28)
Eagleton remarks that the rise of aesthetics in the eighteenth century
is used as a means to consolidate the absolute power of reason. This
is because reason cannot explain the world of perception or sensa-
tion. However, it turns out that the relationship between aesthetics and
political power, instead of being a subordinate one, is a paradoxical
one. Although aesthetics is subject to political power, the characteris-
tics associated with it, like imagination, help to make aesthetics difficult
for the authorities to control. In addition, aesthetics has the power to
revolt against authority. Further, absolute power cannot eradicate the
aesthetic, because by extirpating the aesthetic, the power of the author-
ity will also be shattered (Eagleton, 1990, 28).3
The dual essence of art subtly changed in the modern world. Art gains
its autonomy and freedom from absolute power with the assistance of
the bourgeois consciousness. However, Theodor Adorno argues that art
is actually opposed to society:
Art . . . is social primarily because it stands opposed to society. Now this
opposition art can mount only when it has become autonomous. By con-
gealing into an entity unto itself—rather than obeying existing social
norms and thus proving itself to be ‘socially useful’—art criticizes society
just by being there. . . . What is social about art is not its political stance,
but its immanent dynamic in opposition to society. . . . The mystery of art
is its demystifying power. Its social essence calls for a twofold reflection:
on the being-for-itself of art, and on its ties with society. (Adorno, 1984,
321–22)
In other words, modernist art revolts against society in order to protect
its autonomy. As such, the status of art is supreme, embodying a power
that can criticize authority. However, it is noteworthy that art gained
this supreme power in the modern world when it no longer enjoyed
its former privileged status.4 In this case, art is no freer than it used to
be. Since society does not grant art privilege anymore, it must tie itself
closely with society if it wants to survive.
3
A detailed account of the relationship between the aesthetic and absolute power can
be found in Eagleton’s The Ideology of the Aesthetics. The ‘Introduction’ and the chapter
on ‘Free Particulars’ are the most important.
4
A discussion of the issue of the decline of poetry in the modern era can be found in
Graham Hough’s “The Modernist Lyric” (Hough, 1991, 312–22).
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4 chapter one
Raymond Williams further elaborates on the relationship between

society and art in the modern era. Williams’ concept of society no lon-
ger refers to an absolute power. In fact, it is associated with certain social
phenomena such as diaspora and urbanization. According to Williams,
the metropolis plays an important role in the emergence of modernism.
In addition, a twentieth-century metropolis such as Paris houses many
immigrants and exiles (Williams, 1994, 34, 36). As Williams points out,
the modernist sentiment is anti-bourgeois. Different poets and writers
choose their own ways to represent this sentiment. For example, the
modernists “either choose the formerly aristocratic valuation of art as
a sacred realm above money and commerce, or the revolutionary doc-
trines, promulgated since 1848, of art as the liberating vanguard of pop-
ular consciousness” (Williams, 1994, 34). Williams’ remarks not only
echo Adorno’s concept of the dual essence of art, but also imply that
under the umbrella of modernism there are different kinds of ideas that
are not necessarily compatible with each other.5
How does the complex relationship between political power and
aesthetics in the West shed light on our understanding of Taiwanese
modernist poetry? In spite of the different socio-political and eco-
nomic situations in the West and in Taiwan, it is interesting to note that
Western and Taiwanese modernist writers and poets have something
in common. For example, the Nationalist government’s literary policy
advocated in postwar Taiwan reminds us of political absolutism in Ger-
many. As Michelle Yeh points out:
After the move to Taiwan in 1949, the Nationalist government controlled
literature to a high degree by sponsoring literary activities and censor-
ing the mass media. In April 1950 the Chinese Literature and Art Awards
Committee was set up; the next month the Chinese Literature and Art
Association was formed; and they were soon followed by the Young Writ-
ers’ Association and the Women Writers’ Association. In addition, the few
newspapers in the early postwar period were mostly owned and run by the
government, and books by many Chinese writers who stayed on the main-
land and by some foreign writers were labeled subversive and banned.
Through these and other means, the Nationalist government created a
dominant discourse geared to the restoration of the Chinese mainland to
5
In spite of the discrepancies of these modernists, I will refer to them as the ‘Western
modernist poets and writers’ in this book. The word ‘Western’ is written with a capi-
tal letter for the sake of convention rather than to imply a homogeneity among these
writers.
Chung-to Au - 978-90-47-44299-8
introduction 5
Nationalist rule and the legitimation of the Nationalists as the true heirs to
Chinese culture, not the Communist usurpers. (Yeh, 1992, xxxviii)
In spite of the absolute power of the Nationalist government, Taiwanese
modernist poets seemed to gain autonomy by refusing to write anti-
communist literature. According to Yeh, “their works contrast sharply
with the mainstream discourse promoted by the Nationalist government,
particularly from the 1950s through the early 1970s, in challenging the
anticommunist ethos of the time and in engaging in the avant-garde.”
(Yeh, 1992, xxxviii)
However, the reason why the Nationalist government tolerated the
existence of Taiwanese modernist poetry is different from that of the
German government’s tolerance of aesthetics in the eighteenth century.
While the German government used aesthetics as a means to consoli-
date its absolute power, the Nationalist government relied on Western
countries to consolidate its power. As Chen Yingzhen 陳映真 points
out, Westernization was the focus of Taiwan’s spiritual life from the
1940s to the 1970s. Sociologically and economically speaking, Taiwan
was subordinated to the West. In areas such as literature and art, there
were no exceptions (Liu, 1996, 34–35). It is noteworthy that although
the Nationalist government did not promote modernism in literature
and art, the obscure language of modernism and its Western style were
two of the factors that helped Taiwanese modernist works escape cen-
sorship. The Western style of Taiwanese modernist poetry was coinci-
dentally in line with the government’s Westernization policy.
The relationship between art and society in Taiwan is complicated
due to the Nationalist government’s different policies. On the one hand,
the Taiwanese modernist poets’ refusal to write anti-communist pro-
paganda seemed to, in Adorno’s words, stand opposed to society. On
the other hand, the Western style manifested in their poetry seemed to
suggest that the Taiwanese modernist poets followed the Westernization
policy advocated by the government. According to Adorno, “art is social
primarily because it stands opposed to society” (Adorno, 1984, 321). I
believe that the case in Taiwan is different from that in the West. I will
suggest that art (or at least modernist poetry) is social in Taiwan because
it stands opposed to, and supports, the government at the same time.
While Eagleton’s and Adorno’s ideas of aesthetics are concerned with
abstract theories, Williams’ concept is about concrete social and his-
torical circumstances. In fact, Taiwanese modernist writers, like their
Western counterparts, faced social phenomena such as diaspora and
Chung-to Au - 978-90-47-44299-8
6 chapter one
urbanization. Nevertheless, the modernist sentiment in the West, as

Williams points out, is anti-bourgeois, whereas the modernist sentiment
in Taiwan is the nostalgia resulting from diaspora and urbanization.
In short, the Taiwanese modernist poets are closely tied to society.
One of the factors in the development of the Taiwanese modernist poetry
could be seen as political because these poets were all sent into exile.
However, the exiled poets’ interactions with Taipei and the urbanization
of the city also play a significant role in the development of Taiwanese
modernism. In fact, being in exile, dwelling in the city and the urban-
ization of Taipei all contribute to the phenomenon of making a ‘place
become placeless.’ My study supports the development of an alternative
approach to understanding aesthetics in Taiwanese modernist poetry. It
is concerned not with abstract ideologies, but with the daily living space
of the Taiwanese modernist poets.6 The diversity and intensity of these
poets’ experiences of ‘place’ and ‘placelessness’ will be emphasized.
6
The word ‘space’ here actually refers to both ‘place’ and ‘space.’ The concepts of
‘place’ and ‘space’ have become controversial nowadays. In his Space and Place: The Per-
spective of Experience, which was published in 1977, Tuan Yi-fu has a relatively clear-cut
distinction on the concepts of ‘place’ and ‘space.’ According to Tuan, “‘space’ is more
abstract than ‘place’ ” (Tuan, 1977, 6). Similarly, Edward Relph states that “space is amor-
phous and intangible and not an entity that can be directly described and analyzed. Yet,
however we feel or know or explain space, there is nearly always some associated sense
or concept of place. In general it seems that space provides the context for places but
derives its meaning from particular places” (Relph, 1976, 8). However, the character-
istics such as abstract and intangible no longer help to distinguish ‘space’ from ‘place.’
For example, Ackbar Abbas, in his Hong Kong: Culture and the Politics of Disappearance,
which was published in 1997, points out that “ ‘place’ and ‘space’ cannot be opposed in
any simple way, nor can they be considered separately.” Abbas argues that “it is clearly
not possible to think of place merely in terms of definable physical characteristics and
situatedness because the changing nature of space—that results from information tech-
nology, for example—inevitably entails a changing idea of place” (Abbas, 1997, 69).
While Abbas refers to the development of Hong Kong in the last decades, my research
focuses on Taipei in the 1960s. Although information technology had yet to become
an issue in Taipei during the 1960s, things such as industrialization, war, development
of transportation and communication started to undermine the essence of place. The
essence of ‘place’ refers to a deep association with the ‘place’ where we were born and
grew up, or where we have had particularly moving experiences. When the essence of
‘place’ disappears, ‘place’ becomes ‘placelessness.’ When ‘place’ becomes ‘placelessness,’
it becomes more abstract and intangible. In other words, the characteristics of ‘place’
become similar to those of ‘space’ in the old sense. As a result, I found that the distinc-
tion between the concepts of ‘place’ and ‘space’ is a difficult one. For instance, Lomen’s
home, House of Light, is both a physical as well as an abstract ‘place/space.’ Likewise,
Taipei and the idea of homeland have metaphorical meanings which shift from time
to time. In this case, the concepts of ‘place’ and ‘space’ are ambiguous in my study. The
concept of ‘place’ embodies the characteristics of ‘space’ and vice versa.
Chung-to Au - 978-90-47-44299-8
introduction 7
‘Place’ and ‘Placelessness’
The phenomenon of ‘placelessness’ is a problem of modernity that is

a central concern of twentieth-century literature.7 Leonard Lutwack
notices that industrialism, war, and the development of transportation
and communication undermined the essence of place (Lutwack, 1984,
183). According to Edward Relph:
The essence of place lies in the largely unselfconscious intentionality that
defines places as profound centres of human existence. There is for vir-
tually everyone a deep association with and consciousness of the place
where we were born and grew up, where we live now, or where we have
had particularly moving experiences. (Relph, 1976, 43)
Furthermore, when the essence of ‘place’ disappears, ‘place’ becomes
‘placelessness.’ Relph elaborates:
Placelessness describes both an environment without significant places
and the underlying attitude which does not acknowledge significance in
places. It reaches back into the deepest levels of place, cutting roots, erod-
ing symbols, replacing diversity with uniformity and experiential order
with conceptual order. At its most profound it consists of a pervasive and
perhaps irreversible alienation from places as the homes of men. (Relph,
1976, 143)
Living in such a fast-changing and chaotic world, how do modern writ-
ers respond to these conditions?
The experience of ‘placelessness’ and ‘lost places’ contributes to the
development of modernism. Harry Levin notices that most modern-
ist writers and painters such as Joyce, Picasso, Eliot, Pound and so
forth, lived in places other than the places of their origins (Levin, 1966,
287). Joyce’s home country was Ireland; however, he spent his prime
in Paris. Similarly, Eliot and Pound were born in the United States but
spent most of their lives in Europe. In fact, Eagleton is also well aware
of this phenomenon; he writes: “the seven most significant writers of
twentieth-century English literature have been a Pole, three Americans,
two Irishmen and an Englishmen” (Eagleton, 1970, 9). These writers
left their home countries due to various reasons, and their statuses were
7
Although Paul Smethurst applies the concept of ‘place’ and ‘placelessness’ to his
study of postmodernist fiction, he notices that placelessness is not merely a postmodern
problem. It is also a modernity problem. See Smethurst’s The Postmodern Chronotope
(Smethurst, 2000, 93).
Chung-to Au - 978-90-47-44299-8
8 chapter one
different; for instance, while Conrad was a migrant, Joyce was a self-
exile. Paul Fussell points out the direct relationship between diaspora
and literary modernism:
Diaspora seems one of the signals of literary modernism, as we can infer
from virtually no modern writer’s remaining where he’s ‘supposed’ to be
except perhaps Proust—we think of Pound in London, Paris, and Italy;
Eliot in London; Joyce in Trieste and Paris; Mann ultimately in the United
States. (Fussell, 1980, 11)
It is noteworthy that Proust is different from other writers in that he suf-
fers temporal instead of spatial displacement. Although he did not leave
Paris his entire life, Proust led life as an exile because he continually felt
nostalgic for his past.
I will suggest that losing a geographical ‘place’ helps the modernist
writers to develop an imaginative space. As Jean Baudrillard points out:
“only the exiled have a land. I know some people who are only close to
their country when they are 10,000 kilometers away” (Kaplan, 1996, 72).
The land Baudrillard refers to is not a physical land; it is the land the
exile yearns for. The land is in the exile’s memory. In other words, going
into exile triggers the writers to invent a remembered land no matter
whether it is his or her homeland or a totally imagined space.
Since modernist aesthetics is an outgrowth of ‘placelessness,’ a study
of the following five major Taiwanese modernist poets—Lomen 羅門,
Luo Fu 洛夫, Rong Zi 蓉子, Yu Guangzhong 余光中 and Zheng
Chouyu 鄭愁予—not only helps to shed light on these poets’ interac-
tions with their ‘places’ but also enhances our understanding of mod-
ernist aesthetics.8
The Mutable and the Immutable
The literary works of the five Taiwanese modernist poets I have chosen
for study and their interactions with their daily living spaces are full
of contradictory ideas. In Marshall Berman’s wording, the world these
poets conjured up is “where everything is pregnant with its contrary”
(Berman, 1982, 22). For instance, these poets’ works always show their
nostalgia for Mainland China. However, when they were free to go back
8
The pinyin transcription for Lomen should be Luo Men. Since the poet always
refers himself as Lomen instead, this book will follow the poet’s practice.
Chung-to Au - 978-90-47-44299-8
introduction 9
to and to stay in their homeland after 1987, all the poets chose not to
do so. Luo Fu and Zheng Chuoyu emigrated to Canada and the United
States respectively. Yu eventually settled down in Taiwan after having
spent almost two decades in the United States and in Hong Kong. Lomen
and Rong Zi have been living in Taipei since 1949 and do not plan to
move. Moreover, although the works of these poets always embody a
sense of anti-urbanism, they have lived in cities most of their lives.
Most thinkers and critics in the West agree with the fact that modern
aesthetics embodies contradictory forces, the mutable and the immu-
table.9 However, different critics put stress on different ends of the spec-
trum. For instance, although Berman notices the contradictory forces in
modern life, he puts emphasis on mutability. On the other hand, geogra-
pher David Harvey goes to another extreme and considers the ‘spatial-
ization of time’ as the basis of modern aesthetics.
In his study of modern aesthetics, Berman points out the ambivalent
feelings modern people experience. He traces the origin of this ambiva-
lence back to Karl Marx, Friedrich Nietzsche and Charles Baudelaire. In
his “Speech at the Anniversary of the People’s Paper,” Marx says:
In our days everything seems pregnant with its contrary. Machinery, gifted
with the wonderful power of shortening and fructifying human labor, we
behold starving and overworking it. The new-fangled sources of wealth,
by some strange weird spell, are turned into sources of want. The victories
of art seem bought by the loss of character. At the same pace that mankind
masters nature, man seems to become enslaved to other men or to his
own infamy. Even the pure light of science seems unable to shine but on
the dark background of ignorance. All our invention and progress seem to
result in endowing material forces with intellectual life, and in stultifying
human life into a material force. (Marx, 1978, 577–78)
Similarly, Nietzsche remarks:
At these turning-points of history there appear side by side and often
entangled and entwined together a glorious, manifold, jungle-like growth
and up-stirring, a kind of tropical tempo in competition in growing, and a
tremendous perishing and self-destruction, thanks to the savage egoisms
which, turning on one another and as it were exploding, wrestle together
‘for sun and light’. . . . (Nietzsche, 1981, 181–82)10
9
The introductory chapters of Marshall Berman’s All That Is Solid Melts Into Air,
David Harvey’s The Condition of Postmodernity and Daniel R. Schwarz’s Reconfiguring
Modernism give a detailed account of this issue.
10
Emphases in all quoted passages are those of the authors’, unless stated otherwise.
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10 chapter one
Marx’s and Nietzsche’s comments share two things. First, both philoso-
phers notice that “everything is pregnant with its contrary” (Berman,
1982, 22). Second, I think both Marx and Nietzsche put emphasis on the
pros and cons of the mutable in modern life.
If we compare Marx’s and Nietzsche’s understanding of the contra-
dictory forces with those of Baudelaire’s, we will fi nd that the latter’s
idea of duality is slightly different. Instead of putting emphasis on the
contradictory forces within the changes, Baudelaire pays attention to
the binary opposition of the ephemeral and the eternal. In his essay on
modern aesthetics, “The Painter of Modern Life 1859–60,” Baudelaire
shows us another possible interpretation of the concept that ‘everything
is pregnant with its contrary.’ The poet writes: “By ‘modernity’ I mean
the ephemeral, the fugitive, the contingent, the half of art whose other
half is the eternal and the immutable” (Baudelaire, 1995, 12). In other
words, Baudelaire believes that one half of modernity is composed
of the transient and the rest is the eternal. However, when we exam-
ine Baudelaire’s poetry, we will see that the transient is essential to the
major themes of his work. As Walter Benjamin points out in his “On
Some Motifs in Baudelaire,” shock and the crowd are two important
motifs in Baudelaire’s poetry (Benjamin, 1970, 165–70). In his poem “A
une passante” [To a Passerby], we not only observe the themes of shock
and the crowd but also the theme of a fleeting world:
A lightning-flash . . . then night!—O fleeting beauty
Whose glance all of a sudden gave me new birth,
Shall I see you again only in eternity?
Far, far from here! Too late! Or maybe, never?
For I know not where you flee, you know not where I go,
O you I would have loved (o you who knew it too!)
(Benjamin, 1970, 171)
The poem is about the poet who spots a beautiful woman in the street.
By the time Baudelaire feels himself falling in love with her, the woman
is out of his sight. According to Benjamin, this poem shows “the delight
of the urban poet is love—not at first sight, but at last sight” (Benjamin,
1970, 171). Although Baudelaire does not tell us the reasons why the
woman disappears so quickly, I believe that the fast tempo of life in the
city is one of the reasons. The woman may be forced by the crowd to
walk quickly, or the density of the crowd may make the city become
opaque, thus hiding the woman. Moreover, life in the city is fl ooded with
perceptions. City dwellers do not have time to digest the last perception
before the next one, and yet another, have already appeared. As a result,
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introduction 11
city dwellers are always in a state of ‘delayed response.’ For example, the
poetic persona in Baudelaire’s poem does not realize that he falls in love
with the woman until later.11 It is, by then, too late. Although Baudelaire
tells us that his modern aesthetics is to strike a balance between the
transient and the eternal, his poetry implies that he is off balance. The
poet’s mind seems to be dominated by the transient.
Likewise, Berman claims in his All That Is Solid Melts into Air that the
purpose of his book is to:
Illuminate the contradictory forces and needs that inspire and torment us:
our desire to be rooted in a stable and coherent personal and social past,
and our insatiable desire for growth—not merely for economic growth but
for growth in experience, in pleasure, in knowledge, in sensibility—growth
that destroys both the physical and social landscapes of our past, and our
emotional links with those lost worlds. . . . (Berman, 1982, 35)
Berman’s ideal echoes Baudelaire’s modern aesthetics. He wants to
remind us of how those great thinkers and writers such as Marx,
Nietzsche and Baudelaire reacted to modernity. Berman feels nostalgic
for those good old days. However, did Berman believe those great minds
ever struck a balance between stability and instability? In the preface of
Berman’s book, we get an implicit answer:
Shortly after I finished this book, my dear son Marc, five years old, was
taken from me. I dedicate All That Is Solid Melts into Air to him. His life
and death bring so many of its ideas and themes close to home: the idea
that those who are most happily at home in the modern world, as he was,
may be most vulnerable to the demons that haunt it; the idea that the daily
routine of playgrounds and bicycles, of shopping and eating and clean-
ing up, of ordinary hugs and kisses, may be not only infinitely joyous and
beautiful but also infinitely precarious and fragile; that it may take des-
perate and heroic struggles to sustain this life, and sometimes we lose.
(Berman, 1982, 14)
This account is a sad one. However, it tells us what Berman truly believes.
He thinks the world is fleeting, transient, and that life is ephemeral. Ber-
man again is similar to Baudelaire in that he has an ideal of striking a
balance between the transient and the eternal, but he finds it hard to
achieve his high ideal.
11
Detailed discussions of Baudelaire’s “A une passante” can be found in Benjamin’s
“On Some Motifs in Baudelaire” in Illumination (Benjamin, 1970, 157–202) and Esther
Cheung’s preface to “City Imagination” in Hong Kong Literature as/and Cultural Studies
(Cheung, 2002, 285–96).
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12 chapter one
Harvey notices the emphasis of Berman and of those thinkers Ber-

man depicted. He remarks that Berman overemphasizes the transitory
side of Baudelaire’s dual formulation and he disagrees with Berman and
those who share his views. He stresses the eternal side of Baudelaire’s
dual formulation. According to Harvey:
The successful modern artist was one who could find the universal and
the eternal. . . . But how to represent the eternal and the immutable in the
midst of all the chaos? To the degree that naturalism and realism proved
inadequate . . ., the artist, architect, and writer had to find some special
way to represent it. Modernism from its very beginning, therefore,
became preoccupied with language, with finding some special mode of
representation of eternal truths. . . . Modernism could speak to the eternal
only by freezing time and all its fleeting qualities. (Harvey, 1997, 20–21)
Harvey labels this modernist aesthetics ‘spatialization of time.’ He
uses space and time as metaphors for the immutable and the mutable.
Harvey explains that “since modernity is about the experience of
progress through modernization, writings on that theme have tended
to emphasize temporality, the process of becoming, rather than being
in space and place” (Harvey, 1997, 205). In comparison with modernity
which refers to the mutable and the transient, modernist aesthetics is
about the immutable and the eternal. As Harvey points out:
Aesthetic theory, on the other hand, seeks out the rules that allow eternal
and immutable truths to be conveyed in the midst of the maelstrom of
flux and change. The architect, to take the most obvious case, tries to
communicate certain values through the construction of a spatial form.
Painters, sculptors, poets, and writers of all sorts do no less. Even the
written word abstracts properties from the flux of experience and fixes
them in spatial form. (Harvey, 1997, 205–06)
Harvey is not alone in terms of striving for immutability in mutability.
Martin Heidegger and Gaston Bachelard share similar ideas. Perhaps
the only difference is that Heidegger and Bachelard concretely describe
their ideas using the example of a house while Harvey chooses a
rather abstract image—space—as a metaphor. In his “Building Dwell-
ing Thinking,” Heidegger likens building a house to dwelling in the
house. The philosopher points out that we should not take dwelling and
building as two separate activities. When we build a house, we take the
dwellers’ requirements into consideration. Building a house to dwell in
is not merely about construction. The essence of building a house as a
dwelling is to create a peaceful environment for the dwellers. Heidegger
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introduction 13
concludes that building is really comparable to dwelling. (Heidegger,

1975, 146, 148–49) He elaborates that the nature of dwelling is:
To be set at peace, means to remain at peace within the free, the pre-
serve, the free sphere that safeguards each thing in its nature. The fun-
damental character of dwelling is this sparing and preserving. (Heidegger,
1975, 149)
Heidegger wrote this article after World War II when people every-
where were talking about housing shortages. However, the philosopher
reminds us that “the real plight of dwelling does not lie merely in a lack of
houses. . . . The real dwelling plight lies in this, that mortals ever search
anew for the nature of dwelling, that they must ever learn to dwell”
(Heidegger, 1975, 161). Physically speaking, the displaced and home-
less people of that time needed to have somewhere to dwell. Heidegger,
however, thought that the real plight lay in the fact that people did not
know the nature of dwelling.
Heidegger likens the nature of dwelling—“to spare, to preserve”—to
the immutable that helps us to resist the mutable world. Nevertheless, the
philosopher’s opinion on dwelling is in fact not fully elaborated, com-
pared to Bachelard’s idea of ‘house.’ Bachelard is similar to Heidegger
in that he believes a house (or in Heidegger’s words building a house or
dwelling) is not simply a geometrical space. However, unlike Heidegger
who briefly points out that to dwell is to be set at peace, Bachelard
explains in detail the way in which a house develops close relationships
with human beings. He compares a house to an eternal space that
helps us to shelter our dreams in the fleeting world. Bachelard writes
“the house shelters daydreaming, the house protects the dreamer . . . the
house allows one to dream in peace. . . . Without it, man would be a
dispersed being. It maintains him through the storms of the heavens
and through those of life.” (Bachelard, 1994, 6–7) Bachelard’s account
implies that the outside world is a chaotic one. In addition to protecting
the occupant’s dreams, the house also helps to store memories. Accord-
ing to this philosopher, “a great many of our memories are housed” in
the house (Bachelard, 1994, 8). Bachelard elaborates:
We think we know ourselves in time, when all we know is a sequence
of fixations in the spaces of the being’s stability—a being who does not
want to melt away, and who, even in the past, when he sets out in search
of things past, wants time to ‘suspend’ its flight. In its countless alveoli
space contains compressed time. That is what space is for. . . . Memories
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14 chapter one
are motionless, and the more securely they are fixed in space, the sounder
they are. (Bachelard, 1994, 8–9)
Dreams and memories are two significant elements that contribute to
making a house, a building and a ‘place’ more than merely a geometrical
space. They help to secure us in a fast changing world. To do so, Bache-
lard implies that both memories and space are fixed. But these elements
are not as stable as Bachelard imagines.
The images—space, building and house—which Harvey, Heidegger
and Bachelard choose to illustrate their aesthetics, create confusion. For
example, the concept of space is not as static as they think. In her “The
Political Place of Locality Studies,” Doreen Massey disputes Harvey’s
idea of ‘spatial fixity.’ Massey notices that Harvey tries to generalize the
concept of locality to a wider field. While Massey focuses on the concept
of locality on a daily life level, Harvey focuses on the aesthetic concept.
According to Massey, localities are not static because “they are about
the intersection of social activities and social relations and, crucially,
activities and relations which are necessarily, by defi nition, dynamic,
changing.” (Massey, 1998, 136) Massey realizes that Harvey follows the
arguments of Heidegger and Bachelard in relation to space. However,
she does not think the interpretations of those writers are the only ones
or the most appropriate ones.
I agree with Massey that Harvey’s application of space to explain
modernist aesthetics is problematic. First of all, terms such as ‘space,’
‘place’ and ‘localities’ have become controversial nowadays. Secondly,
the changes of the conception of ‘place’ in history must be considered.12
Moreover, Harvey is not consistent in using the concept of space. On
one hand, he uses the connotative or metaphorical meaning of space
to explain his aesthetics: “Time connotes Becoming. . . . Space connotes
Being” (Massey, 1998, 135–36). On the other hand, Harvey uses the lit-
eral meaning of space, giving architecture as an example and illustrating
how architects achieve the ‘spatialization of time.’
Furthermore, is a house or dwelling as homely and secure as Bache-
lard and Heidegger think? Based on Sigmund Freud’s “The Uncanny,”
Anthony Vidler further develops the idea of the unhomely home.
12
Tuan Yi-fu in the introductory chapter of his Space and Place: The Perspective of
Experience distinguishes the concept of ‘space’ from ‘place.’ Edward S. Casey gives a
detailed account of the changes of the conception of ‘place’ in history in his The Fate of
Place. Doreen Massey’s Space, Place and Gender helps us understand the current debates
on the controversial issues of ‘space,’ ‘place’ and localities.
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introduction 15
According to Vidler, the unhomely home is a by-product of modernity.

This does not mean that our homes have become uncanny in modern
times. In fact, as Freud points out, the word ‘home’ is a paradoxical term,
because it embodies both the meanings of homely and unhomely. The
feeling of uncanniness has been suppressed by religions, civilizations
and so forth. However, certain modern conditions such as wars, modern
architecture, exile and modern technologies have helped to maintain
and reinvigorate the feeling of uncanniness. As a result, modern people
no longer feel at home in their homes. In other words, a house or dwell-
ing is not as homely as Bachelard and Heidegger think. The issue of the
‘Unhomely House’ will be discussed in detail in the next chapter.
In addition to space, the idea that memory is fixed is also question-
able. According to Bachelard and Harvey, memories are static; they can
be fixed and compressed in space. Recent studies show, however, that
memories are subject to change. David Gross points out that “most psy-
chologists dismiss the notion that memory operates by means of mental
imprints or iconic likenesses” (Gross, 2000, 4). In addition:
Memories are not inertly stored like so many items in a warehouse. On the
contrary, contemporary explanations assume that memories are preserved
through elaborate mental mappings or schemata which evolve and change
over time. . . . Finally, current scientific opinion maintains that there is no
such thing as an exact recall of what was initially registered as a memory.
Rather our memories are said to get reconfigured in the process of being
preserved so that what comes forth in the end as a ‘memory’ is to a great
extent a construction—or reconstruction—of what actually happened in
the past. (Gross, 2000, 4)
Gross’s account not only shows us that memories are unstable but also
helps us to reconsider the concept of space. According to Bachelard’s
and Harvey’s logic, space is mainly for memories. These critics believe
that memories are static and space is motionless, too. As such, if memo-
ries are mutable, the idea of space being static should be reconsidered.
Finally, the ways in which Harvey suggests the architects, the painters,
the sculptors, the poets and the writers achieve the ‘spatialization of
time’ are also questionable. First of all, Harvey, as a geographer, rightly
points out that architects reflect their values through spatial form. Space
traditionally is thought to give us an impression of the static and immu-
table. However, this does not mean that the ways in which architects
handle space never change at all. Even the architects Harvey favor, such
as Le Corbusier and Mies van der Rohe, only represent the style of
modern architecture. They cannot stop changes of architectural styles.
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16 chapter one
Additionally, if the ‘spatialization of time’ merely means to put thoughts

into words, Berman’s and other thinkers’ works which put emphasis on
the fleeting world should be considered as having achieved the modern
aesthetics of ‘spatialization of time’ as well.
Harvey resembles Berman, who puts stress on one side of the dual
formulation. While Berman emphasizes the mutable, Harvey accents the
immutable. Although they understand that modern aesthetics embod-
ies both contradictory forces, these critics do not understand that mod-
ernist writers’ responses to the phenomenon of ‘placelessness’ are not as
definite as they imagine.
The Poetic Space
Modernist writers’ attitudes toward ‘lost places’ are ambivalent. On the

one hand, they try to escape from the state of ‘placelessness’ through trav-
eling and distorting their living spaces. On the other hand, they accom-
modate ‘placelessness’ by conjuring up an imaginative space. Modernist
writers such as Yeats, Joyce, Eliot, Pound and so forth exemplify these
phenomena. First, they tried to escape from ‘placelessness’ through dis-
placement. It is noteworthy that some of these writers such as Eliot and
Pound chose exile voluntarily. Pound considered the United States “an
uncongenial place for a serious artist to live. . . .” The poet declares: “If
you have any vital interest in arts and letters . . . you will sooner or later
leave the country” (Eder, 1984, 23). Likewise, “America seemed to Eliot,
as it did to Pound, a cultural desert” (Eder, 1984, 56). In other words,
the United States was not a ‘place’ for artists, and so Pound and Eliot
escaped through life in exile.
On the other hand, to try to escape from the state of ‘placelessness’,
these modernist writers also attempted to accommodate themselves to
the phenomenon. They tried to do without ‘place’ by conjuring up an
imaginative space. Lutwack argues that:
Those who anguish over the condition of placelessness probably overem-
phasize the importance of place in human affairs. . . . Indeed, traditions may
thrive without localization among groups of people having an especially
intense common interest, and many of the more civilized activities of the
world have been carried on by groups less identified by shared places than
by shared interests. (Lutwack, 1984, 236)
In their literary works, Western modernist writers do not invent and
share an identical imaginative world with their Taiwanese counterparts.
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introduction 17
They create different mythic worlds in their works. Yeats, for instance,
tries to escape from, and to accommodate, ‘placelessness’ in his poems.
In “Easter 1916,” the poet distorts ‘place’ through hallucination, which
is another way to escape:
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
[. . .]
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute (Ferguson, 1996, 1089–90)
Yeats shows us in this poem a world that changes minute by minute. The
‘place’ changes so much that the poet imagines that ‘a terrible beauty is
born.’ This does not mean, however, that the poet simply escapes from
the fleeting world. In fact, Yeats also tries to conjure up a timeless world
in his Byzantium poems. “Sailing to Byzantium” is a good example:
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come. (Ferguson, 1996, 1095)
At the beginning of this poem, Yeats tells us that there is no ‘place’ for
old men in the world. It is noteworthy that the poet uses an old man as
a protagonist in the poem. Old men are obviously beaten by time. They
become old in time. However, the persona, or Yeats, decides to resist
time’s tyranny. He sets out to an imagined world, ‘Byzantium.’ At last,
he achieves eternity, because people there know nothing about the past,
present or future. Time in Byzantium seems to come to a standstill.
Yeats is not an exceptional case. Other modernist writers also embody
their ambivalent attitudes in their works. Proust believes that the phe-
nomenon of ‘placelessness’ is caused by urbanization. He laments that
“houses, roads, avenues are as fugitive, alas, as the years” (Proust, 1982,
462). What Proust tells us goes beyond some changing houses and
roads. He blames the fast tempo of life in the modern world for changing
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18 chapter one
everything rapidly. Since reality is ephemeral, Proust tries to accommo-

date ‘placelessness’ through conjuring up or through reinventing a past
that can preserve his happiness. If the past is a foreign country, as David
Lowenthal claims, Proust resembles Yeats who also imagines a foreign
country for himself.
Likewise, Joyce, Eliot and Pound build mythic worlds in their works.
They are similar to Yeats and Proust who are also interested in the past,
no matter whether it is a mythic past such as ‘Byzantium’ or the com-
paratively authentic past of Proust’s childhood. As Doris Eder remarks:
The work of all three writers is imbued with the modern attitude to the
past—that the past was radically different from the present but eternally
haunts it and so is inescapably past-present. The Waste Land, The Cantos,
and Ulysses all make use of the mythic method, juxtaposing past and pres-
ent for comic, mock-heroic, or tragic effect, always for ironic contrast, and
for completeness too. (Eder, 1984, 2–3)
One thing Eder does not mention here is that the juxtaposition of the
past and present creates a timeless effect that helps the writers reach an
accommodation with ‘placelessness.’
Modern aesthetics indeed consists of two contradictory forces. How-
ever, the two forces do not, as Baudelaire suggests, claim an equal share
in the dual formulation. In fact, the contradictory forces have a para-
doxical relationship, which is the mutable embodied in the immutable
or vice versa.
Taiwanese Modernist Aesthetics
The paradoxical relationship between the mutable and the immutable,

as well as between ‘place’ and ‘placelessness’ in modernist poetry not
only helps to shed light on our understanding of modern aesthetics
but also distinguishes Taiwanese modernist poetry from its Mainland
counterpart.
The association between modernism and modern Chinese poetry can
be traced back as early as the literary revolution of 1917. While mod-
ern Chinese poetry was still in the experimental stage, the poets were
aware of the changes in the tempo of modern living. For instance, the
early poems of Hu Shi 胡適 and Guo Moruo 郭沫若 reflect these poets’
sensitivity to modern life. In the 1920s and 1930s, Bian Zhilin 卞之琳,
Fei Ming 廢名, Feng Zhi 馮至 and poet-architect Lin Huiyin 林徽因
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introduction 19
depicted the mutable modern world in further detail. Fei Ming’s “Jie
Tou” [Street Corner] is a good example:
as I walk to the street corner,
a car drives by;
thus, the loneliness
of the mailbox.
mailbox P O
thus, can’t remember
the car’s number X,
thus, the loneliness
of arabic numbers,
loneliness of the car,
loneliness of the street,
loneliness of mankind. (Yeh, 1991, 5)
行到街頭乃有汽車馳過, / 乃有郵筒寂寞。/ 郵筒 PO / 乃記不起

汽車的號碼 X, / 乃有阿拉伯數字寂寞, / 汽車寂寞, / 大街寂寞, /
人類寂寞。
Fei Ming portrays a fugitive world in his poem, which was written in
the 1930s. The poet stands on a street corner in Beijing. A speeding car
passes him. A PO box is located on the other side of the street. The two
letters ‘P’ and ‘O’ on the PO box remind the poet of two big eyes. The
poet thinks the eyes are staring at him. He feels lonely. When he looks
back to the car, it has already disappeared. The poet cannot recall the
numbers on the car’s license plate. He feels lonely. Why does Fei Ming
feel lonely at the street corner? Yeh succinctly points out that Fei Ming’s
loneliness “arises from his bewilderment at the material conditions of
the modern world, captured in the paradox that the hustle and bustle
in the external world instills in him only a deep sense of isolation and
helplessness” (Yeh, 1991, 7).13 In fact, the modern sentiments depicted
in Fei Ming’s poem echo those of Baudelaire’s “To a Passerby.” In addi-
tion to the theme of the fast tempo of life of the modern city, Fei also
seems to be in a state of ‘delayed response.’ When he wants to recall the
car’s number, it is too late. This is because the car is too fast and the
poet’s response, too slow.
13
Fei Ming (Feng Wenbing) and Michelle Yeh discuss this poem in detail in Tan
Xinshi [On Modern Chinese Poetry] (Feng, 1984, 223–24) and Modern Chinese Poetry
(Yeh, 1991, 6–10) respectively.
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20 chapter one
In the 1940s, poets of the so-called Jiu Ye Pai 九葉派, such as Wang
Xindi 王辛笛, Hang Yuehe 杭約赫, Chen Jingrong 陳敬容, Mu Dan
穆旦, and Zheng Min 鄭敏, continued to write modernist poetry.
These poets resembled most of the Chinese people, who believed that
change and progress could lead them out of their predicament. As Leo
Lee Ou-fan 李歐梵 remarks, “in their eagerness to catch up with the
West, Chinese intellectuals and creative writers did not have the luxury
of hindsight to adopt a totally hostile stance toward modernity” (Lee,
1999, 147). According to Matei Calinescu, modernity can be divided
into two different kinds: “modernity as a stage in the history of Western
civilization . . . and modernity as an aesthetic concept” (Calinescu, 1987,
41). The modernity as an aesthetic concept, when it refers to modern-
ism, is a revolt against modernity as a historical stage. Lee points out
that the modernist poets in Mainland China in the 1940s were different
from their Western counterparts. Instead of revolting against the ever-
progressing historical modernity, the poets embraced it. In other words,
these poets praised the mutable, ephemeral world and the development
of ‘placelessness.’
The exile experience of the Taiwanese modernist poets and the
urbanization of Taipei contributed to making them different from their
counterparts in Mainland China. In the late 1940s, the Kuomintang
(KMT) was defeated by the Chinese Communist Party (CCP), and more
than one million people retreated to Taiwan in 1949. Although Taiwan
officially became part of China in 1684, the Qing government paid little
attention to the island. Shortly before Taiwan was ceded to Japan, the
Qing government realized the importance of the island and started to
implement new policies toward it. Nevertheless Taiwan was given to
Japan after it defeated the Qing government in 1895 and remained a
colony of Japan for fifty years. Subsequently, Taiwan underwent dra-
matic modernization under Japan’s control and the people of Taiwan
had to learn to speak and write Japanese. In addition, infrastructure and
architecture were developed under Japan’s occupation.14 It is therefore
not difficult to imagine that the Taiwanese landscape and the Taiwan-
ese themselves would have seemed quite foreign to the Mainland Chi-
nese who arrived later. As such, these Mainland Chinese are similar to
people who have been exiled to a foreign country. Besides, according
14
A detailed account of contemporary Taiwan history can be found in Chen Shui-
yuan’s Taiwan Lishi de Guiji [Taiwan History].
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introduction 21
to Malcolm Bradbury, modernism finds its home in cities (Bradbury,

1991, 95–104).15 Taiwan has intensively developed her economy since
the 1960s, and as a result, rural areas have gradually been replaced by
cities. Taipei is one example.16 Urbanization makes people feel nostalgic
for the countryside as well as for the past. The exile experience and the
movement of the population to urban centers such as Taipei stimulate
the Taiwanese modernist poets to escape from, and to accommodate
to, ‘placelessness.’ The Taiwanese modernist poets are therefore differ-
ent from their Mainland counterparts. Instead of embracing progressive
historical modernity, the Taiwanese modernist poets criticize it, or try
to do without it, by means of conjuring up an imagined literary commu-
nity. I will discuss the formation of the community in detail in Chapter
Five.
This study focuses on five exiled poets: Lomen, Luo Fu, Rong Zi, Yu
Guangzhong and Zheng Chouyu. One may ask why only the poets from
the Mainland were chosen. I noticed that certain native poets such as
Lin Hengtai 林亨泰, Ye Shan 葉珊, Bai Qiu 白萩, and so forth, were
also interested in modernism contemporaneously with the exiled poets.
In fact, some native Taiwanese poets embody nostalgic sentiments or
anti-urbanism in their works, which are similar to those of the exiled
poets. However, I believe that any discussion of native Taiwanese poets
must deal with the issues of post-colonialism and colonialism to a cer-
tain extent. Since my study does not cover these particular areas, I will
concentrate my discussion only on the exiled poets from the Mainland.
From a host of poets in exile, why were these writers chosen? As exiles
these five poets differ from their contemporaries in the 1950s and 1960s.
While most of their fellow poets ceased to write, these five poets are still
actively composing poetry. I think this point is very important because
poets who stopped writing poems at an early stage tend to put emphasis
on only one side of the contradictory forces I have discussed earlier. Ya
Xian 瘂弦, who wrote poetry for about eleven years, is one example.
The poet subjectively depicted the objective world around him, and in
his most famous poem, “Shen Yuan” [Abyss], he vividly outlined the
transience of modern life (Liu, 1996, 246–52). On the other hand, Zhou
15
Thorough accounts on the relation between the city and modernism can be found
in Malcolm Bradbury’s “The Cities of Modernism” in Modernism: A Guide to European
Literature 1890–1930 and Richard Lehan’s The City in Literature.
16
In his Taiwan History, Chen Shuiyuan describes in detail how the economy devel-
oped in Taiwan in the 1960s. Chapter Eight and Chapter Nine are the most important.
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22 chapter one
Mengdie 周夢蝶 invented a world based on Buddhism in his work.

Zhou tried to lessen the pain of being in exile by turning to Buddhism
and Zen, depicting a religious world in his poetry.
The poets I am going to discuss are different from Ya, Zhou or other
Taiwanese modernist poets. Rather than trying to resolve the opposi-
tion between mutability and immutability, ‘placelessness’ and ‘place,’ the
five poets embody these contradictory forces in their poetry. They not
only illustrate a mutable world in their poems but also an immutable
one; they not only escape from ‘placelessness’ but also accommodate
it. Moreover, these poets belonged to the three major poetry societies
of the 1950s: Xiandai Pai 現代派, Lan Xing 藍星 and Chuang Shiji
創世紀. Yu Guangzhong, Lomen and Rong Zi are from the Lan Xing;
Zheng Chouyu is from Xiandai Pai; Luo Fu is from Chuang Shiji. Each
of these three societies has its own characteristics. While Xiandai Pai
advocated a direct literary transplantation from the West from the work
of Baudelaire onwards, Chuang Shiji promoted surrealist poetry. Lan
Xing was a revolt against Westernized poetics, and it advocated the Chi-
nese lyric. Although most poets of these schools stress that their work
is not restricted by the poetic tenets of their group, the characteristics of
different schools are to some extent manifested by these poets.
Another important reason for choosing these poets for study is that
they belong to the same generation. Except for Zheng Chouyu who was
born in 1933, all of them were born in 1928 and share elements of a
similar background. Although they hail from different walks of life, they
were all related to the KMT government to some extent. Lomen, Rong
Zi and Luo Fu were civil servants: Lomen served in the Civil Aviation
Bureau in Taiwan; Rong Zi worked for the telecommunications bureau;
and Luo Fu was a soldier. Yu taught at universities, but his father was a
senior official in the government. Likewise, Zheng’s father was a promi-
nent general, though Zheng worked at Jilong Harbor before he left Tai-
wan for the United States.17 I believe that studying poets from similar
yet different backgrounds helps to shed light on the whole picture of
Taiwanese modernist poetry.
17
Background information on the five poets chosen for my study can be found in
Michelle Yeh’s Anthology of Modern Chinese Poetry and Liu Denghan’s Bian de Miusi:
Taiwan Shigelun [The Muse on the Other Shore: On Taiwanese Poetry].
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introduction 23
Last but not least, why is poetry chosen as the subject of this study?
There are many reasons. One of them is that “the crisis of Modernism
was felt particularly sharply in poetry, because poetry, above all the
genres, tends to experience changes of relationship and belief in a cul-
ture at the direct levels of subject-and-object relationship, and at the
very base of form and language” (Bradbury, 1991, 311). I believe that, to
some extent, these remarks on modernist poetry are not only applica-
ble to Western modernist poetry but also to its Taiwanese counterpart.
Modern Chinese poetry has been marginalized in the modern era by
mass media and popular culture.18 This displacement of poetry from the
center to the margin is similar to being sent into exile. In other words,
the exiled Taiwanese poets suffer from double-exile: a geographical one
and an aesthetic one. As such, the crisis of modernism is undoubtedly
felt more deeply and sharply by the Taiwanese modernist poets than
by other writers. Since modernist poetry ‘takes the lyric as its primary
model,’ which means that it always tends to ‘follow the contours of indi-
vidual experience,’ a study of modernist poetry may more accurately
reflect the spirit of the modernist movement (Hough, 1991, 320). In
the age of diaspora, language acquires new roles. It is no longer only
a means of communication. It represents identity and home, too. This
issue of language will be discussed in Chapter Five.
In this introduction, I have discussed two sets of oppositions: ‘place’
and ‘placelessness,’ mutability and immutability. These apparently dif-
ferent oppositions are actually related. While ‘place’ and ‘placelessness’
are the causes, mutability and immutability are the effects. While the
former opposition is associated with social phenomena such as dias-
pora, urbanization and so forth, the latter is a key element of modern-
ist aesthetic theory that represents a response to these social facts. The
focus in this study will be on the modernist aesthetics or spatial aesthet-
ics in Taiwanese poetry. However, as I pointed out before, the relation-
ship between society and art is a paradoxical one. Since the modernist
aesthetic or modernist art is tied to society, it is impossible to discuss
the modernist aesthetic in Taiwanese poetry without considering the
social context in which the poetry was written. Three major social facts
18
A detailed account of the marginalization of modern Chinese poetry in the mod-
ern era can be found in Michelle Yeh’s Anthology of Modern Chinese Poetry. The intro-
duction is the most important.
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24 chapter one
are derived from the opposition of ‘place’ and ‘placelessness,’ namely,

unhomely houses, urbanization and exile. The remaining chapters of
this book will examine the modernist aesthetic embodied in the Tai-
wanese poetry written by the five poets mentioned above.19 One of my
aims is to show how ‘place’ becomes ‘placelessness.’ To do this, three
kinds of ‘places’ are examined: the house, the city and the homeland.
Another aim of my study is to examine the Taiwanese modernist poets’
ambivalent responses to the phenomenon of ‘placelessness.’ I will not
only demonstrate how these poets escape from the predicament of
‘placelessness’ but also show how they accommodate it through conjur-
ing up an imaginative space—an imagined literary community.
This book is divided into four parts. I will start by examining the
most personal and substantial space—the house—and end my study
with the most public and abstract one—an imagined literary commu-
nity. Between these extremes, I will observe the city of Taipei and the
concept of homeland.
A house as a home is always considered a secure and homely space.
Nevertheless, as we shall discover, one of the leitmotifs of Taiwanese
modernist poetry is the desire to have a homely home. This fact raises
the following questions: What is home? What factors contribute to
making a home homely or unhomely? Why do Taiwanese modernist
poets long to have a homely home? The study in Chapter Two shows
that dwelling is not only a physical and architectural issue but also an
aesthetic and psychological problem. I will try to answer the above
questions by addressing the following topics: ‘Homely and Unhomely,’
‘Buried Alive,’ ‘Transparent Space’ and ‘Dark Space.’ The examinations
of Lomen’s and Luo Fu’s dwellings—the light space and the dark space,
respectively—show the idea of home becoming paradoxical as it embod-
ies both homeliness and uncanniness, or light and darkness.
The city is an essential locus of modernist aesthetics and Taipei is no
exception; it is the home of Taiwanese modernist poets. However, these
poets did not like Taipei, and most of them did not write urban poetry in
the 1950s and 1960s. Even when these poets do write about the city, their
poetry embodies a sense of anti-urbanism. Paradoxically, these poets
19
I realize that the five poets I chose for this study are still actively writing and pub-
lishing poetry; however, this project will only cover the works written by them from the
1950s to the 1990s.
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introduction 25
have lived in cities most of their lives. Given this contradiction, I will
try to investigate the following questions in Chapter Three: What does
the silence of the poets on the subject of the city in the 1950s and 1960s
imply? Why do Taiwanese modernist poets show hostility toward cities?
What factors contribute to the making of the urban uncanny? My study
suggests that in modernist poetry the city represents more than a physi-
cal ‘place.’ I will try to answer these questions by examining three major
topics: ‘The Unreal City,’ ‘The Urban Uncanny’ and ‘Estrangement.’
Homeland becomes an unstable entity in the modern world. The word
‘origin’ embodies numerous meanings due to modern people’s mobility.
As a matter of fact, the poets featured in this book try to escape from
‘placelessness’ through travels, migration, study or work abroad. As a
result, homeland becomes a shifting ground. The exiled poets always
embody their nostalgic feelings in their poetry; they yearn for their lost
origins. However, the poets I chose for this study have different ideas on
origins. In Chapter Four, I will study three different concepts of origin
under three major topics: ‘Yearning for the Lost Origin,’ ‘Homecoming’
and ‘Origin as a Shifting Ground.’ In addition, I will explore to what
extent poststructuralist theories of origin help to explain the concept of
homeland of the Taiwanese modernist poets.
After having examined how ‘places’ become ‘placeless’ or how the
essence of ‘place’ is undermined, I will discuss in Chapter Five how
an imaginative space—imagined literary community—is created out
of ‘placelessness.’ The so-called imagined literary community actually
represents ancient Chinese tradition. In other words, Taiwanese poets
want to reconnect with their cultural roots. These poets try to return
to Chinese tradition through three elements: language, memory and
nature. It turns out that, on the one hand, these poets try hard to return
to ancient Chinese culture. On the other hand, they reconstruct the
tradition to various degrees when they attempt to reconnect with it.
In Chapter Five, I will examine how the imagined literary community
is formed through the Chinese language, the fabrication of memories,
and the return to nature. Since the Taiwanese modernist poets cannot
return to the Chinese tradition without distorting it, can the imagined
literary community ever be formed? What other alternatives do these
poets have for seeking a ‘place’ out of ‘placelessness’? I will try to answer
these questions by considering the following major topics: ‘Horizontal
Comradeship,’ ‘Vertical Comradeship,’ ‘Language as Home,’ ‘Fabricat-
ing Memories,’ and ‘Returning to Nature.’
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26 chapter one
Can a study of modernist aesthetics in Taiwanese poetry have a con-

clusion? Given the scope and depth of the subject, in the last chapter
I will not only attempt some conclusions about the significance of my
discussions, but will also raise important issues which have not been
examined in the current study.
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CHAPTER TWO
UNHOMELY HOUSES
A house as a ‘home’ is always considered a secure and ‘homely’ space.

However, the desire for a ‘homely home’ is an essential theme that repeat-
edly occurs in Taiwanese modernist poems. This observation leads me
to pursue the reasons behind, and the role of, such desire in these writ-
ings. From a psychoanalytic point of view, this desire may be indicative
of the need for a sense of security.
‘Homes’ are essential to human beings fighting against the sense of
insecurity. Without a proper ‘home,’ like an animal without a proper
shelter, humans feel uneasy. I suppose it is this uneasiness or uncanny
feeling which nurtures Taiwanese modernist poetry. However, the
meaning of ‘home’ to humans is somewhat different, or perhaps wider,
than the meaning of ‘shelter’ to animals. ‘Home’ to humans is psycho-
logical as well as physical. It is reflected in a human’s perception of space
in one’s surroundings as well as in architecture.
There are several questions in connection with the issue of ‘home’ in
Taiwanese modernist poems. Why does the strong desire for a ‘homely
home’ exist and ultimately turn out to be an essential theme in these
poems? Would the criteria for a ‘homely home’ be more physical or psy-
chological? Finally, when and how does the idea of ‘home’ become para-
doxical? Why does ‘home’ embody both homeliness and uncanniness?
Since ‘home’ is a universal requirement for all human beings, Taiwan-
ese modernist poets also want to have a ‘homely home.’ Although these
poets come from a non-Western cultural background, they have faced
problems similar to those of their Western counterparts in the twentieth
century, such as wars, exile, urbanization and so forth. In fact, many
people became homeless.
Among the five poets I have chosen for my study, Lomen and Luo Fu
are most sensitive to the sense of unhomeliness embodied in architec-
tural space. In order to escape the modernity problem, Lomen turned
his house into a museum of light, and Luo Fu turned inward and wrote
surrealistic poetry. In the rest of the chapter, I will draw parallels and
identify relevant findings from other disciplines, as well as Western civili-
zation, to assist my analysis of the issue of ‘home’ in Taiwanese modernist
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28 chapter two
poetry. I will try to answer the questions mentioned above by examining

Lomen’s and Luo Fu’s poetry as well as their dwelling places.
‘Homely’ and ‘Unhomely’
In The Architectural Uncanny, Anthony Vidler directly points out the

relationship between ‘the unsettling qualities’ of contemporary archi-
tecture and ‘the unstable nature of house and home’ (Vidler, 1992, ix).
In other words, uncanny ‘homes’ were byproducts of modernity. There
are a couple of reasons. First of all, the emergence of the bourgeoisie
and the rent system helped make the ‘home’ ‘unhomely.’ The insecu-
rity felt by the bourgeoisie in their own ‘homes’ was best exemplified in
detective novels. As Ernst Bloch points out in “A Philosophical View of
the Detective Novel,” “The setting in which detective stories are enjoyed
the most is just too cozy. In a comfortable chair, under the nocturnal
floor lamp with tea, rum, and tobacco, personally secure and peacefully
immersed in dangerous things, which are shallow” (Bloch, 1998, 209).
In the detective novel, murder is always committed in this kind of envi-
ronment or in the cozy house of the bourgeoisie. This reminds us that
the apparently ‘homely’ house is in fact ‘unhomely.’
In addition, the emergence of the rent system means that many people
no longer own their own ‘homes.’ We can never feel at ‘home’ because
we are always in someone else’s house (Vidler, 1992, 5). Besides, the
First and Second World Wars of the West not only made a lot of people
homeless, but also made a lot of houses desolate.
Lastly, the aesthetics of modernist architecture embodies a sense of
unhomeliness. Vidler points out:
The Enlightenment dream of rational and transparent space, as inherited
by modernist utopianism, was troubled from the outset by the realization
that space as such was posited on the basis of an aesthetics of uncertainty
and movement and a psychology of anxiety, whether nostalgically melan-
cholic or progressively anticipatory. (Vidler, 2000, 3)1
In other words, the modernist glass buildings people dwell in contribute
to the development of the feeling of uncanniness.
1
A detailed account of the development of the transparent space of the Enlightenment
can be found in Stephen Kern’s The Culture of Time and Space, 1880–1918.
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unhomely houses 29
In his celebrated article “The Uncanny,” Freud thoroughly treats the

notions of heimlich [homely] and unheimlich [unhomely]. Freud traces
the meaning of ‘homely’ back to Daniel Sanders’ and Grimm’s diction-
aries which were published in 1860 and 1877 respectively. He concludes
that the word ‘homely’ is an ambiguous term: “on the one hand it means
what is familiar and agreeable, and on the other, what is concealed and
kept out of sight” (Freud, 1964, 224–25). In other words, the word heim-
lich also embodies the meaning of unheimlich. The paradoxical relation-
ship between ‘homely’ and uncanny is further explained by Freud with
the assistance of F.W.J. Schelling’s remark on the uncanny. According
to Schelling, “ ‘Unheimlich’ is the name for everything that ought to have
remained . . . secret and hidden but has come to light” (Freud, 1964, 224).
Freud referred to Schelling’s definition of the uncanny and redefined
uncanny as “in reality nothing new or alien, but something which is
familiar and old-established in the mind and which has become alien-
ated from it only through the process of repression. . . . The uncanny as
something which ought to have remained hidden but has come to light”
(Freud, 1964, 241). Although Freud successfully applies the theory
of repression to explain how things are hidden, he is not in the least
interested in the reason why Schelling comes to such a definition of the
uncanny.
Freud did not further pursue this question; Vidler, however, did.
According to Vidler, Schelling’s explanation of the origin of the
uncanny is related to the origins of religion, philosophy and poetry.
Vidler concurs with Schelling and proclaims that “the Homeric sublime
was founded on the repression of the uncanny” (Vidler, 1992, 26). As
Schelling points out, the reason why Greece has a Homer is that ancient
Greece is dominated by an uncanny power, which is a kind of primal
dread. The Homeric sublime is an outgrowth of the uncanny. As a result,
the dark and obscure powers are repressed by the sublime and reduced
to the Mysteries (Vidler, 1992, 27). Schelling’s explanation of the origin
of the uncanny cannot be thoroughly understood without the help of
Edmund Burke’s idea of the sublime. In A Philosophical Enquiry into
the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful, Burke writes clearly
that terror is a source of the sublime:
Whatever is fitted in any sort to excite the ideas of pain, and danger, that
is to say, whatever is in any sort terrible, or is conversant about terrible
objects, or operates in a manner analogous to terror, is a source of the
sublime. (Burke, 1990, 36)
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30 chapter two
In other words, if there is no terror, the sublime will not be possible.

‘The Enlightenment dream of rational and transparent space’ was
founded on the repression of dread or of the dark space which triggers
dread (Vidler, 2000, 3). One of the main concerns of the Enlighten-
ment “was to cast light on ‘dark’ and confused ideas and spirits” (Delius,
2000, 62). According to Jean Le Rond d’Alembert, the Enlightenment is
in contrast with the Middle Ages which were earlier referred to as the
Dark Ages (Delius, 2000, 65). In contrast to the Dark Ages, during the
Enlightenment human beings were mature enough to make use of their
intellect without the guidance of God. People in the era of Enlighten-
ment had the determination and courage to use their intellect on their
own (Delius, 2000, 62). Although the philosophy of the Enlightenment
period also extended its influences on architects, the technical devel-
opment of architecture did not keep pace with thought. Architects did
not have the appropriate techniques and materials to build a light or
transparent space. This limitation is best exemplified by an architect—
Etienne-Louis Boullee—of the Enlightenment period.
In the eighteenth century while most architects returned to the clas-
sics, Boullee expressed his idea of the sublime through his drawings. It
is noteworthy that most of Boullee’s imaginative projects are only on
paper, and that his executed works are conventional ones. We can see
from Boullee’s drawings that the architect notices the paradoxical rela-
tionship between light and dark: the former is an outgrowth of the latter
or vice versa. Nevertheless, architectural technology of the time could
only allow Boullee to build a dark space, not a light one. For example,
in Boullee’s drawing “Cenotaph for Sir Isaac Newton,” we can see that
under the thick wall which usually contributes to the development of
the dark space, the interior of the sphere is illuminated by a fire hanging
in the dome. The dream of building a light or transparent space was not
realized until the nineteenth century. In 1851, Joseph Paxton used iron
and glass to build the Crystal Palace in Hyde Park, London. This green-
house-like exhibition building was a harbinger of modernist transpar-
ency style. The later invention of reinforced concrete helped to perfect
the transparent space. As a result, it was possible for Le Corbusier to
build houses which were flooded with air and light. However, this appar-
ently transparent space embodied dark space and vice versa.
Although Freud’s discussion of the uncanny was in relation to aes-
thetics, he did not make note of the paradoxical relationship between
the sublime and the uncanny. He even considered the sublime and the
uncanny a binary opposition (Freud, 1964, 219). Among numerous def-
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unhomely houses 31
initions of the unheimlich one can find in the dictionaries, Freud chose
Schelling’s explanation. Freud’s interpretation clearly suggests that the
uncanny he discussed is a kind of primitive dread which is repressed for
a long time.2 Although this kind of dread should remain hidden, it may
come to light. It is not the purpose of this chapter to examine the rea-
sons why this dread came to light at the end of the eighteenth century.
Nevertheless, I believe the rapid changes brought about by the Indus-
trial Revolution and urbanization, by the changing pace of life and by
the First and Second World Wars, undoubtedly helped destroy people’s
belief in the ‘homely home.’ For instance, Nietzsche proclaimed that
God was dead. In fact, traditional European Christianity was similar
to the Homeric sublime which was used to repress the uncanny power.
Finally, the absolute light or transparent space emphasized by the
Enlightenment project and realized by the modernist architects inevita-
bly destroyed the balance between dark and light spaces. As I mentioned
before, terror is an outgrowth of the sublime and vice versa. As such, the
absolute repression of dark space brings forth the feeling of uncanni-
ness.3 Since the defense mechanism was broken, the primal dread or the
sense of insecurity emerged. The feeling of uncanniness can be triggered
by anything that makes us feel insecure, for instance, social and political
instabilities.
In short, ‘home’ has metaphorical meaning. It is not only a physical
shelter, but is also a spiritual shelter which helps human beings repress
primitive dread. The situation and development in China are naturally
different from those in the West. Since primal dread is a universal phe-
nomenon, I believe the ancient Chinese undoubtedly also faced this
2
In “The Uncanny,” Freud points out that the uncanny touches the residues of ani-
mistic mental activity within us (Freud, 1964, 241). He further elaborates on the rela-
tionship between the uncanny and primitive belief: “Let us take the uncanny associated
with the omnipotence of thoughts, with the prompt fulfilment of wishes, with secret
injurious powers and with the return of the dead. The condition under which the feel-
ing of uncanniness arises here is unmistakable. We—or our primitive forefathers—once
believed that these possibilities were realities, and were convinced that they actually
happened. Nowadays we no longer believe in them, we have surmounted these modes
of thought; but we do not feel quite sure of our new beliefs, and the old ones still exist
within us ready to seize upon any confirmation. As soon as something actually happens
in our lives which seems to confirm the old, discarded beliefs we get a feeling of the
uncanny” (Freud, 1964, 247–48).
3
A detailed account of the relationship between the Enlightenment project’s trans-
parent or light space and the dark space can be found in Vidler’s The Architectural
Uncanny. The Introduction and the chapters on “Unhomely Houses” and on “Dark
Space” are the most important.
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32 chapter two
kind of fear. Although there was neither sophisticated religion nor the
Homeric sublime in Chinese culture, Chinese people developed numer-
ous philosophies to lessen their sense of insecurity. Among them, Con-
fucianism was the most important, though it faced severe challenges
after the nineteenth century and was almost eradicated at the beginning
of the twentieth century and during the Cultural Revolution in Main-
land China. Marxism replaced Confucianism as the dominant philoso-
phy in Mainland China after 1949.
The physical and spiritual shelters of the exiled Taiwanese modernist
poets were also shaken in the 1950s. After the KMT government retreated
to Taiwan, the ruling party advocated ‘combat literature’ which helped
to propagate anti-communist ideology. In addition, the KMT govern-
ment maintained that it was the guardian of traditional Chinese culture.
The “traditional Chinese cultural values, symbols, history, art, hand-
crafts, Mandarin, the Mainland landscape, and the like, were officially
extolled” (Hsiau, 2000, 66). The KMT government’s decision to protect
Chinese tradition can be best seen in the ‘Chinese Cultural Renaissance
Movement.’ Chiang Kai-shek 蔣介石 tried to maintain the nation’s her-
itage through this campaign. In spite of the ruling party’s great effort to
reconnect with Chinese tradition, the exiled poets and writers did not
feel its appeal. As Wai-lim Yip 葉維廉 ascertained, exiled people are
in a drifting state. Ancient China is far removed from them. The real
world is shattered. The subjective world is the only certain thing left to
them (Yip, 1982, 52). These exiled writers were interested in modernism
from the West, for they shared similar kinds of feelings with Western
modernist writers. The exiled writers chose to turn inward and to dis-
tance themselves from the outside world.4 In short, Taiwanese modern-
ist poets lost their cultural traditions and spiritual ‘homes.’
Moreover, these Chinese in exile were physically homeless in Taiwan.
In fact, even if they were fortunate enough to rent an apartment, they
suffered from being forced to move from time to time. In addition, the
war between the KMT and the CCP did not come to a quick end. The
soldier poet, Luo Fu, lived in an air raid shelter for one year. All
4
The relationship between the exiled Mainlanders’ and the Chinese tradition is
examined in A-chin Hsiau’s Contemporary Taiwanese Cultural Nationalism. The chapter
on “Postwar Linguistic Problems, Literary development, and the Debate on Hsiang-t’u
Literature” is the most useful.
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unhomely houses 33
the above-mentioned factors made a ‘homely home’ impossible in Tai-

wan for the Mainlanders.5
Although the factors contributing to the development of the feeling
of uncanniness of the Taiwanese modernist poets were different from
those affecting their Western counterparts, the sentiments they shared
were similar.
Buried Alive
The difficulties of finding ‘homely homes’ in the Chinese context are

best exemplified in Taiwanese modernist poetry, as well as in some of
the poets’ dwellings, for example, Lomen’s ‘House of Light’ and Luo Fu’s
stone chamber. According to Freud, among all the factors that help to
produce the feeling of uncanniness, some people consider being mis-
takenly buried alive the most powerful (Freud, 1964, 244). Freud noted
this fear in his patients. Freud points out, “it often happens that neurotic
men declare that they feel there is something uncanny about the female
genital organs. This unheimlich place, however, is the entrance to the for-
mer Heim [home] of all human beings, to the place where each one of us
lived once upon a time and in the beginning” (Freud, 1964, 245). Freud
seems to liken the prenatal state of humans to someone who is buried
alive. Biologically speaking, a fetus is a living entity. But, its condition
of living in a womb makes its situation different from that of a living
human being; its situation reminds us of someone being buried alive. Of
course, while the fetus comes out of the womb after nine months, people
who are buried alive inevitably lose their lives.
Vidler further elaborates on Freud’s remark by using a real and fi c-
tional example, namely the city of Pompeii and Herman Melville’s short
story “I and My Chimney.” The relationship between the idea of being
buried alive and the city of Pompeii is obvious. The whole city and its
citizens were literally buried alive by a volcanic eruption. All the inhab-
itants and their houses have been well preserved by lava. This archaeo-
logical site was rediscovered in the nineteenth century and has since
become a national park.
There are at least four factors which help to trigger the feeling of
uncanniness in relation to the site of Pompeii. First is what some people
5
The term wai-sheng-ren (外省人) [Mainlanders] usually refers to the Chinese peo-
ple from Mainland China who were exiled to Taiwan shortly before or after 1949.
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34 chapter two
consider to be the most uncanny; all the citizens of Pompeii were liter-
ally buried alive by the natural disaster. Second, the mystery of the dead
city was suppressed by both the ash and history, but eventually came to
light. The archaeological site became a haunted ground, especially when
people saw the lively gestures and the vivid expressions on the faces of
the dead. It seemed as though the dead had come back to life. Th ird,
most of these people were killed in their own houses. In other words,
the once familiar and secure place became unfamiliar and insecure. The
feeling of uncanniness emerges when one’s own ‘home’ becomes a kill-
ing ground.
Last but not least, the city of Pompeii is uncanny because it has
become a work of art. All its citizens were turned into sculptures which
were molded by death. Vidler remarks that “art itself takes on the aspect
of the uncanny” (Vidler, 1992, 35). According to Vidler, “art is then
uncanny because it veils reality, and also because it tricks. But it does not
trick because of what is in itself; rather it possesses the power to deceive
because of the projected desire of the observer” (Vidler, 1992, 35). In
order to understand the uncanniness of art, we have to consider the
idea of the double. Art is the double of nature. The reason why human
beings invented art is to ward off extinction. Freud remarks that the
Ancient Egyptians developed the art of making images of the dead as
a protection against extinction (Freud, 1964, 235). In other words, art
was developed to veil the fact that human beings are mortal. However,
a feeling of uncanniness arises if art possesses the power to deceive, as
when the images of the dead are mistaken for the immortal soul which
has come back to life. As such, Pompeii presents a reversed example.
The ‘sculptures’ we see today were actually human beings, but they are
nevertheless mistaken for art. In this case, we are deceived by both the
dead and art. The ‘sculptures’ are the doubles of life which were created
through death.
If we only take the literal meaning of being buried alive into con-
sideration, the examples we can think of are very few. However, if we
consider the figurative meaning of the term, there are many examples.
For example, Vidler uses Melville’s short story “I and My Chimney” to
demonstrate the figurative meaning of being buried alive. The story is
about the narrator and his gigantic chimney. Since the chimney is so
huge, it occupies most of the narrator’s house’s space. Nevertheless, no
matter how much inconvenience the chimney brings to his daily life,
the narrator resists removing it. In order to protect the chimney from
destruction, the narrator withdraws himself from the outside world. He
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unhomely houses 35
is bound to his chimney until he dies. Vidler remarks that the gigantic
chimney reminds us of the pyramids of Egypt, which are the tombs of
kings (Vidler, 1992, 42). In other words, the narrator’s situation is similar
to living in a tomb. As such, the association between being buried alive
and living with a gigantic chimney becomes plausible. In fact, Lomen’s
‘House of Light’ and Luo Fu’s stone chamber are two further examples
which can be figuratively associated with being buried alive.
Transparent Space
Lomen’s ‘House of Light’ is a bit more complicated than Luo Fu’s cham-
ber because the house itself is already a piece of art. The ‘House of Light,’
located in Taipei, is the residence of Lomen and his wife Rong Zi. The
outer appearance of the building is similar to that of other residential
buildings in Taipei. It is a five-storied building located on a side street.
Hawkers, stores and shoppers in the alley create an atmosphere familiar
to all city dwellers (see Fig. 2.1 and Fig. 2.2).6 This apparent domestic
atmosphere provides a fertile site for uncanny disturbances. As I men-
tioned before, the favored setting of detective stories is as cozy, domestic
and familiar as possible. This familiar atmosphere sharpens the con-
trast between the ‘homely’ and uncanny as one moves between the two
spaces.
In this instance, the feeling of uncanniness arises when an expected
‘homely home’ turns out to be a museum-like space. Lomen calls his
‘home’ the ‘House of Light’ because of the lights he made to decorate
his apartment. He considers the lights he made a kind of art installation
which is for artistic rather than functional purposes. For example, the
first light he made resembles a lighthouse and is approximately six feet
tall. The light is made of wood and an old rattan chair (see Fig. 2.3).
Lomen states that the reason he made his first artwork installation—
the ‘lighthouse’—is because of his marriage to the poetess Rong Zi.
On the day of their wedding, Lomen noticed that “the cross on the top
of the church looked bright and shiny, which reminded us [Lomen and
Rong Zi] of a lighthouse. We were like a sailing boat entering a har-
bor” (Lomen, 1995f, 86). Lomen further elaborates that “a lighthouse
6
I interviewed Lomen and Rong Zi in 1999, 2000 and 2002. All the pictures of Taipei
and the ‘House of Light’ were taken during my visits.
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36 chapter two
Fig. 2.1. This photo was taken in Taipei in 2002. Lomen’s ‘House of Light’ is
located on this street. Hawkers, stores and shoppers in the alley create an atmo-
sphere familiar to city dwellers.
Fig. 2.2. The tiny building in between the two bigger buildings is where Lomen’s
‘House of Light’ is located. Lomen’s apartment is on the top floor.
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unhomely houses 37
Fig. 2.3. This photo is a partial view of the ‘House of Light.’ The gigantic lamp
standing against the wall is the ‘lighthouse’—Lomen’s first artwork installation.
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38 chapter two
is located in the harbor, which guides the homing ships back to it.” This
first lamp Lomen made actually “symbolizes a lighthouse. Its warm light
shines on our course of life” (Lomen, 1995f, 86). Lomen’s ‘House of
Light’ shares several similarities with Melville’s chimney. First of all, the
lamp ‘lighthouse,’ which is situated between the sofas, occupies the most
important position in the ‘House of Light.’ Lomen and Rong Zi like to
sit on the sofas so the poets always sit beside the lamp. The shape of the
lamp and the relationship between the lamp and the poets (especially
Lomen) reminds us of the narrator and his chimney in Melville’s “I and
My Chimney.” It is noteworthy that Lomen also wrote an essay about his
‘House of Light’ and entitled it “Dengwu yu Wo” [‘The House of Light’
and I]. While the gigantic chimney is the central object of Melville’s nar-
rator’s fantasy life, the lamp ‘lighthouse’ is obviously the central object of
Lomen’s poetic and imaginative life.
The lamp not only triggered the later development of the ‘House of
Light,’ but also contributed to the development of Lomen’s poetic theory
of ‘Di San Ziran’ [Third Nature]. I will discuss Lomen’s poetic theory in
detail in the next part of this chapter. Broadly speaking, Lomen’s poetic
world is based on the ‘House of Light.’ In addition, Melville’s narrator
was bound to his chimney until he died. Similarly, Lomen implies that
he will take care of all the lamps in his ‘House of Light’ until he dies
(Lomen, 1995f, 92). In fact, the poet does not leave his house very often.
If the gigantic chimney reminds Vidler of “the distant pyramids of Egypt
and the dark Druidical ritual standing stones,” I will suggest that the
‘lighthouse’ has a similar effect (Vidler, 1992, 42).
Both the chimney and the lamp ‘lighthouse’ remind us of the tombs
of kings. Finally, there are at least twenty-four large lights in the ‘House
of Light,’ not to mention the minor ones. As a result, the living room of
the poets’ apartment has become a museum of lights (see 2.4). Who
would live in a museum? The other museum we have discussed is the
city of Pompeii; however, those people were literally buried alive. Of
course, Lomen is different from the people of Pompeii, for he is figura-
tively buried alive. The poet reminds us of the state of a fetus; although
Taipei is a living world, Lomen is buried alive in his ‘House of Light.’
The reason why Lomen prefers to be figuratively buried alive in his
‘House of Light’ is also similar to that of the narrator in ‘I and My Chim-
ney.’ Melville’s narrator wants to resist changes in reality and decides
to protect his old-fashioned chimney from destruction; therefore he
withdraws from the outer world. The reason why Lomen created the
‘House of Light’ and decided to dwell in it became clear when Lomen’s
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unhomely houses 39
Fig. 2.4. The living room of Lomen’s ‘House of Light.’
poetic theory, the ‘Di San Ziran Louzhuan Jiaguo’ [Third Nature Spiral
Structure] was completely established in the 1970s. Lomen noticed the
disadvantages resulting from urbanization and the rapid changes of a
fast living tempo in the modern world. According to the poet, the speed
of our city life has quickened due to the invention of public transport.
As a result, time expands while space contracts (Lomen, 1995a, 93). The
poet perceives that these changes in time and space have resulted in a
chaotic conception of time and space. In the modern world, past, pres-
ent and future are compressed together. Consequently, modern people
are especially indifferent to the conception of time and space (Lomen,
1995a, 80).
Lomen further elaborates that in order to free themselves from a lim-
ited, suffocated, blockaded and gloomy reality, and to set their spirits
free, modern people naturally indulge themselves in surrealistic and
abstract worlds (Lomen, 1995a, 81). However, Lomen surmises that it is
not very easy for the spirit of an artist to sustain itself in a boundless and
abstract world. Consequently, he suggests that after having escaped and
wandered continuously, the soul strives to fix the unstable and flowing
self, by seeking something such as a handrail, a handle or a dependable
concretized world to grip tightly. (Lomen, 1995a, 88) As a result, Lomen
created the ‘House of Light’ to resist these changes. Although Lomen’s
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40 chapter two
ideas share similarities with some Western theories, for example David
Harvey’s ‘compression of time and space’ and Yeats’ spiral tower, Lomen
denied the Western influence in his works during our first interview. It
is noteworthy that the city Lomen depicted is corrupt and dark, which
is in sharp contrast to the light and transparent space created in the
‘House of Light.’ However, the relationship between light and dark space
is similar to those of ‘homely’ and uncanny, sublime and terror. One is
an outgrowth of the other. In other words, the apparent light and trans-
parent space embodies a dark space as well.
All of Lomen’s creative works—poetry, assemblage art and installa-
tion art—are related to his theory of the ‘Third Nature Spiral Structure.’
The so-called ‘Third Nature’ refers to the imaginative world of artists
and poets. Poets and artists work hard to transcend the external world,
or the real world, such as the countryside or fields ‘Di Yi Ziran’ [First
Nature] or the cities ‘Di Er Ziran’ [Second Nature]. Then, eventually
the transcendent beauty of the ‘Third Nature’ emerges. Lomen’s ‘Third
Nature’ theory is mainly concerned with poetic space and time. First of
all, the space of ‘First Nature’ refers to the past and the space of ‘Second
Nature’ refers to the present. The ‘Third Nature’ refers to the imaginative
world, which has surrealistic space and time. The poet takes the element
of time into account when he uses a graph to express the ‘Third Nature
Spiral Structure.’ Instead of being motionless, the structure moves
around in circles (see Fig. 2.5e).
Although the poet puts emphasis on objective time, I do not think
that he considers time more important than space. On the contrary,
judging from his poetry and installation art, I believe that proceeding
from ‘First Nature’ to ‘Second Nature’ is merely a transitional process
to Lomen. His ultimate goal is to enter ‘Third Nature’—timeless space.
In other words, Lomen’s main concern is space instead of time. In Lin
Yaode’s 林耀德 “360 Du Cengdie Kongjian—Lun Lomen de Yishi Zuox-
ing” [360 Degree Multi-layered Space—On Lomen’s Ideology Model]
Lin points out accurately that the most important characteristic of
Lomen’s poetics is to concretize the abstract thought with images and
geometric figures (Lin, 1990, 3). In fact, when Lomen explains his ‘Third
Nature Spiral Structure,’ he uses a circle to symbolize ‘First Nature’ or
the space of countryside (see Fig. 2.5a); a triangle, a square and rect-
angle to symbolize ‘Second Nature’ or urban space (see Fig. 2.5b); and
the pinnacle of a spiral structure to symbolize the space of timelessness
which is represented by the ‘House of Light’ (see Fig. 2.5e). According
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unhomely houses 41
Fig. 2.5. Lomen’s ‘Third Nature Spiral Structure,’ from Lomen Lun Wen Ji
(Beijing: Zhongguo Shehui Kexue Chubanshe, 1995) 101.
to Lomen, the relationship between ‘First Nature’ and ‘Second Nature’

is a reciprocal one. At the beginning of industrialization, the country-
side is destroyed by urbanization. In his diagram, Lomen draws a circle
inside a triangle to depict this situation (see Fig. 2.5c). When the city is
developed to a certain stage, the limitations of urban life emerge and
city dwellers yearn for ‘First Nature’ which has been lost. Lomen puts
the triangle, square and rectangle which all represent urban civilization
inside the circle (see Fig. 2.5d). Since people cannot go back to the past
or ‘First Nature,’ they try to transcend their unsatisfactory living space.
Poets and artists reach the poetic space through their work (Lomen,
1995a, 95–113). In what follows I would like to focus my discussion on
the ‘House of Light’ (‘Third Nature’). Since the contradictory relation-
ship between nature (‘First Nature’) and city (‘Second Nature’) found in
Lomen’s structure is usually discussed under the topic of urbanization, I
will examine it in the next chapter, which is about the city of Taipei.
The development of the ‘Third Nature Spiral Theory’ was not com-
pleted until 1960, when the complete idea of the theory was refl ected
in the long poem “Di Jiu Ri de Diliu” [The Undercurrent of the Ninth
Day]:
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42 chapter two
When the phono stylus draws a spiral tower

all buildings vanish from sight
[. . .]
My mood is as beautiful as an exquisite fabric entering your transparence
Which is as silent as snow scenery flashing in winter time
(Au, 2006, 112–13)
鑽石針劃出螺旋塔 / 所有的建築物都自目中離去 . . . . . . / 我的心境美

如典雅的織品置入你的透明 / 啞不作聲地似雪景閃動在冬日的流
光裡
In this poem, Lomen uses four lines to show us the most significant ele-
ments of his ‘Third Nature Spiral Structure’: the circle (the stylus touches
the record, which is circular in shape), the spiral tower and the pinnacle
of the tower. According to the poet, the top of the tower is a transparent
space, which is very quiet and beautiful.
In “Guang de Jianzhu” [The Architecture of Light], Lomen further
elaborates on what is inside the transparent space:
It does not stop there
as if it is merely a soundproof and mud-guarded glass building
It is an ever burning and glowing
rotating object
[. . .]
During the purest trip of light,
inside the transparent light space
it has already transformed into
a crystal building
which can embody the whole sky
[. . .]
Whenever eternity comes to this space
poetry and art will wait for it in the light (Au, 2006, 175)
它不是只停在那裡 / 隔音擋灰的玻璃大廈 / 而是一不斷燃燒發光的 /

動體 . . . . . . / 在純粹的光之旅中 / 透明的光境裡 / 它已升華成那座 / 可
容進整個天空的 / 水晶大廈 . . . . . . / 至于永恆什麼時候會來 / 叫詩與藝
術站在光裡等
In this poem, Lomen compares the transparent space with a crystal
building. Although it resembles a glass building, the crystal building
is different from an ordinary curtain-walled modern office building. It
embodies the whole sky. In addition, eternity, poetry and art dwell in
this light space.
The transparent space is not only associated with beauty and poetry,
but also refers to Rong Zi, as well as nature. For example, in “Hu zhi Ge”
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unhomely houses 43
[The Song of the Lake], the transparent space represents Rong Zi and
nature:
Sitting at the gaze
You are the transparency which flows from the light
You are also the mirror
which is flowing into the transparency (Lomen, 1995h, 237)
坐在凝眸中 / 你是自光中流出的透明 / 也是在透明中流動的 / 那面

鏡
The word ‘you’ in the second line may refer to both the lake and Rong
Zi. The title “The Song of the Lake” implies that ‘you’ refers to the lake.
However, since the subtitle of this poem is ‘To Rong Zi,’ ‘you’ also refers
to Rong Zi. As such, both nature and Rong Zi are associated with trans-
parent space. In short, the transparent space refers to the thing and per-
son Lomen loves most.
According to Lomen, the transparent space on the top of the spiral
tower is above all human activity and architecture. Although the poet’s
‘home’ is located in the center of Taipei, he thinks that the ‘House of
Light’ isolates him from the real world if he closes the windows:
The tightly closed doors and windows express a steadfast refusal
The drawn curtain completes the tranquil isolation
Outside is like the wind which disappears far away
Inside is like the waves going ashore
touching after the completed isolation
Inside is like a ringing bell suddenly born in the air the lightening of
electricity
This is the purest space
[. . .] (Au, 2006, 153)
門窗緊閉示以堅然的拒絕 / 帘幕垂下完成幽美的孤立 / 外面是消

失在遠方的風 / 裡邊像波流涉及岸 / 全然絕緣後的觸及 / 是驟然在空
氣中誕生的鐘之聲電之光 / 這一塊純美的空間
In the first two lines of this poem called “Luoxuanxing zhi Lian” [The
Love of Spiral] Lomen tells us how he isolates himself from the exter-
nal world. The secret is that he keeps the windows continually closed
(see Fig. 2.6). As a result, he dwells on his imagination and believes that
the ‘House of Light’ is the purest place in the world. In other words, in
addition to its function of providing a living place for the two poets to
work and to take a rest, the ‘House of Light’ is also a work of art or an
imaginative space which protects them from the tyranny of time and the
chaotic world.
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44 chapter two
Fig. 2.6. The windows in Lomen’s ‘House of Light’ are always closed.
It is noteworthy that, on the one hand, Lomen tells us that he always

keeps the windows closed and feels at ‘home’ in the transparent space
of the ‘House of Light;’ on the other hand, the poet wants to open the
windows. However, when he opens the windows, he finds himself being
locked in the transparent space. In other words, the transparent space is
similar to the word heimlich which embodies contradictory meanings.
For example, in the poem “Chuang” [Window], Lomen shows us the
negative side of the transparent space. At the beginning of the poem,
the poet points out that he is attracted to the natural scenery outside
the window. We learn later that the natural scenery actually only exists
in Lomen’s memories. Lomen uses nine lines to convey how much he
misses, and how deeply he loves, his past. One may ask what is outside
the windows now. The poet only uses the last two lines to satisfy our
curiosity: human beings suffering from lack of freedom and locked up
by transparent shackles:
I fling it open my hands follow the flow of a stream
always mountains and rivers
always eyes with no return
Being seen into the distance
you become a bird with a thousand wings
Leaving the sky you no longer have your wings
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unhomely houses 45
Being heard
you become a flute with a thousand holes
The road of music is as deep as the eyes gazing at the past
I fling it open but I am locked in an inescapable
transparency (Au, 2006, 125)
猛力一推雙手如流 / 總是千山萬水 / 總是回不來的眼睛 / 遙望裡 /

你被望成千翼之鳥 / 棄天空而去你已不在翅膀上 / 聆聽裡 / 你被聽
成千孔之笛 / 音道深如望向往昔的凝目 / 猛力一推竟被反鎖在走不
出去 / 的透明裡
Although Lomen does not tell us what the word ‘transparency’ refers to,
Walter Benjamin’s remark on the art of dwelling helps us understand
that it is the death knell for the ancient art of dwelling which refers to a
sense of security. According to Benjamin:
In the imprint of this turning point of the epoch, it is written that the knell
has sounded for the dwelling in its old sense, dwelling in which security
prevailed. Giedion, Mendelssohn, Le Corbusier have made the place of
abode of men above all the transitory space of all the imaginable forces
and waves of air and light. What is being prepared is found under the sign
of transparency. (Vidler, 1992, 217)
I believe the ‘transparency’ mentioned by Lomen is similar to what is
explained by Benjamin. The word ‘transparency’ refers to glass architec-
ture which was introduced at the beginning of the twentieth century. As
Vidler points out, “modernity has been haunted . . . by a myth of trans-
parency,” and this idea is manifested, for example, in the architecture of
Le Corbusier which was characterized “by a universal transparency of
building materials, spatial penetration, and the ubiquitous flow of air,
light, and physical movement” (Vidler, 1992, 217). According to Benja-
min, modern architecture destroyed the sense of security that was pro-
vided by old buildings. Benjamin’s concern is reinforced by architect
Adolf Behne. In 1918, Behne said that “the European is right when he
fears that glass architecture might become uncomfortable. Certainly it
will be so. And that is not its least advantage. For first of all the European
must be wrenched out of his cosiness” (Frampton, 1997, 117). In other
words, people will have the feeling of uncanniness when they live in
glass buildings.
Lomen does not literally live in a glass house. However, since his apart-
ment is located at the center of Taipei, he will see nothing but windows
of other apartments if and when he opens his windows. For example,
in his poem “Dushi • Fangxing de Cunzai” [City • A Square Existence],
Lomen tells us that his apartment is surrounded by other apartments:
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46 chapter two
Eyes look out

from the square windows
of the rooms
They immediately are themselves looked at
by rows of square windows
of other apartments (Au, 2006, 50)
眼睛從屋裡 / 方形的窗 / 看出去 / 立即被高樓一排排 / 方形的窗 /

看回來
This poem helps us to understand the previous poem entitled “Window.”
Lomen tells us that he is “locked in a blocked transparency” without
any further explanation. In “City • A Square Existence,” the poet clearly
points out that when he looks out of his window, his eyesight is blocked
by the glass windows of other apartments, and he is in turn, immedi-
ately looked at by the windows. Lomen personifies the windows and
turns them into a kind of monster. They force humans to stay inside. I
will discuss this topic—the urban uncanny—in detail in Chapter Three.
The ‘House of Light’ is literally flooded with light, which reminds us
of modernist transparency. While modernist transparency destroyed the
earlier sense of security, the brightness of the ‘House of Light’ undoubt-
edly disturbs the coziness of the poets’ ‘home.’ As a result, the feeling of
uncanniness arises.
In fact, the double function of the ‘House of Light’ also contributes to
the development of the uncanny. As Freud points out:
An uncanny effect is often and easily produced when the distinction
between imagination and reality is effaced, as when something that we
have hitherto regarded as imaginary appears before us in reality, or when
a symbol takes over the full functions of the thing it symbolizes, and so on.
(Freud, 1964, 244)
In the ‘House of Light,’ it is undoubtedly the case that the distinction
between imagination and reality is always challenged. On the one hand,
the ‘House of Light’ is a poetic space; on the other hand, it is a living
room, a dining room, and so forth. Rong Zi also lives in the ‘House of
Light.’ Since her poetic theory is different from that of Lomen, it is only
a dwelling place to Rong Zi, and not the work of art or the imaginative
space that it is to Lomen.
According to Rong Zi, Lomen is a person who embraces the modern
city and civilization. Twentieth century city life is his poetic inspiration,
for the focus of his poetry is on criticizing today’s city life. On the con-
trary, Rong Zi draws her inspiration from nature as well as from the
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unhomely houses 47
innocent characters of the people of the country. As such, living in a

chaotic city for such a long time has resulted in lessening Rong Zi’s cre-
ativity. Thus there is a great difference between Rong Zi and Lomen in
terms of poetic preference (Rong Zi, 1995b, 40). Lomen realizes that in
order to maintain the ideal form of the ‘House of Light,’ Rong Zi must
sacrifice herself to his interests. For example, Rong Zi loves flowers, but
since flowers do not harmonize with the ideas of the ‘House of Light,’
Rong Zi can only put flowers in their bedroom (Lomen, 1995f, 90). The
existence of Rong Zi in the ‘House of Light’ reminds Lomen that he is
living in the real world.
Although Lomen tries to resist the rapid change and chaotic life of the
external world by creating his own ‘homely’ dwelling place, ironically
the ‘House of Light,’ or the transparent space, also embodies the feeling
of uncanniness or dark space. In one of Lomen’s earliest poems “Guang
Chuanzhe Heise de Shuiyi” [Light is in Black Pajamas], the poet clearly
conveys the paradoxical relationship between light and darkness:
Under the violet circular lampshade Light is flowing
Under the azure circular sky Light is flowing
Under Churchhill’s circular top hat Light is flowing
[. . .]
under the domed-shaped graveyard even the priest, who is
the support of heaven,
also frequently complains that light is in black pajamas (Au, 2006, 111)
紫羅蘭色的圓燈罩下光流著 / 藍玉的圓空下光流著 / 邱吉爾的圓禮

帽下光流著 . . . . . . / 而在圓形的墳蓋下連作為天堂支柱的牧師 / 也終
日抱怨光穿著黑色的睡衣
In this short poem, Lomen shows us that light is flowing under different
beautiful circular shapes, for example, the “violet circular lampshade,”
the “azure circular sky,” and “Churchill’s circular top hat.” However, the
poet also tells us that light is always in black pajamas which means light
is always covered by darkness. In other words, light embodies darkness
and vice versa.
The Dark Space
While the ‘House of Light’ may be an example of being figuratively bur-

ied alive, Luo Fu’s stone chamber is an example of being buried alive in
a comparatively literal sense. Luo Fu joined the KMT army in 1949 and
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48 chapter two
was immediately sent to Taiwan. In 1959, the poet was sent to Jinmen,
the frontline of the war between the KMT and CCP. Although the situ-
ation on the battlefield was not severe, there was continual exchange of
fire. Luo Fu and his comrade-in-arms were forced to stay inside a stone
chamber in order to avoid being shot, and he lived in the stone chamber
for almost one year. Luo Fu started to compose his long poem “Shishi
zhi Siwang” [Death in the Stone Chamber] during his stay. The long
poem is composed of sixty-four short poems and each poem consists
of ten lines. The meanings of all of the poems are not closely related or
even necessarily related. These lines are fragments which touch on the
topics of life, death and religion.
There are at least two factors contributing to Luo Fu’s feeling of uncan-
niness associated with living in the stone chamber. First of all, literally
speaking, the stone chamber resembles a tomb. The chamber is actually
an underground passage which was tunneled through Mt. Da Wu and is
approximately two hundred meters in length. For security reasons, the
soldiers were left in the dark at night. One would easily think of death in
such a dark environment and Luo Fu was no exception.
According to the poet, death is one of the main themes of his long
poem (Luo Fu, 1988, 194). Almost all sixty-four poems mention death
either directly or indirectly. Luo Fu remembers that the first line he
wrote was:
Holding my head high and facing the corridor which is flooded with blood
occasionally, I am seized with terror (Luo Fu, 1988, 194)
偶然昂首向血水湧來的甬道, 我便怔住
Since he considered this first draft too straightforward, Luo Fu rewrote
the line as follows:
Only holding my head high and facing the corridor next-door occasionally,
I am seized with terror (Luo Fu, 1988, 194)
祇偶然昂首向鄰居的甬道, 我便怔住
The major difference between these two versions is the description of the
tunnel. As a matter of fact, the Chinese characters ‘甬道,’ which I trans-
lated as ‘corridor,’ are usually associated with a tomb. This is because the
meanings of the Chinese characters refer to a paved path leading to a
main hall or a tomb. In the first version of the line, the poet uses ‘blood’
to reinforce the idea of death; however, Luo Fu makes the meaning of
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unhomely houses 49
death less explicit in the final version by deleting the word ‘blood.’ He
describes the corridor as “the corridor next-door.” In fact, “the corridor
next-door” probably refers to a tomb, and is thus associated with death.
If the corridor next-door was a tomb, Luo Fu lived in a tomb, too.
In Poem 61, Luo Fu points out that he is living in a tomb:
In those days, Ching Ming Festival, we are awake in the tombstone
[. . .]
We are still living in the death (Luo Fu, 1988, 68)
那一陣子, 清明節, 我們在碑中醒著 . . . . . . / 我們仍住在死中

Ching Ming Festival is also called tomb festival. On this day, many Chi-
nese people visit the graveyards of their ancestors. Since Luo Fu is liv-
ing in a tomblike chamber, he considers himself a member of the living
dead. The poet is like the dead person who waits for someone to visit his
‘graveyard’ during Ching Ming Festival. There is no doubt that we can-
not call a tomblike ‘home’ ‘homely.’
The second factor that helps to make the stone chamber an uncanny
site is that it is located on the battlefield. The reason why Luo Fu lived in
the stone chamber is because of the war. This fact reminds us of Freud
and his study of the uncanny. Vidler notes that:
‘The Uncanny’ seems to incorporate, albeit in an unstated form, many
observations on the nature of anxiety and shock that he [Freud] was
unable to include in the more clinical studies of shell shock. . . . The site of
the uncanny was now no longer confined to the house or the city, but more
properly extended to the no man’s land between the trenches, or the fields
of ruins left after bombardment. (Vidler, 1992, 7)
Vidler suggests that the reason why Freud wrote “The Uncanny” was
because of the postwar traumas he witnessed in his patients. Freud
developed his theory of the uncanny when he saw the once ‘homely’
Europe become fields of ruin. Similarly, the stone chamber was Luo Fu’s
dwelling place. Since it was bombarded every other day, it is natural that
the feeling of uncanniness arose in him. In Poem 49, Luo Fu tells us that
an uncanny effect is produced by war:
Building all the tombs inside the ear, I only want to listen clearly
The sounds of your boots when you go out to battle
All roses fade during the night, which is similar to your names
Your names become a group of numbers, which is similar to your weariness
I cannot recall which city had collapsed in my heart
What are you praying for, we have no eyes to close
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50 chapter two
We will never find our seventh day from the fire

If it is winter, it should live inside of us forever
If it is snow, it should enter our ear, taking off our clothes
To cover our naked sons (Luo Fu, 1988, 56)
築一切墳墓于耳間,只想聽清楚 / 你們出征時的靴聲 / 所有的玫瑰在

一夜萎落, 如同你們的名字 / 在戰爭中成為一堆號碼, 如同你們的疲
倦 / 不復記憶那一座曾在我心中崩潰 / 還默禱甚麼, 我們已無雙目
可閉 / 已再無法從燃燒中找到我們的第七日 / 是冬天, 就該在我們
裡面長住 / 是冰雪, 就該進入耳中, 脫自己的衣裳 / 去掩蓋我們赤身
的兒子
In the first stanza of the poem, Luo Fu reveals that people are killed and
cities destroyed during war. Soldiers resemble roses which do not live
long. When soldiers go to the battlefield, they lose their identities and
become only numbers. Besides the loss of human lives, cities are also
destroyed during wartime, and people lose count of how many cities are
destroyed.
In the second stanza, the poet tells us that prayer or religion cannot
help to improve the situation. The word ‘fire’ is associated with war. And
the term ‘seventh day’ reminds us of Sunday, which is the day of rest and
worship among Christians. As such, the line “We will never find our
seventh day from the fire” can be interpreted as people losing their faith
and being deprived of a rest during the war. These people feel no hope
and find winter and snow to be their best company. However, in the last
line, Luo Fu implies that these people do not totally lose hope, though
their behaviors seem to be suicidal. Since these people believe the next
generation to be their future, in order to preserve hope, they take off
their clothes to cover their naked sons during chilly days. Although
their children might be spared, it is unlikely these people can survive
the bad weather and the war.
It is interesting to note that finding hope in hopelessness and finding
life in death are the leitmotivs of “Death in the Stone Chamber.” In some
poems of the series, we can see brightness in darkness. Poem 16 is one
example:
Being made by some deficiencies
I am no longer the original one but a shattered sea
I am a nut which died in generosity
I am the sun which always tries to
Struggle to get free from the eyes of the blind child
I think I should be a forest, and some ill fibers are among the trees
A solitary pine tree is among the trees
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unhomely houses 51
The vastness of the whole universe is living on its arm

And the theme locked inside me is
Glimmering in it, which is similar to the shining skin of a hippopotamus
(Luo Fu, 1988, 23)
由某些欠缺構成 / 我不再是最初, 而是碎裂的海 / 是一粒死在寬容中

的菓仁 / 是一個, 常試圖從盲童的眼眶中 / 掙扎而出的太陽 / 我想我
應是一座森林, 病了的纖維在其間 / 一棵孤松在其間 , 它的臂腕上 /
寄生著整個宇宙的茫然 / 而鎖在我體內的那個主題 / 閃爍其間, 猶之
河馬的皮膚的光輝
In the first stanza, words such as ‘deficiencies,’ ‘shattered,’ and ‘died’
communicate to us that the poet is suffering. In addition, he compares
himself to the sun which tries to “struggle to get free from the eyes of
the blind child.” It is noteworthy that neither the blind child is able to
see, nor does the sun dwell inside the child’s eyes. The world is left in
the dark, then, without the sun. In other words, the poet’s struggle is
hopeless.
In the first three lines of the second stanza, Luo Fu continues to tell
us that his situation is not good. For example, he compares himself to
a forest where some pine trees are ill, yet the last lines convey that he
still has hope. Although Luo Fu does not tell us what the “theme locked
inside” him refers to, the words ‘glimmering’ and ‘shining’ in the last line
of the poem imply that the theme may refer to hope. In short, this poem
clearly shows us that there is brightness within darkness.
Nevertheless, darkness sometimes gets the upper hand over lightness.
In Poem 5, Luo Fu tells us that light is destroyed by darkness:
Snow season has already arrived. Sunflowers turn around their necks to
seek for the echoes of the sun
I again see the darkness of the corridor walking sideways through the door
which tries to kill the fire
Light is in the middle. Bats eat up layers and layers of street lamps
(Luo Fu, 1988, 12)
雪季已至, 向日葵扭轉脖子尋太陽的回聲 / 我再度看到, 長廊的陰

暗從門縫閃進 / 去追殺那盆爐火 / 光在中央, 蝙蝠將路燈吃了一層
又一層
We find two pairs of binary oppositions in this poem: the cold and the
heat, the light and the dark. The cold and the dark always remind us of
death. In the above poem, we learn that winter has arrived. Although
there should be no sunflowers, Luo Fu tells us that these sunflowers look
for the echoes of the sun. In other words, there is no sunshine in winter.
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52 chapter two
In addition, the dark, which is always associated with the cold, tries to
kill the fire (heat). Moreover, the bats, which are dark in color, destroy
the street lamps, though they do not actually eat the lamps, of course.
However, if they are great in number, they will probably darken the light
with the shadows of their wings. In short, dark and the cold have control
over light and the heat in this poem.
The paradoxical relationships between the darkness and the light,
death and life can also be found in Poem 63:
I insist on my words until I die
The man belongs to snow which is so bright and clear
He resembles the light which hides in the nakedness, in the whiteness of
the Korean dancing
[. . .]
He is a baby. He is a circle which pops its head out of the door of the
moon
If snow stands on its own and partly turns away
We like the nakedness of this kind of existence
We applaud wholeheartedly and our ten fingers tell ten kinds of pain
We readily agree that the man is the snow of last year because of his
whiteness,
because he leaves a space inside his eyes (Luo Fu, 1988, 70)
至死還是那句話 / 那個漢子是屬于雪的, 如此明浄 / 如光隱伏在赤裸中,

韓國舞之白中 . . . . . . / 他是嬰孩, 是從月門中探首而出的圓 / 倘雪站
了起來, 且半轉著身子 / 我們就喜愛這種剝光的存在 / 用力呵我們擊
掌, 十指說出十種痛 / 我們一口咬定那漢子就是去年的雪, 因為很白 /
因為他眼中留一個空格
At the beginning of the poem, Luo Fu brings in the element of death:
“I insist on my words until I die.” However, what the poet insists on is
about life. Words such as ‘bright and clear’ and ‘nakedness’ remind us
of a baby. In the fifth line, Luo Fu explicitly points out that the man is
a baby. The image of a baby is always associated with life which is in
opposition to death. In fact, the man is not a baby but the snow of last
year. Snow and a baby share the quality of purity. Purity reminds the
poet of the color of white. At the end of the poem, Luo Fu compares the
whiteness of the snow to that in the man’s eyes. It is noteworthy that this
comparison echoes the opposition of light and dark. Generally speak-
ing, the pupil and the iris of Chinese people tend to be dark-brown.
The poet compares the whiteness of snow to the white in one’s eyes and
leaves the dark-brown unmentioned. Luo Fu not only shows the para-
doxical relationship of life and death—light and dark—in this poem, but
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unhomely houses 53
also implies that the light, the whiteness, purity and life can get control
over the dark, the blackness and death.
One question arises from this interpretation: why do Freud and Luo
Fu maintain different attitudes toward their ‘homes’ after bombardment?
While Freud perceived Europe as a haunted place, Luo Fu still had hope
of a better future though he lived in a tomblike chamber. I believe that
this is because Europe was Freud’s homeland before and after the First
World War, and he therefore felt deeply about the transformation of the
place. The once familiar buildings were in ruins. Since neither Taiwan
nor Jinmen was Luo Fu’s ‘home’ before or after the national war, the poet
did not suffer as much as Freud did after the bombardment of Europe.
Luo Fu was a stranger in Taiwan. His hope was always for the Main-
land and not for Taiwan. Later, in 1960 Luo Fu left Jinmen for Taiwan. He
was then sent to Vietnam in 1965, and the poet immigrated to Canada
in 1996. I will suggest that once Luo Fu left Mainland China for Taiwan,
he was forced to lead a vagrant life.
The images of light and dark, death and life, can still be found in Luo
Fu’s later poems. It is interesting to note that in Canada Luo Fu names
his study the ‘Tower of Snow.’ In contrast with the stone chamber which
reminds us of darkness, the ‘Tower of Snow’ is associated with white-
ness. Nevertheless, the paradoxical relationship between dark and light
in Luo Fu’s stone chamber series can be found in his poems written after
his emigration too. In “Die Jing” [Double Scenery] we also find explicit
and implicit images of dark and light, life and death:
A chilly crow
flies casually
from the roof,
an expanse of white snow,
to here.
My window is suddenly blackened.
A sharp sword emerges from my television
which strikes me
on my rough forehead
giving out sparks.
My window
is lightened again. (Luo Fu, 1999b, 122–23)
一只寒鴉 / 從皚皚白雪的屋頂 / 似有若無地 / 飛 / 了 / 過 / 來 / 我的窗

口 / 驟然黑了一下 / 電視裡閃出一把鋒利的劍 / 在我粗礪的額角 / 擊
出一星火花 / 窗口 / 又亮了起來
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54 chapter two
At the beginning of the poem, the crow and the roof help to make an
opposition between light and dark. While the crow is black in color, the
snow is white. The dark, as represented by the crow, wants to get con-
trol over the poet’s house. However, the image or the light on television
seems to scare the crow away. The house is lightened again. Although
light and dark are a binary opposition in this poem, the light is not
represented by the snow, but rather by the television. We can, in fact,
associate this substitution with the dichotomies of nature and the city,
rural life and urban life. While snow is a product of nature, a television
is a product of modern life. The implications of these dichotomies are
significant. Nevertheless, Luo Fu’s “Chu Xue” [Early Snow] series writ-
ten the same year suggests that the binary opposition of dark and light
is still his main concern, and the image of snow is no longer associated
with life. On the contrary, snow now reminds us of death. Luo Fu writes
in “Early Snow” Poem 2:
Yesterday’s dream is sleeping outside the wall
An unfinished letter is put aside on the table
I concentrate on looking at
the courtyard where the snow is holding
a funeral for a frozen stiff robin . . .
I am drinking my hot coffee
My hands are holding and rubbing the cup
turning it around, turning it around speedily
until
the snowflakes on the glass window fall down one after another (The clock
is destroying itself continuously) (Luo Fu, 1999b, 115)
牆外睡著昨夜的夢 / 桌上擱著一封未寫完的信 / 我專注地望著 / 院子

裡大雪在為一只凍僵的知更鳥 / 舉行葬禮 . . . . . . / 我喝著熱咖啡 / 雙手
捧著杯子搓著, 揉著 / 一直轉著, 快速地轉著 / 及至 / 玻璃窗上的積雪
紛紛而落 (時鐘 / 不停地在消滅自己)
At the beginning of the poem, Luo Fu tells us that it is snowing outside.
“An unfinished letter” implies that the poet is in his study, or the ‘Tower
of Snow.’ However, instead of representing life, the snow and the ‘Tower
of Snow’ suggest death. In the last line of the first stanza we are told that
a robin has frozen to death. A funeral is being held outside in the court-
yard. In addition, the image of coffee reminds us of the color of black.
The poet compares his turning the cup of coffee around to the falling of
the snowflakes. Eventually, time is destroyed by itself. There is no time
remaining. Everything comes to a standstill in death.
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unhomely houses 55
There are four poems in total in the “Early Snow” series. The image of
snow is associated with death in all of them. In Poem 1, Luo Fu directly
tells us that snow has no history. Moreover, the laughter of snow is an
elegy. Poems 3 and 4 are similar to Poem 2 in that snow reminds us
of the self-destruction of time. This finding brings forth the following
questions: Why did Luo Fu change his attitude toward life? When he
lived in the tomblike stone chamber, Luo Fu still had hopes for a better
future. Although he perceived darkness and death in his daily life, the
poet tended to see also brightness and life in it. On the contrary, Luo
Fu’s living conditions were much improved in Canada; the poet even
had his own study. However, why does Luo Fu associate his living or
working place—the ‘Tower of Snow’—with death?
I believe that this change in representation of snow suggests that Luo
Fu had totally lost his hope in life. If his hope in the past was to return
to Mainland China, the poet had given it up long before. As a matter
of fact, Luo Fu went back to the Mainland in the 1980s. The feeling of
uncanniness raised by the trip acted as a catalyst which helped the poet
to decide on emigration. I will discuss this issue in detail in Chapter
Four. Luo Fu realized that he had lost his ‘home’ forever after he went
back to the Mainland. The poet’s dwelling place in Canada was only a
shelter but not a ‘home’ in the same sense as his previous one in Main-
land China. In this regard, although Luo Fu notices the paradoxical rela-
tionship between light and dark, he stresses darkness.
The Window as an Opening to the Public Realm
After having examined the dwelling places and poetry of Lomen, Luo
Fu and the relationship between Rong Zi and the ‘House of Light,’ we
have learned that it is difficult for Taiwanese modernist poets to have a
‘homely home.’ As I mentioned before, there are various reasons why
the poets cannot have a ‘homely home.’ War, exile, the modern rent sys-
tem and modernist architecture are some of the factors which contrib-
ute to this feeling of uncanniness.
When I discussed earlier the issue of modernist architecture, I put
emphasis on its interior space. For instance, light or transparent space
floods a modernist building and the dark space is repressed. However,
I did not examine the relationship between the interior and the exte-
rior. In fact, Lomen’s, Rong Zi’s and Luo Fu’s poems always embody the
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56 chapter two
images of windows, which are the openings to the public realm (Vidler,
2000, 38). Although Lomen seems to love to dwell in ‘Third Nature’ or
the ‘House of Light,’ the poet tells us in “Window” that he does occa-
sionally try to open the windows. It is noteworthy that the poetic space
of the ‘House of Light’ cannot be maintained unless all windows are
closed; the poetic space will be destroyed by opening the windows. In
fact, the poet cannot look outside the windows, and is also locked in by
the transparent space. I believe that the transparent space referred to is
that of modernist glass buildings. One question is brought forth by this
analysis: Why does Lomen insist on opening and looking outside the
windows since the price he pays for it is to give up his poetic space?
Similarly, Rong Zi complains in “Luan Meng” [Chaotic Dreams] that
her house is windowless. She feels as if she is trapped in a deep pond.
The poetess says in another poem, “Sanjiaoxing de Chuang” [The Tri-
angle Window], that she feels hopeless even though she has a window:
My left shoulder is a petal of a falling flower, my right shoulder is a
mockery of the skyscraper
The tiny triangle window cannot reflect your gentle and caring face
Being imprisoned today, I cannot predict tomorrow, I do not know whether
tomorrow I can overcome death or not (Rong Zi, 1995a, 99)
我的左肩是一瓣落花，右肩是整幢摩天大樓的篾笑 / 小小的三角形
的窗映不出你溫婉的關懷的臉容 / 被禁錮的今天我不能預測明天超
越死亡的明天
Rong Zi was ill when she wrote this poem, and as a result, the poetess
could not go outside. She thought of her mother, who had passed away
long ago, in Mainland China. To her disappointment, Rong Zi could not
see (imagine) her mother’s gentle face through the tiny triangle window.
According to the poetess, she is imprisoned by skyscrapers.
Luo Fu resembles Lomen and Rong Zi in that he also wants to have a
window. When he lived in the tomblike stone chamber, Luo Fu did not
forget to cut a window into it:
I put my head among the long list of surnames
The stone tomb is so humble, it grasps me with its cold hand
To cut another window inside the chamber. Then I read
The happiness on the branches of the olive tree, the whiteness of the whole
garden
The voice of death is so gentle, similar to the forehead of a peacock
(Luo Fu, 1988, 19)
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unhomely houses 57
我把頭顱擠在一堆長長的姓氏中 / 墓石如此謙信, 以冷冷的手握我 /

且在它的室內開鑿另一扇窗, 我乃讀到 / 橄欖枝上的愉悅, 滿園的潔
白 / 死亡的聲音如此溫婉, 猶之孔雀的前額
In the second stanza of Poem 12, Luo Fu clearly tells us that he lives in a
tomb. I believe that “the long list of surnames” refers to the names of the
dead. Luo Fu juxtaposes the dead and himself (his head) together, which
implies the poet is also dead. However, even though he is dead, Luo Fu
still wants to cut a window. After the poet cuts the window, he feels very
happy; death becomes something as gentle and as beautiful as the pea-
cock. In other words, windows help Luo Fu out of the predicament.
Although Lomen does not tell us the reason why he wants to open the
windows of his ‘House of Light,’ Rong Zi’s and Luo Fu’s poems suggest
an answer: these poets do not want to be ‘imprisoned’ in a small space;
they want to go outside. While Rong Zi does not like her small apart-
ment in Taipei—for the ‘House of Light’ is Lomen’s poetic space, not
hers—Luo Fu wants to escape from the tomblike chamber. The reason
why Lomen turned his apartment into a ‘House of Light’ is that he was
not satisfied with the physical space of reality, and as a result, the poet
developed a poetic or imaginative space for himself.
It is interesting to note that all of these poets use the image of a win-
dow to symbolize the opening to the outside world. Their use of the
image of a window seems to suggest that they suffer from a kind of claus-
trophobia. Since claustrophobia is a disease, most people are adverse to
it. These Taiwanese modernist poets try hard to get rid of this fear by
reaching public space, but they may not realize the importance of isola-
tion in their poetry writing. Wang Dewei 王德威 points out the direct
relationship between claustrophobia and the gloomy style of Chinese
women writers (Wang, 2006, 80–81). Although it is uncertain whether
claustrophobia contributes to the gloomy style of Chinese women writ-
ers, I believe this disease is highly related to poetic inspiration. 7 As a
matter of fact, when Lomen composes poems he closes all the windows
and doors in order to distance himself from the outside world. The poet
deliberately creates a confined place which may trigger claustrophobia.
Paradoxically, this particular condition inspires Lomen to write poetry.
7
In fact, Chen Lifen disagrees with Wang Dewei’s remark and points out that Wang’s
interpretation is sexist. Chen’s article “The Quality of Innocence” can be found in Esther
Cheung’s Hong Kong Literature as/and Cultural Studies (Cheung, 2002, 517–30).
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58 chapter two
Luo Fu is different from Lomen in that he was sent to Jinmen. Luo Fu

did not voluntarily choose to live in the stone chamber, but this claus-
trophobic space inspired him to write sixty-four poems. According to
Luo Fu, he suffered from insomnia and hallucinations when he lived
in the stone chamber (Luo Fu, 1988, 194). These symptoms may not be
specific to those of claustrophobia, but they were caused by the small,
enclosed space in which he was forced to live. Luo Fu brooded on the
imaginations and images of death for such a long time that he felt an
urge to write them down (Luo Fu, 1988, 194). The poet’s confession
clearly shows us the direct relationship between claustrophobic space
and creative poetic inspiration.
Whether these poets are aware of the relationship between claustro-
phobia and poetic inspiration or not, they all seem to want to escape
from their respective small places. But even if they can go out into the
public realm, they suffer from another kind of phobia which is common
among city dwellers, namely, agoraphobia. In short, claustrophobia can-
not be cured by leaving the uncanny ‘home,’ for the uncanny caused by
modernity is not restricted to domestic space. It is everywhere in the
city.
On the surface, Lomen’s ‘House of Light’ and Luo Fu’s ‘Stone Cham-
ber’ are totally different living spaces. The former often reminds us of
a light space, whereas the latter is associated with a dark one. Never-
theless, this study suggests that the light space embodies the dark side
and vice versa. Freud’s theory of the uncanny helps to explain that it is
impossible to have a ‘homely home.’ This is because the word ‘homely’
embodies the meaning of uncanny. Although human beings have been
trying to use civilization to suppress the feeling of uncanniness, the
feeling is always there. My analyses of Lomen and Luo Fu suggest that
feelings of uncanniness were triggered in the modern world due to dias-
pora, wars, modern architecture and so forth. Rong Zi adds one more
factor to the list: gender. The poetess does not feel ‘homely’ in the ‘House
of Light’ because her private space has been invaded by Lomen’s poetic
belief. Since Rong Zi always uses the dichotomy of the city and nature
to represent the problem of gender space, I will discuss this issue in the
next chapter about Taipei.
In Chapter Three, “Imagining Taipei,” I will focus on the paradoxi-
cal relationship between Taiwanese modernist poets and the city. These
poets are unable to find themselves a ‘homely home.’ Worse still, they
do not find the city they are living in a ‘homely’ place. The monstrous
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unhomely houses 59
modern buildings, crime, sexual excesses and the poets’ own exile not
only contribute to making Taipei an uncanny place, but also distance
the poets from it. However, it turns out that these unsatisfactory living
spaces, whether they are an ‘unhomely home’ or an uncanny city, are a
source of the poets’ inspiration.
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CHAPTER THREE
IMAGINING TAIPEI
The Taiwanese modernist poets chosen for this study, namely Lomen,
Luo Fu, Rong Zi, Yu Guangzhong and Zheng Chouyu, are all city dwell-
ers. Except for Lomen, however, the city seems not to be the subject of
interest in the early poetry of these Taiwanese modernist poets.1 Lomen
began writing urban poetry in the 1950s. Although he wrote numerous
poems in relation to the city, his early urban poetry is considered ‘city
fable.’ In other words, he did not depict Taipei’s everyday reality. Luo
Fu, Rong Zi, Yu Guangzhong and Zheng Chouyu did not write urban
poetry until years later, and then wrote only a few poems. What does
the silence on this topic imply? What does Lomen’s representation of an
unreal Taipei in his early poetry suggest? In spite of the above dissimi-
larity between Lomen and his fellow poets, they share one thing: their
poems embody a sense of anti-urbanism. Why do these poets dislike
Taipei? These poets have lived in cities most of their lives. Are they try-
ing to hide something? If so, what is it?
In A Theory of Literary Production, Pierre Macherey points out that
two questions are essential to the critical task: “What is a man saying?
What is he hiding when he says what he says?” (Macherey, 1986, back
cover). According to Macherey, “in order to say anything, there are
other things which must not be said. . . . What is important in the work
is what it does not say” (Macherey, 1986, 85, 87). Macherey brings forth
further problems: “Can we make this silence speak? What is the unspo-
ken saying? What does it mean? To what extent is dissimulation a way
of speaking? Can something that has hidden itself be recalled to our
presence?” (Macherey, 1986, 86). Macherey’s theories are in relation to
literary production in the Western context. To what extent can they help
us to understand Taiwanese modernist poetry? I suggest that the theory
of absence not only helps us to discern the significance of the unspoken
in individual poems, but also helps us to raise the following questions:
1
Luo Fu only writes a few urban poems. Since the topics Luo discussed in his poetry
are similar to those of Lomen’s, I will not discuss Luo’s urban poetry in this chapter.
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62 chapter three
What are the Taiwanese modernist poets hiding when they choose not to
write about the city of Taipei? Although Lomen was the first one to write
urban poetry, does his work in fact say something that they do not say?
When P.K. Leung 梁秉鈞 comments on the stories of Hong Kong,
he points out that every writer is telling a different story. According to
Leung, although the stories themselves do not tell a great deal about
Hong Kong, the storytellers reveal their positions in the ways they tell
their stories (Cheung, 2002, 319). In this regard, what kind of stories
do the Taiwanese modernist poets try to tell us in their works? What
various positions do these poets exhibit from the ways in which they
represent Taipei in their work?
This chapter is divided into four main parts. In the first part, I will
discuss how Taipei is represented in the early poetry (written in the late
1950s and the early 1960s) of Lomen, Rong Zi, Yu Guangzhong and
Zheng Chouyu. These poets are divided into two groups: the one who
speaks of the city in his poems and those who are silent. Lomen belongs
to the former category and the rest of the poets belong to the latter. I will
not only examine the unreal city Lomen depicts, but will also try to dis-
cern what the other poets’ silence represents. In the second part of this
chapter, the focus will be on an invisible persona Lomen depicted in his
works. Lomen’s later works, which were written in the 1970s and 1980s,
will also be discussed. A comparison between Lomen’s invisible persona
and the flaneur depicted in Baudelaire’s works will shed light on some
issues in relation to cross cultural studies. A further question arises in
this discussion: Why is Lomen’s persona absent from the city?
The issue of anti-urbanism will be examined through Lomen, Rong
Zi, Yu Guangzhong and Zheng Chouyu’s poetry in the third part. I sug-
gest that factors such as the spatial uncanny, eroticism, materialism
and the Taiwanese modernist poets’ nostalgia for nature and Mainland
China contribute to the development of their sense of anti-urbanism.
Finally, I will try to suggest the reason why the Taiwanese modernist
poets remained in the cities, rather than moving away. I believe that
their unsatisfactory living spaces contribute to the flourishing of their
poetic spaces.
Modernism in Imagination
According to Richard Lehan, the modern city undergoes “three stages of

development—a commercial, industrial, and ‘world stage’ city” (Lehan,
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imagining taipei 63
1998, 3). Lehan also remarks that London became an industrial city in
the 1850s. Evidence of the rise of new industrial cities can be found in
the works of Charles Dickens and T.S. Eliot (Lehan, 1998, 39–47). How-
ever, Stevan Harrell’s study shows us that Taiwan “was still an agrarian
society” in 1945:
There had been considerable development of primary-product process-
ing industries under the Japanese colonial regime . . . and there was also
important infrastructural construction. Education had been brought to
most boys and a few girls, and there were some institutions of local self-
government, at least until the colonial government resumed direct rule
during the war years. But the island was still undeveloped: 75 percent of
the population were agriculturalists, a large proportion of them tenants;
an even larger proportion of the population lived in rural communities.
Even in 1956 the largest city, Taipei, had a population of only 748,000. . . .
Many communities were reached only by dirt roads or even foot trails.
(Harrell, 1994, 170)
Taipei was not yet an industrial city in the 1950s and so could not be
compared at that time to other Western industrial cities such as London,
Paris, or New York.
Taipei became a shelter for more than one million exiled Mainlanders
after 1949. Since Taipei was the center of the exiled KMT government,
the city became a kind of replica of Mainland China. Wang Zhihong
王志宏 states that after the KMT government retreated to Taiwan and
made Taipei its capital, the exiled government’s ideology was seen
everywhere in Taipei. The new street names of Taipei such as Nanjing,
Beijing, Zhongqing, Kulun, Xizang and Hami, faintly draw an outline
of the Mainland (Wang, 1999, 22–23). Clearly, the KMT government
tried to create a miniature nation of China within Taiwan, and as such,
Taipei underwent dramatic changes. To the native Taiwanese nothing
was ever the same; the once familiar streets became unfamiliar. Nor did
the Mainlanders feel at home in Taipei. The familiar street names in
Taipei did not change the fact that they were away from their home.
This phenomenon is, in fact, common among most colonized cities. For
instance, Hong Kong was made a replica of London and Macau a replica
of Lisbon. Postwar Taiwan, however, was different from other colonized
cities or countries in terms of the fact that it was not a colony.2
2
My argument on this issue is based on the historical fact that Taiwan was returned
to the Republic of China at the Cairo Conference in 1943. I have noticed that some crit-
ics suggest that postwar Taiwan was re-colonized by the KMT government. However,
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64 chapter three
Most of the poets I chose for study were forced into exile. They did
not want to be in Taipei, and did not, therefore, feel attracted to the
city. As I mentioned earlier, most of the exiled poets except Lomen did
not write any poetry about Taipei in the 1950s. Even though Lomen
wrote city poetry, he depicted a city of his imagination, and not the true
Taipei. Although the dialogue between Taipei and Lomen tended to be
an imaginary one, this fact does not distance the exiled poet from his
Western counterparts. On the contrary, this characteristic brings them
closer together, because the Western modernist writers and poets also
portrayed unreal cities in their works.
The Unreal City
Among all the Taiwanese modernist poets, Lomen was the first to write
poems about the city. His first urban poem dates as early as 1957. As I
mentioned before, Taipei was not yet a modern industrial city in the
1950s. Because of this fact, the city depicted in Lomen’s poems is an
imaginary or unreal city. This characteristic of Lomen’s urban poetry
reminds us of the works of Ezra Pound, T.S. Eliot, James Joyce and so
forth, who tend to portray unreal cities in their works. In the Cantos,
Pound depicts an empire city and the poet tells us “what happens when
a culture loses contact with the land, man with his work, and the city
with a community of shared values” (Lehan, 1998, 127). The empire city
is a fictional one, and of course what happens in it is unreal. Although
the setting of Eliot’s The Waste Land is London, the poet does not pres-
ent the real London to us. He shows us a collective history of the city
which starts with Athens and includes Jerusalem, Alexandria, Vienna,
London and so forth (Lehan, 1998, 134). In short, Eliot also presents an
unreal city. Similarly, in Ulysses, Joyce tells us a story which takes place
in Dublin. However, it turns out that the novel is a juxtaposition of Dub-
lin and ancient Greece, and the reader must draw a parallel between the
two places in order to understand the novel.
since my interest and research focus are on the exile or the Mainlanders, my discussion
will stem from the Mainlanders’ perspective. To the Mainlanders, Taiwan is part of the
Mainland and was returned to China after 1945. A detailed account of postwar, re-colo-
nized Taiwan can be found in Zhou Yinxiong’s Writing Taiwan: Literary History, Post-
colonialism and Postmodernism. The chapter on “Post-colonialism and Postmodernism”
written by Chen Fangming is the most pertinent.
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imagining taipei 65
According to Lehan, the reason these Western modernist writers

depict cities in this manner is that they see the city with impressionist,
subjective and personal eyes. “Impressions thus become a way of seeing
the city. The city became a personal, often isolated experience, with each
inhabitant caught in his or her own subjectivity” (Lehan, 1998, 129).
Lehan further elaborates that Western modernist writers tend to turn
“away from physical reality toward inward process and subjectivity”
because the city offers more experience than the writers can assimilate
(Lehan, 1998, 77). Georg Simmel points out that the fast tempo of city
life offers us ‘excessive stimulation’ (Simmel, 1969, 48). In other words,
when the physical environment became uncanny, modernist writers had
no choice but to make, in Lehan’s words, an inward turn.
It is noteworthy that although Lomen also depicts an unreal or a
subjective city in his works, his city is different from those of Pound,
Eliot and Joyce. Instead of depicting his contemporary Taipei, Lomen
portrays a futuristic Taipei in his poetry. Why does Lomen choose to
represent Taipei in this manner? Why do the other poets choose not to
write urban poetry?
Chen Fangming 陳芳明 maintains that the reason why Taiwanese
modernist writers were interested in modernism from the West is basi-
cally a form of negative political resistance. Chen compares Taiwanese
modernist writers to colonized writers in general. According to Chen,
colonized writers cannot directly resist their colonizer. In the case of
postwar Taiwan, Chen considers the KMT government the colonizer
and the exiled writer such as Bai Xianyong 白先勇 a colonized writer.
Bai and other native Taiwanese writers reluctantly went into self-exile or
turned away from physical reality toward the inner world (Zhou, 2000,
48–49). I think Chen’s theory may be applicable to native Taiwanese
writers and poets but cannot be applied to the modernist writers and
poets in exile. There are at least two reasons. First, these exiled poets
were either soldiers (Luo Fu), civil servants (Lomen and Rong Zi) or
children of the KMT government’s officials (Yu Guangzhong and Zheng
Chouyu). As such, the relationship between the government and these
poets cannot be compared to that of a colonizer and the colonized. Sec-
ond, Chen’s focus is on the political system and he neglects the fact that
the experience of exile can provoke various responses. As Timothy F.
Weiss points out:
The experience of exile can produce . . . a splitting of self and world. . . . The
exile may withdraw into the self. . . . The exile may escape into fantasy. . . .
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66 chapter three
The exile may forever seek to return to the past, and, of course, always
fail. . . . The exile . . . may try to re-create the motherland from which he has
been torn and end up living in a world of fantasy instead. (Weiss, 1992,
9–10)
I believe the experience of exile helps the Taiwanese modernist poets
withdraw into their inner selves and escape into fantasy.3 While Lomen
chooses to escape from the city by ‘distorting’ it, other poets prefer to
run away from the city by writing nothing about it at all. Although
we cannot see a direct relationship between the city and their poetry,
these Taiwanese modernist poets actually respond to their living place
negatively.
Lomen is different from his Western counterparts and his Taiwanese
contemporaries in that he withdraws more deeply than the others into
his inner self. The poet creates two unreal worlds, one on top of the
other. His first inward turn is to create an unreal city and his second
inward turn is to create the ‘House of Light.’ A detailed discussion on
the ‘House of Light’ has been presented in Chapter Two. Lomen wrote
his first urban poem “Cheng li de Ren” [City Dwellers] in 1957:
Their brains are the most prosperous traffic hub in modern times
Numerous driving routes connect with hell and heaven
Those glittering eyes are headlights
They illuminate the faces of devils and angels at anytime
They pack into the city
As if they pack into a ferry heading to Pearl Harbor
Desire is those smuggled goods, conscience is a just custom officer
(Lomen, 1995b, 217)
他們的腦部是近代最繁華的車站, / 有許多行車路線通入地獄與天堂, /
那閃動的眼睛是車燈, / 隨時照見惡魔與天使的臉。 / 他們擠在城裡, /
如擠在一只開往珍珠港去的船上, / 慾望是未納稅的私貨, 良心是嚴
正的關員。
The city depicted in this poem is unreal because Taipei was not yet a
well-developed modern city in the 1950s. Taiwan was still an agrarian
society and there were only a few cars in existence at that time. “Vehicles
3
Lomen and Rong Zi wrote me in a letter dated 15 November, 2000, that they are not
interested in political issues at all. These poets stress that they write poetry out of their
private interests. While Lomen and Rong Zi do not associate their inward turn with
their experiences of exile, Luo Fu points out that his inward turn is triggered by his exile.
A detailed account of Luo Fu’s inward turn can be found in Luo Fu’s Death in the Stone
Chamber and Related Criticisms (Luo, 1988, 192–93).
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imagining taipei 67
belonged only to the very rich” (Harrell, 1994, 170–71). Based on his
imagination, however, Lomen outlines several characteristics in relation
to the city and the city dwellers in this short poem. First of all, they
have endless desires. The poet compares the brains of the city dwellers
to the busy traffic of the city. These people’s minds are busy with think-
ing. Since their thoughts or desires will deliver them either to hell or
to heaven, whether they will be saved or condemned depends on their
consciences. Moreover, the city dwellers are materialists. According to
Lomen, living in the city is similar to living in “a ferry heading to Pearl
Harbor.” As Chen Huang 陳煌 points out, the term ‘Pearl Harbor’ does
not necessary refer to Pearl Harbor in Hawaii. We should take the literal
meaning of the word ‘pearl’ into account. As such, the poet implies that
the city dwellers chase after material wealth (Lomen, 1995b, 218).
The poem also tells us that the urban space is very crowded with peo-
ple and cars everywhere. Lomen eventually depicts the crowd in the city.
The poet uses the pronoun ‘they’ to represent city dwellers. He refers
not to an individual but to the crowd. Since Lomen uses ‘they’ instead
of ‘we’ as the pronoun, the poet does not include himself in the crowd.
He regards himself as an outsider who is invisible. It is noteworthy that
Lomen does not mention the city in “City Dwellers” at all. Instead, the
poet focuses on portraying the crowd. This characteristic reminds us of
Western modernist works which tend to consider the crowd a metonym
for the city. I will discuss this issue in detail in the next section.
The Disappearance of the Crowd
In his long poem “Dushi zhi Shi” [Death of a City], Lomen reinforces the
themes which are found in “City Dwellers.” The poet shows us a clear
picture of the kinds of desires we can find in the city. Lomen also makes
the city a metonym for the crowd in this poem.
The layers of the buildings hold people’s faces upward
The displays of the food hall carve people’s stomachs
The show-windows flash with seasons’ sharp eyes
People buy the years’ appearances with banknotes
Right here footsteps do not transport the souls
Right here priests cover their eyes with bibles and by falling asleep
all restricted areas become markets
all eyes become hawks’ eyes in the blue sky
(Au, 2006, 36)
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68 chapter three
建築物的層次托住人們的仰視 / 食物店的陳列紋刻人們的胃壁 / 櫥

窗閃著季節伶俐的眼色 / 人們用紙幣選購歲月的容貌 / 在這裡腳步
是不載靈魂的 / 在這裡神父以聖經遮目睡去 / 凡是禁地都成為市集 /
凡是眼睛都成為藍空裡的鷹目
At the beginning of the poem, Lomen communicates that people in the
city are stimulated by their desires, and that these desires can be fulfilled
by money. The poet compares these people to hawks, which means they
are no longer human beings. The image of hawks reminds us of preda-
tors who are looking for victims. The city dwellers hunt their quarry. The
reason why the city dwellers cease to be human is because the rhythms
of city life change too quickly.
According to Lomen, the tempo of living is much accelerated in the
city. The poet points out at the beginning of his poem that this tempo
of city living controls people completely and makes them become
soulless:
It is like the running cars clinging to the roads at high speed
People seize their own shadows rushing off
to look inside the changes which are too rapid to understand
to think inside the cyclotron which is too rapid to understand
to perish inside the death which is too rapid to die
Speed controls the circuits . . . (Au, 2006, 36)
如行車抓住馬路急馳 / 人們抓住自己的影子急行 / 在來不及看的變

動裡看 / 在來不及想的迴旋裡想 / 在來不及死的時刻裡死 / 速度控制
著線路 . . .
These few lines are quoted from the first part of the long poem. They suc-
cinctly depict the speed of city life by telling us how people respond to
rapid changes. The people are always in a hurry. They believe that their
shadows are not walking fast enough. They “seize their own shadows
rushing off.” City dwellers are always chasing after something because
changes occur so quickly. They feel that they cannot catch up with these
changes. As a result, the city dwellers become indifferent to the fast
changing tempo of city life. Robert Musil labels the insensitivity of the
city dwellers to ‘onrushing’ city life as people become ‘without qualities,’
or, in Simmel’s description, these people are in the condition of a ‘blunt-
ing of discrimination’ (Lehan, 1998, 72).
In the second part of the poem, Lomen raises the issue of religion as
a counterforce against materialism in the urban environment. The poet
tells us that people try to use religion to resist desires such as gourmand-
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imagining taipei 69
ism, eroticism and materialism stimulated by city life. However, religion

cannot save us from falling into decay:
Sundays people return after getting away for six days
The houses of their hearts having been cleansed by pastors
tomorrow they will again go to smell the rosy scent on women’s skin
will go to see the seven suns squatting in front of the bank
counters
[. . .]
City the crossroad on your neck clamors all the day,
God does not believe in God God is even more restless than the sea
Although the spire of the church takes in the tranquil blue of the sky
that color cannot be injected into your rosy veins
The Cross is then used to make your half nude breasts glimmer
(Au, 2006, 36–37)
禮拜日人們經過六天逃亡回來 / 心靈之屋經牧師打掃過後 / 次日又

去聞女人肌膚上的玫瑰香 / 去看銀行窗口蹲著七個太陽 . . . . . . / 都市卦
在你頸項間終日喧叫的十字街 / 那神是不信神的那神較海還不安 /
教堂的尖頂吸進滿天寧靜的藍 / 卻注射不入你玫瑰色的血管 / 十字
架便只好用來閃爍那半露的胸脯
These lines indicate that city dwellers indulge themselves in a sexually
gratifying and materialistic life. Although they go to church on Sundays,
religion cannot keep these people from pursuing their desires. In this
part of the poem, Lomen also raises the issue of the crowd and the city
as well as the dichotomy of desires and religion.
In the first stanza of part two, the poet mainly depicts the person-
alities of the crowd; nevertheless, the city is personified and becomes a
metonym for the crowd in the second stanza of part two. While Lomen
tells us that the crowd goes to church on Sundays, for instance, he tells
us that the city wears a cross on its neck in the second half of the poem.
By doing so, Lomen directly replaces the crowd with the city. It is note-
worthy that the way Lomen deals with the city is different from his West-
ern counterparts. Both Lomen and Western modernist poets notice the
relationship between the crowd and the city. Western modernist poets
consider the crowd as a metonym for the city. Lomen sees the crowd
as a metonym for the city on the one hand, and the city as a metonym
for the crowd on the other. For example, in “City Dwellers,” the crowd
becomes a metonym for the city. In “Death of a City,” the city becomes
a metonym for the crowd. Lehan explains the reason why the crowd
becomes a metonym for the city :
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70 chapter three
As the crowd became more extensive, the artist’s vision of the city became
more opaque, more mysterious and uncanny. The crowd became a met-
onym for the city in modernist discourse, and a great deal of urban study
is given over to the study of the crowd. (Lehan, 1998, 71)
On the contrary, the crowd depicted in Lomen’s “Death of a City” is
dehumanized. It becomes a kind of monster which is similar to the mon-
ster-like city portrayed in Lomen’s other works. Lomen’s urban poetry,
then, exhibits a feeling of uncanniness which is different from that of his
Western counterparts. While in Western modernist works, the crowd
becomes extensive in the city, it disappears in Lomen’s poem. The fact
that there is no crowd in “Death of a City” contributes to the feeling of
uncanniness in the reader.
In the fourth part of the poem, Lomen associates the city with a face-
less beast. This association reminds us of the first part of the poem in
which the poet compares the people or the crowd with hawks. The city
resembles the crowd which is a beast or non-human:
City daytime winds round your head nighttime drapes over your
shoulders
You are an ugly belly without a face
a faceless beast which swallows lives without leaving any wounds
which gnaws the bones and muscles of God (Au, 2006, 38)
都市白晝纏在你頭上黑夜披在你肩上 / 你是不生容貌的粗陋的腸胃

/ 一頭食生命不露傷口的無面獸 / 啃著神的筋骨
In the last part of the poem, Lomen indicates that the overloaded stimuli
of the city is another factor which makes it an uncanny place:
City before the bell of the terminus rings
[. . .]
You are like Death who dies with wide eyes
dies in the wine bottles dies in the ashtrays
dies on the bed dies under the Eiffel Tower
dies of an overdose of civilization’s drugs
[. . .]
City everything dies quickly during Easter
And you are a bride just coming out from a sedan-chair
[. . .]
a nude beast the most empty primitiveness
a screen hiding the shadows of the graveyard
a carved coffin loaded with moving death (Au, 2006, 38)
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imagining taipei 71
都市在終站的鐘鳴之前 . . . . . . / 你是等于死的張目的死 / 死在酒瓶裡

死在煙灰缸裡 / 死在床上死在埃爾佛的鐵塔下 / 死在文明過量的興
奮劑中 . . . . . . / 都市在復活節一切死得更快 / 而你卻是剛從花轎裡步
出的新娘 . . . . . . / 一只裸獸在最空無的原始 / 一扇屏風遮住墳的陰
影 / 一具彫花的棺裝滿了走動的死亡
In the first five lines of the passage, Lomen reiterates the themes of desire
and overloaded stimuli of the city. The poet tells us further that the city
becomes ‘a nude beast,’ ‘a screen’ and ‘a carved coffin.’ In brief, the city
is a place for the living dead, and the crowd is composed of the living
dead.
The uncanny city outlined by Lomen in “Death of a City” is also an
unreal one because Taipei was not yet a modern city in 1961. Aft er
having discussed two of Lomen’s earliest urban poems, I would like to
suggest that the poet’s unreal city is not a direct ‘copy’ from the West.
Although the way Lomen deals with the city and the crowd in “City
Dwellers” reminds us of his Western counterparts, this poem is not a
representative work of his urban poetry. For instance, the poet did not
include “City Dwellers” in his anthology of urban poetry. “Death of a
City,” however, was the first poem placed in the collection. As I pointed
out before, Western modernist poets tend to consider the crowd a met-
onym for the city, whereas Lomen considers the city a metonym for the
crowd. In other words, Lomen’s city poetry is different from that of his
Western counterparts to some extent. I believe Lomen’s early urban
poetry depicted a vision of the future Taipei.
An Invisible Persona
Lehan remarks that “two kinds of urban reality emerged from literary
modernism: the city as constituted by the artist, whose inner feelings
and impressions embody an urban vision, and the city as constituted
by the crowd, which had a personality and urban meaning of its own”
(Lehan, 1998, 71). On the surface, Lomen’s “City Dwellers” and “Death
of a City” mainly depict the crowd and the city, respectively. It is note-
worthy, however, that the poet uses the terms ‘they’ and ‘the people’
instead of ‘we’ in the poems. Here Lomen distinguishes himself from
the crowd, suggesting the image of an invisible observer. The role of
observer reminds us of the persona depicted in Baudelaire’s poetry, or
what Walter Benjamin calls a flaneur.
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72 chapter three
Benjamin labels the observer as a flaneur. The flaneur feels at home

in an arcade: “the street becomes a dwelling for the flaneur” (Benjamin,
1985, 37). It is clear that the flaneur enjoys being in a crowd. Baude-
laire, quoting Guys, remarks that “anyone who is capable of being bored
in a crowd is a blockhead. I repeat: a blockhead, and a contemptible
one” (Benjamin, 1985, 37). The observer tries to look for diversity in the
crowd and to associate the person who steps out of the crowd with his or
her own experience. This process involves internalization or an inward
turn (Lehen, 1998, 72). The city is not a homely place because the crowd
is heterogeneous instead of homogenous. When the flaneur goes out to
the arcades, his senses are overloaded. When the secret of the city, which
should remain hidden, is disclosed, the urban uncanny emerges.4
In spite of the basic similarities between Lomen’s persona and Baude-
laire’s flaneur, the persona depicted in Lomen’s poetry is different. First
of all, although Lomen indirectly portrays an observer in his early
poems, he does elaborate later on the diversity of the crowd. The poet
only started to identify different urban subjects in the crowd in his later
works which were written in the 1970s and 1980s. Lomen’s poetic per-
sona is often absent from the scene, whereas in Baudelaire’s poetry the
poetic persona is always present.
In “Maidanglao Wucan Shijian” [Lunch Hour at McDonald’s] which
was written in 1985, Lomen divides the city dwellers into three different
types and shows us how these people react to the changes of the living
tempo. The poet tells us that the younger generation finds no problem
in adapting to the fast pace, they
[. . .]
sit together
with the whole city
[. . .]
The knives and forks in their hands
which are faster than the cars,
passing by:
a charming and handsome
afternoon (Au, 2006, 52)
4
The chapter on “The Flaneur” in Walter Benjamin’s Charles Baudelaire: A Lyric
Poet in the Era of High Capitalism and the chapter on “The Inward Turn” in Richard
Lehan’s The City in Literature provide detailed information in relation to the issue of
the flaneur.
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同整座城 / 坐在一起 . . . . . . / 手裡的刀叉 / 較來往的車 / 還快速地穿過 /

迷你而帥勁的 / 中午
Although middle-aged men become accustomed to city life, they are
exhausted and feel nostalgic for the past:
Two or three middle-aged men
dwell inside exhaustion
The knives and forks in their hands
stretch out slowly and become the legs of chopsticks
They return to thirty years ago to the old town and the small restaurant
there (Au, 2006, 52)
三四個中年人 / 坐在疲累裡 / 手裡的刀叉 / 慢慢張開成筷子的雙腳 /

走回三十年前鎮上的小館
And finally, the older generation finds it hard to adapt to this new
environment:
An old man
sits in the corner
wearing a wrong size
ready-made suit
finishing a not-to-his-taste
hamburger
[. . .]
The old man sits until he becomes
a withered old pine, an interior decoration (Au, 2006, 53)
一個老年人 / 坐在角落裡 / 穿著不太合身的 / 成衣西裝 / 吃完不太合

胃的 / 漢堡 . . . . . . / 枯坐成一棵 / 室內裝潢的老松
There is a remarkable contrast among these three generations. In the
first part, Lomen imparts how the younger generation responds to the
rapid tempo of city life. The young men not only easily adapt to the rapid
living pace, but even change faster than the living tempo itself. Accord-
ing to Lomen, these young people move faster ‘than the cars.’ In the
last part of the poem, Lomen reveals that the older generation feels that
modern city life is not suitable for them. The city, then, is not a homely
place to the middle-aged and to the elderly. It is noteworthy that in this
poem Lomen starts to consider the crowd as heterogeneous instead of
homogenous, although he only divides the crowd into three different
groups. However, the poetic persona depicted in this poem is still an
invisible one because the persona is absent from the scene.
Among other factors, the city’s population density contributes to
making it an uncanny place. In the words of a Parisian secret agent in
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1798, as quoted by Benjamin, “it is almost impossible . . . to maintain

good behaviour in a thickly populated area where an individual is, so to
speak, unknown to all others and thus does not have to blush in front
of anyone” (Benjamin, 1985, 40). Therefore, one can easily spot criminal
behavior in the city. Benjamin compares the flaneur with a detective.
According to Benjamin, “criminological sagacity coupled with the pleas-
ant nonchalance of the flaneur. . . . No matter what trail the flaneur may
follow, every one of them will lead him to a crime” (Benjamin, 1985,
41). Lomen’s poems remind us that the poet is similar to the flaneur
or the detective who finds crimes everywhere in Taipei. “Qiangjie yu
Qiangbao” [Robbery and Rape] is one example:
Under the dim street lamp at midnight
the swaying curve of her body
connects to his sight
The pearl necklace hanging around her neck
strikes his eyes
The breasts towering on her chest
are like his territory
Mt. Chang Bai
The whole visual space
enters a fearful, primitive, barbarous place
Once the church, the court and the police station are out of sight
he can do whatever he wants
(Au, 2006, 57)
在深夜暗淡的街燈下 / 她身上擺動過來的曲線 / 與他的視線接上 / 她

項間垂掛的珍珠 / 與他的眼珠碰上 / 她胸前聳起的乳峰 / 與他經常走
險的長白山 / 對上 / 整個視覺空間 / 便走入原始可怕的蠻荒 / 看不見
教堂法院與警察局 / 便什麼都能做
This poem is obviously about a robber or a rapist and his victim. Lomen
identifies the criminal from the crowd and discloses his thoughts to
the reader. The woman’s figure and her necklace lure the criminal to
commit the crime. Since the woman is alone and the scene is set in the
darkness of night, the criminal is free to do what he wants. The flaneur
is not exactly the detective. Although the crowd can easily hide crimi-
nals, every individual is not necessarily a criminal. Lehan concurs with
Benjamin and points out the dissimilarity between the flaneur and the
detective. He notices that the former is unlike the latter because the
flaneur “goes to the arcades to be stimulated by the crowds” (Lehan,
1998, 74). In this case, Lomen is also unlike the flaneur in that his poetic
persona does not seek stimulation from, and actually avoids, the city
crowds. Lomen or his poetic persona does not appear at the crime scene
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in this poem. This observation triggers further questions: Does Lomen

ever walk in the street? Does the poet depict McDonald’s™ and the crime
scene based on his imagination?
My queries are reinforced by Lomen’s “Dushi de Wujiaoting” [The
City’s Pentagonal Pavilion]. In this poem, Lomen depicts five persons,
namely, the Newspaper Boy, the Shoeblack, the Woman Singer, the
Waiter and the Ragpicker. He differentiates among these people by their
professions and divides the poem into five sections. I will discuss the
first three characters in detail. In “Song Zaobao Zhe” [Newspaper Boy],
the issue of city life is described thus:
Yesterday is not shot dead
Yesterday is smuggled back by the printing machine
Before the milk bottles’ sounds can be heard

before Anna swims out of the arms
his bicycle rushes before the sun’s one-wheel-car
Like a garden, Yesterday is brought back by him
People’s eyes are polished until they become vases
waiting for different flowers’ various colors
Civilization opens into flowers bombs open into flowers
no matter whether God is willing to see or not (Au, 2006, 40)
“昨日” 沒有被斃掉 / “昨日” 坐印刷機偷渡回來了 / 那是在牛乳瓶的

聲響之前 / 安娜還未游出臂灣之前 / 他的兩輪車衝在太陽的獨輪車
之前 / “昨日” 像花園被他搬了回來 / 人們的眼睛擦亮成瓶子 / 等著插
各色各樣的花 / 文明開的花炸彈開的花 / 上帝愛看或不愛看的花
Lomen not only portrays the newspaper boy’s job, but also presents the
lives of city dwellers. The city dwellers read newspapers every day in the
morning. The newspaper boy must get up early to deliver these newspa-
pers. However, what is reported in the newspapers is actually yesterday’s
news. Yesterday’s news keeps on repeating itself in the newspapers, and
the city dwellers, as well as God, seem to be indifferent to whether there
is good news or bad. In short, Lomen portrays the newspaper boy’s dili-
gence and the crowd’s indifference in this poem.
The second poem is about a shoeblack:
He and his kit
sit together until they become [an] “L” shaped vacuum cleaner
sit together until they become a tiny desert
In a sand-storm
his hands are a durable rope
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76 chapter three
While he pulls the boats which transport sunshine

over to the roads
He is not sure whether his hands are
the sails
or the cactuses (Au, 2006, 40)
他與他的工具箱 / 坐成 L 型的吸塵器 / 坐成一小小的沙漠 / 在風沙裡

/ 他的手是拉不斷的繩索 / 將一只一只運陽光的船 / 拉上路時 / 他已
分不出自己的手 / 是帆 / 還是仙人掌
In “Caxiejiang” [Shoeblack], Lomen’s imagination is triggered by a shoe-
black on the street, and he thinks of the uncertainties people face in the
modern world. The way the shoeblack places his kit reminds the poet of
‘a tiny desert.’ Lomen imagines that the shoes the shoeblack polishes for
the passers-by are ‘the boats which transport sunshine.’ The poet com-
pares the life journey of modern people to sailing boats. The shoeblack’s
hands are either the sails or the cactuses. The sails obviously help keep
the boats sailing smoothly, whereas the cactuses belong to the desert
and cannot help the sailing boats. The passage implies that the boats sail
the desert, which is impossible and full of obstacles. The shoeblack does
not know whether his hands are like sails or cactuses to the boats, which
means he does not know whether the people whose shoes he polishes
will have an easy life or a difficult one.
In “Genu” [Woman Singer], Lomen not only delineates the decadent
life of a woman singer, but also presents the lives of city dwellers in
general:
When it gets dark
something will look for her either to do massage
or to receive her electric treatment
In the flammable air
she is a Ronson lighter
Night is a hempen cigarette
When her vocal chords extend

they become the road where citizens always go to take a walk
Going ahead of the road is Fifth Street
Going ahead further is her garden
Going ahead further is the fountain in her garden
Going ahead further is the ruin dying in the mist
it is as bleak as her face
which next morning is deserted by cosmetics
(Au, 2006, 41)
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天一黑 / 某些東西不是找她按摩 / 便是接受她的電療 / 在那一擊便著

火的空氣裡 / 她是一只 RONSON 牌打火機 / 夜是一支大麻煙 / 聲喉一
伸 / 便伸成市民常去散步的那條路 / 那條路往前走是第五街 / 再往
前走是她的花園 / 再往前走是她花園裡的噴水池 / 再往前走是那
死在霧裡的廢墟 / 荒涼如次晨她那張 / 被脂粉遺棄的臉
Although this poem is mainly about a singer, it also shows us how the
city dwellers spend their evenings, going to nightclubs to seek comfort.
In the first stanza, Lomen does not directly identify who seeks the singer
out. He tells us instead that “something will look for her either to do
massage / or to receive her electric treatment.” However, the poet exhib-
its in the second stanza that ‘something’ refers to people. When the citi-
zens hear the singer’s voice, they follow it, and are consequently led to
‘the ruin,’ or corruption. Although the singer plays the role of a savior,
she cannot save herself from decadence. The singer looks ill without the
assistance of cosmetics. The singer and the people are all ruined by their
unhealthy lifestyles.
The above examples demonstrate the similarities and dissimilarities
between Lomen and Baudelaire. Lomen resembles Baudelaire in that
they both like to depict ordinary people. However, while Baudelaire
enjoys being in the crowd and is stimulated by his ability to enter into
the lives of whoever he wants, Lomen seems to distance himself from the
urban crowd by being absent from the scene. According to Baudelaire:
The poet enjoys the incomparable privilege of being able to be himself or
some one else, as he chooses. Like those wandering souls who go looking
for a body, he enters as he likes into each man’s personality. For him alone
everything is vacant. . . . The solitary and thoughtful stroller finds a singu-
lar intoxication in this universal communion. (Baudelaire, 1970, 20)
Baudelaire remarks that the heroism of modern life can be found in our
everyday lives. All we need to do is to open our eyes to recognize it. Ber-
man distinguishes Baudelaire’s attitude toward ordinary people from
that of the avant-garde. Berman points out that Baudelaire searches for
hidden heroism in ordinary people, whereas the members of the avant-
garde distance themselves and have “scorn for ordinary people and
their travails” (Berman, 1982, 144).5 Although Lomen does not scorn
5
Marshall Berman explains in detail Baudelaire’s idea of the heroism of modern life
in his All That is Solid Melts Into Air. Chapter Three, “Baudelaire: Modernism in the
Streets” is the most important. Baudelaire’s original idea of modern heroism can be
found in his The Painter of Modern Life and Other Essays. Chapter 1, “The Painter of
Modern Life” is especially useful.
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78 chapter three
ordinary people as those of the avant-garde, he distances himself from

them. Lomen is not intoxicated by being with ordinary people, rather,
he describes the individuals with a detached mind.
Baudelaire’s generosity and sympathy toward ordinary people is best
exemplified by his “The Eyes of the Poor.” Baudelaire tells us in the poem
that he and his lover are sitting “in front of a new café forming the corner
of a new boulevard still littered with rubbish but that already displayed
proudly its unfinished splendors” (Baudelaire, 1970, 52). A man in his
forties, who carries two little boys, is standing in front of the couple.
“They were in rags” (Baudelaire, 1970, 52). The poet attempts to read
what he sees in their eyes:
The eyes of the father said: “How beautiful it is! How beautiful it is! All
the gold of the poor world must have found its way onto those walls.” The
eyes of the little boy: “How beautiful it is! How beautiful it is! But it is a
house where only people who are not like us can go.” As for the baby, he
was much too fascinated to express anything but joy—utterly stupid and
profound. (Baudelaire, 1970, 53)
If we compare the above extract of Baudelaire’s prose poem with those
of Lomen’s just discussed, we will find some basic differences. For exam-
ple, while Baudelaire is present at the scene, Lomen is absent from it.
Lomen never describes the city of Taipei in his poetry, whereas Paris
always plays a significant role in Baudelaire’s works. The new boulevard
depicted in this poem implies that Haussmann’s new boulevard project
is a work in progress.6 Furthermore, Baudelaire is always intoxicated by
ordinary people and feels sympathy for them at the same time.
Song writers say that pleasure ennobles the soul and softens the heart.
The song was right that evening as far as I was concerned. Not only was
I touched by this family of eyes, but I was even a little ashamed of our
glasses and decanters, too big for our thirst. (Baudelaire, 1970, 53)
Lomen often presents objective descriptions in his poetry. A brief com-
parison between Baudelaire and Lomen gives rise to the following ques-
tions: Why is Lomen absent from the scenes he depicted? Why is Taipei
not portrayed in Lomen’s poetry? Does this silence mean anything?
I believe that the absence of a poetic persona and the city of Taipei
in Lomen’s poetry implies that Lomen wants to escape from the city.
6
For more information in relation to Baron Georges Haussmann’s design for mod-
ern Paris, please see Richard Lehan’s The City in Literature. The chapter on the “City of
Limits” is the most pertinent to this discussion.
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The poet’s dream is realized in his poems, for he is not in the city at
all. In other words, Lomen resembles his fellow poets Luo Fu, Rong Zi,
Yu Guangzhong and Zheng Chouyu in feeling hostile toward the city.
Nevertheless, while most Taiwanese modernist poets choose to keep
altogether silent about urban subjects in the late 1950s and early 1960s,
Lomen chooses to escape from Taipei either by depicting an unreal city
or by being absent from his urban poetry. This phenomenon raises a
further question: What factors contribute to the development of the Tai-
wanese modernist poets’ sense of anti-urbanism?
The Urban Uncanny
The Taiwanese modernist poets in this discussion did not keep silent
about Taipei throughout their full careers. For instance, Rong Zi started
to write a few poems in relation to Taipei in the 1960s. Zheng Chouyu,
Luo Fu and Yu Guangzhong also wrote a few from the 1970s onwards.
Likewise, the city of Taipei is not always absent from Lomen’s later
poetry. The poet depicted Taipei’s landscape in some of his works in
the 1980s. Nevertheless, anti-urbanism is a recurrent theme of Taiwan-
ese modernist poetry. According to these poets, the uncanniness of the
urban space is mainly caused by the modern city’s monstrous architec-
ture, the overcrowded living environment, the eroticism of urban life
and the dichotomy of the city and the country. I will discuss these fac-
tors in detail in what follows.
Vidler points out that life in the modern city causes urban diseases
such as agoraphobia (Vidler, 2000, 29). Agoraphobia is a kind of spatial
disease which was first noticed in 1871 by the Berlin psychologist Carl
Otto Westphal. According to Westphal, “the symptoms of what he called
‘agoraphobia’ included palpitations, sensations of heat, blushing, trem-
bling, fear of dying and petrifying shyness.” (Vidler, 2000, 28) The psy-
chologist also noticed that these symptoms occurred “when his patients
were walking across open spaces or through empty streets or anticipated
such an experience with a dread of the ensuing anxiety” (Vidler, 2000,
28). Different theorists have different ideas of the disease’s cause. While
William James believed that agoraphobia is a hereditary disease, Freud
claimed that it is caused by abnormalities of sexual life.7 Despite the
7
A detailed account of the history and the theorists’ arguments of agoraphobia can
be found in Vidler’s Warped Space. The chapter on “Agoraphobia” is especially useful.
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80 chapter three
discrepancies in the theorists’ arguments, I agree with Vidler that no

theorist can deny or “remove the urban and spatial associations from
the illness” (Vidler, 2000, 34). As such, what kind of urban space causes
agoraphobia?
The Viennese architect Camillo Sitte remarks that “the spatial emp-
tiness of the new Ringstrasse” causes agoraphobia (Vidler, 2000, 26).
According to Sitte, even statues might suffer from this disease; they
would undoubtedly prefer a traditional little plaza in an old town to a
gigantic empty square in the modern city (Vidler, 2000, 26). While the
former makes people feel comfortable, the latter offers just the opposite
feeling. Wilhelm Worringer suggests that the dread of open space is a
kind of ‘primitive fear.’ Worringer elaborates that:
This physical dread of open places may be explained as a residue from a
normal phase of man’s development, at which he was not yet able to trust
entirely to visual impression as a means of becoming familiar with a space
extended before him, but was still dependent upon the assurances of his
sense of touch. (Vidler, 2000, 44)
Similarly, William James’ comment on agoraphobia echoes Worringer’s
idea of primitive fear. James notices that the symptoms of agoraphobia
are not only found in human beings. When domestic cats or animals feel
anxious, they also “cling to cover, and only venture on a dash across the
open as a desperate measure—even making for every stone or bunch of
weeds which may give a momentary shelter” (Vidler, 2000, 34). James
asks whether agoraphobia is not “an odd kind of fear” which is “due to
the accidental resurrection, through disease, of a sort of instinct which
may in some of our ancestors have had a permanent and on the whole
a useful part to play?” (Vidler, 2000, 34). In other words, agoraphobia
is triggered by the open spaces of the city, which is similar to the fears
of our ancestors brought forth by the open wilderness. In Vidler’s and
James’ words, “the spiritual dread of open space was a throwback to a
moment of instinctive fear conditioned by man’s feeling of being lost in
the universe” (Vidler, 2000, 44–45).
Urbanization is a universal phenomenon. We can also find the
uncanny urban space depicted in the works of Taiwanese modernist
poets. For example, Lomen notices the feeling of estrangement caused
by modern architecture. In “Boli Dasha de Yihua” [The Alienation of
the Glass Buildings], the poet tells us that the glass buildings alienate
the scenery:
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Standing at the street corner

I look at the glass buildings
They freeze the scenes one after the other
and keep them in the glass windows (Au, 2006, 54)
站在街口 / 看玻璃大廈 / 將風景一塊塊 / 冷凍在玻璃窗裡

In these few lines Lomen shows us that the urban space makes us feel
cold or uneasy because of the glass buildings. As I mentioned before,
transparency is the architectural ideal of modernist architects such as Le
Corbusier. Glass became the main material which helped them to real-
ize their aesthetic ideals. However, glass also helps to erase the boundary
between the inside and the outside. The effacement of the boundary con-
tributes to creating a feeling of uncanniness. Freud points out that “the
feeling of the uncanny implies the return to that particular organization
of space where everything is reduced to inside and outside and where
the inside is also the outside” (Vidler, 1992, 222). When the interior is
also the exterior or vice versa, the boundary between the domestic and
public spaces is effaced. Human beings are taken back to the primitive
days when there was no space in which to take shelter from the dangers
of the open. In effect, there is no place we can call home. Postmodernist
architects criticize glass buildings for this particular reason. They want
to re-establish the distinction between the domestic and public spaces.
In short, postmodernist architects try to make the glass opaque.8
In addition to the issue of transparency, Lomen’s poem also brings
forth the theme of windows. According to the poet, the window is the
culprit which imprisons scenery. However, in “City ˙ A Square Exis-
tence,” Lomen tells us that there is nothing to see outside the windows.
The poet clearly points out in the poem that high-rise buildings block
the scenery, making it impossible to look out of the windows:
Eyes look out
from the square windows
of the cars
They immediately are themselves looked at
by rows of square windows
of high-rise buildings
8
A detailed account on transparency can be found in Vidler’s The Architectural
Uncanny (Vidler, 1992, 217–25).
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82 chapter three
[. . .]
Eyes look out but see nothing
All windows are blind and set into
the square walls
With no choice, the eyes search for the square windows
in the dining tables
in the mahjong tables
They have looked them over Finally
through the square windows of
the TV sets
all eyes escape (Au, 2006, 50)
眼睛從車裡 / 方形的窗 / 看出去 / 立即被高樓一排排 / 方形的窗 / 看

回來 . . . . . . / 眼睛看不出去 / 窗又一個個瞎在 / 方形的牆上 / 便只好在
餐桌上 / 在麻將桌上 / 找方形的窗 / 找來找去最後 / 全都從電視機 /
方形的窗裡 / 逃走
In the first stanza of the passage quoted above, Lomen tells us that we are
surrounded by high-rise buildings, and as a result, we are forced to stay
inside our apartments. In this poem Lomen suggests one more answer to
the question of why some people always stay away from their windows.
According to Freud, anxiety about windows is one of the syndromes of
agoraphobia. Freud “constructs this anxiety as ‘Anxiety + . . . window . . .,’
where the ‘unconscious idea’ of ‘going to the window to beckon a man
to come up, as prostitutes do’ leads to sexual release, which, repudiated
by the preconscious, is turned into anxiety” (Vidler, 2000, 38). It is obvi-
ous that Freud’s interpretation of window anxiety is not a comprehen-
sive one. He presumes agoraphobia is a housewife’s disease, which was
a common preconception during his day. Clearly, Freud’s explanation is
sexist, and he did not take the effect of urban space into account. Under
these circumstances, Lomen’s point supplements Freud’s limitations.
Lomen suggests that the reason human beings do not want to leave their
homes or look out of the windows is that there is nothing to see outside.
The scenery is blocked by high-rise buildings.
Gender Space
Lomen agrees with Freud in that he depicts a gender space in another

urban poem. The poet considers Taipei a woman who causes the
urban uncanny in “Dushi, Ni yao dao Nali Qu” [City, Where Are You
Going?]:
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The high-rise buildings bend down to

look at her
The names of the companies turn their heads to
call her
Restaurants prepare for your good appetite
Fashion boutiques dress your desire
Perfumes lead you to the primitive sense of smell
Everything has its latent directions
Which way should you go?
Roads have already known
From roads to pavements to subways
from ladders to staircases to escalators
from offices to reception desks to bedrooms
you look at your arms and cranks
they move to and fro at work
Finally they always go back to
the original movement
Things are always simple
all you need to do is to leave them to your bodies (Lomen, 1995b, 70)
高樓大廈都低下頭來 / 看她 / 公司行號都轉過頭來 / 叫她 / 餐館調配

好吃慾 / 時裝店打扮好性慾 / 香水帶引著原始的嗅覺 / 一切都有了潛
在的去向 / 你該往那裡走 / 路還會不知道嗎 / 從行車道到人行道到地
下道 / 從階梯到樓梯到電梯 / 從工作房到門房到臥房 / 你一天看著手
臂與曲柄 / 在工作中動來動去 / 最後總是動回那個 / 原本的動作裡來 /
事情就那麼簡單 / 交給身體去辦便得了
In this long poem, Lomen stresses that the city is an erotic place. Every-
thing in the city—restaurants, boutiques and roads—is associated with
sexual desire. After having worked a full day, all people can think of is
sex. It is noteworthy that locations such as ‘pavements,’ ‘subways,’ ‘stair-
cases’ and ‘escalators’ easily arouse phobia. The protagonist ‘you’ in the
poem resembles an animal who seeks shelter from danger. However, the
shelter for ‘you’ is not a place, but a woman.
Lomen’s depiction of city as a woman is a Freudian idea, for he associ-
ates woman with home:
You approach to the top of the world
embracing her letting your hands slip and reach
the terminus
Isn’t it your home (Lomen, 1995b, 73)
你便走上世界的頂點 / 抱著她滑下來 / 那終點 / 不就是你的家

The above extracts are from the long poem “City, Where Are You Going?”
Lomen tells us what happens when the persona meets a woman. ‘The
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84 chapter three
top of the world’ refers to the woman’s breasts, ‘the terminus’ the private
parts. In effect, the poet sketches a sex scene in these lines. The word
‘home’ refers, in Freud’s words, to ‘the female genital organs.’
According to Lomen, it is not difficult to go back ‘home’:
Whenever you want to go back, all
cafe
restaurants
bars
are bus stops
She is both a long-distance and short-distance
bus
which is waiting for you
[. . .]
Escape from the streets and lanes
takes you back to your naked, original
home (Lomen, 1995b, 75–76)
只要你想回去 / 咖啡廳 / 餐廳 / 酒廊 / 都是候車站 / 她便是跑長途跑

短途的 / 交通車 / 等著你來 . . . . . . / 從大街小巷逃跑 / 跑回你赤裸裸的
原來 / 你的家
In the postscript of the poem Lomen criticizes the materialism and sen-
suality of city life, although the poem indicates that ‘woman’ is the pro-
tagonist’s home. It seems that Lomen paradoxically considers ‘woman’
the culprit who causes the city’s uncanniness, as well as a home which
keeps us from danger. I believe that if ‘woman’ is a home, she must be an
uncanny one. As Freud points out, “neurotic men declare that they feel
there is something uncanny about the female genital organs” (Freud,
1964, 245). He further elaborates that the female genital organs are the
former home of all human beings. We all live in our mothers’ bodies
before birth. This once familiar place becomes unfamiliar when neu-
rotic men revisit it. A woman’s body may remind them of their mothers’,
but it is undoubtedly not the same. As such, the feeling of uncanniness
arises. Similarly, Elizabeth Wilson points out that the city is “a place of
growing threat and paranoia to men.” She explains that:
At the heart of the urban labyrinth lurked not the Minotaur, a bull-like
male monster, but the female Sphinx, the ‘strangling one’, who was so
called because she strangled all those who could not answer her riddle:
female sexuality, womanhood out of control, lost nature, loss of identity.
(Wilson, 1992, 7)
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imagining taipei 85
Wilson’s remarks help to explain the reason Lomen compares the

uncanny urban space to a woman. According to Wilson, the city “might
be a place of liberation for women. The city offers women freedom”
(Wilson, 1992, 7). Wilson elaborates that this kind of freedom offered
to the woman, on the one hand, disturbs the traditional authoritarian
control of men over women. On the other hand, the disorder of urban
life may help to make the city a dangerous place for women. Prostitutes
and prostitution are recurring problems of city life that not only cause
danger to women but also endanger men if they indulge in sex. As such,
the female city resembles the Sphinx who asks a riddle and the answer
is her female sexuality. If men cannot control their desires, they will be
ruined; they will be strangled by the Sphinx.
Rong Zi is the only woman poet I have chosen for this study. Her idea
of the city is different from that of Wilson’s because she does not feel free
in the city. Instead, the poetess thinks she is trapped in it. In “Women
de Cheng Buzai Fei Hua” [Flowers No Longer Fly in Our City], Rong Zi
depicts the wilderness-like space of Taipei. In addition to the uncanny
atmosphere, Rong Zi coincidentally raises the issue of gender through
the image of the Sphinx in this poem. The poetess compares the modern
buildings in the city to the Sphinx in the desert, and the she-monster
also reminds us of women in the city. Nevertheless, Rong Zi’s reaction
toward the Sphinx is rather interesting. Like Lomen, she is afraid of the
she-monster. A question arises here: What perspective does Rong Zi
possess? Is her perspective a female or a male one?
Flowers no longer fly in our city in March
Monstrous buildings squat everywhere—
Sphinxes in the desert, squinting at you in mockery
And a pack of urban tigers howl
From morning to night
From morning to night

The downpour of pitch-black smoke, the thunder of the city
Squabbles between cogwheels
Conflicts between machines
Time broken into pieces, life fading away by the moment
At night our city is like a poisonous spider

Extending its web
To snare pedestrians
The loneliness of the heart
The emptiness of the night (Yeh, 1992, 100–01)
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86 chapter three
我們的城不再飛花在三月 / 到處蹲踞著那龐然建築物的獸—— / 沙

漠中的司分克斯以嘲諷的眼神窺你 / 而市虎成群地呼嘯 / 自晨迄暮 /
自晨迄暮 / 煤煙的雨市聲的雷 / 齒輪與齒輪的齟齬 / 機器與機器的
傾軋 / 時間片片裂碎生命刻刻消褪 . . . . . . / 入夜, 我們的城像一枚有
毒的大蜘蛛 / 張開它閃漾的誘惑的網子 / 網行人的腳步 / 網心的寂
寞 / 夜的空無
In the first stanza, Rong Zi likens the city to the wilderness. There are
monsters everywhere in the city, embodied in the gigantic buildings.
The poetess also compares the city with the desert because there are no
flowers even in spring. In addition, Rong Zi associates the monstrous
buildings with the famous Sphinx in the desert and compares the tiger
with the car. In the second stanza, we are told that the modern buildings
and vehicles make the city an uncomfortable space. The air is filled with
‘pitch-black smoke’ and ‘thunder’ at all times. In the third stanza, Rong
Zi shows us the city during the night. The city is likened to a monstrous
insect, a huge poisonous spider that traps all city dwellers in its web.
It is noteworthy that when Rong Zi describes the Sphinx, the poetess
says the monster is ‘squinting at you in mockery.’ Why does the Sphinx
mock Rong Zi? I think the Sphinx’s attitude toward Rong Zi is differ-
ent from the monster’s attitude toward men. According to Wilson, the
Sphinx asks men riddles. If men fail to solve the riddles, they will be
strangled to death. The relationship between the Sphinx and men is sim-
ilar to that of the predator and its prey. If the prey is fortunate enough to
escape from its predator, or to solve the riddle, it can survive; otherwise,
the prey will be killed. The relationship between the Sphinx and Rong Zi
is different, however. The Sphinx and the poetess are not a predator and
its prey. They are of the same species, though Rong Zi is a lesser mem-
ber. This is why the Sphinx laughs at her. In other words, Rong Zi uses a
female perspective to write this poem, though it is clear that the poetess
does not feel free in the urban space.
The reasons why Rong Zi does not consider the urban space a pleas-
ant one are different from those of the male poets. She feels nostalgia for
her homeland, which is symbolized by nature. I will discuss this issue in
the next section entitled “Estrangement.” In addition, Rong Zi’s living
space has been invaded. As I pointed out in Chapter Two, Rong Zi is
living in Lomen’s poetic space—the ‘House of Light’—which is not her
ideal home. Rong Zi loves flowers, but flowers are not welcome in the
‘House of Light’ because Lomen thinks that flowers do not correspond
to his poetic space. As such, when Rong Zi says that ‘flowers no longer
fly in our city,’ the poetess not only refers to the city but also to her
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home as well. I believe this is the reason why the Sphinx laughs at the
poetess. Instead of killing men as the Sphinx does, Rong Zi is strangled
by them.
In Rong Zi’s long poem “Qiyue de Nanfang” [July in the South], the
poetess uses one line to depict the city but ninety-two lines to describe
nature, which is represented by the South:
I decided to head for the South from now on—
leaving from the shadows of the cold and grayish buildings in the city
winding the long corridor of bird’s songs
the South is calling me! (Rong Zi, 1995c, 44)
從此向南—/ 從都市灰冷建築物的陰暗 / 繞過鳥聲悠長的迴廊 / 南方

喚我！
These few lines are the beginning of “July in the South.” Rong Zi uses
a single line to describe and conclude that the city is an uncomfortable
place because it is full of monstrous buildings. In the rest of the poem,
she portrays a beautiful South, a rural area. Does the absence of the city
say anything? It is noteworthy that Rong Zi uses the singular pronoun
‘I’ in this and other poems in relation to nature. Lomen is absent from
the scene, and his absence is related to the absence of the city in her
poetry. As I mentioned in Chapter Two, Rong Zi remarked that Lomen
draws his inspiration from the city. The poet embraces the modern city,
and the city is a metaphor for Lomen. Rong Zi wants to get away from
the city and from Lomen. The poetess suffered a personal identity cri-
sis after her marriage with Lomen, when she felt the pressure to be a
housewife and a civil servant simultaneously. I will discuss this issue in
Chapter Five under the section called “Return to Nature.” As a result,
the poetess stopped composing poetry for a few years after she got mar-
ried. Since “July in the South” was written after her marriage, I believe it
reflects Rong Zi’s sentiment toward her marital life. She wants to escape
from her marriage and take refuge in nature. The dichotomy of the city
and nature will be discussed in detail in the next section.
Lastly, the monstrous buildings in the city contribute to the develop-
ment of the urban uncanny. In “Niuyue, Niuyue” [New York, New York],
Rong Zi compares the civilization of the city to a monster. She wants to
leave New York as soon as possible:
New York is cold, for it has too much iron and steel
Since it is overloaded, the heart of New York is numb
The sun and sky are covered by the flags of material desire
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The skyscrapers, the monsters—

The city is thickly dotted with grayish shadows
Which are gigantic but without spirit
[. . .]
The invisible restlessness comes from the visible gazes of the monsters
They all have iron and steel hearts
[. . .]
New York is both magnificent and inferior
Visitors earnestly want to have a look at the city but also want to leave it in
a hurry! (Rong Zi, 1995c, 241–43)
紐約因擁有過多的鋼鐵而寒冷 / 因承載過重的負荷而麻痺了心臟 /
物慾文明的旌旗掩天敝日一枝獨秀 / 那摩天大樓的怪獸—— / 看城
內密密集集地都是那灰黑的影子 / 巨大而無有靈性 . . . . . . / 無形的不
甯來自那巨物有形的瞪視 / 它們又全都有鋼鐵的心臟 . . . . . . / 紐約既
堂皇又卑下 / 是觀光客極思一睹也急欲離去的城！
According to Rong Zi, New York makes her feel uneasy because its
modern architecture is monster-like. These buildings are gigantic and
cold, for they are made of iron and steel. The poetess notices that the
city is overloaded with gigantic buildings. On the one hand, Rong Zi
personifies these monstrous buildings; they seem to have eyes to gaze
on people. On the other hand, the poetess reminds us that they are non-
human, because their hearts are made of steel and iron. In a word, they
are monsters, and as such, Rong Zi wishes to leave New York at once.
Although Rong Zi is only a tourist in New York, her feeling of hostility
toward the city is no less than that toward Taipei. What does Rong Zi’s
attitude toward the cities imply?
Nor does Rong Zi like Hong Kong. In “Hui Taipei Qu” [Going Back
to Taipei], the poetess tells us that she does not like Hong Kong because
of its overcrowded population:
The hands of consciousness quickly push this space away
Mongkok crowded with people and shops and
Victoria Harbor’s unstable moonlight
I go back to the dwelling place where I spent thirty years
(Rong Zi, 1986, 156)
意識的手便迅速推開此間 / 人雜市鬧的旺角和 / 維多利亞海峽不安

的月光 / 回我卅多年的居地。
Rong Zi tells us in this poem that she is afraid of the overcrowded-
ness of Hong Kong. Mongkok, one of the most popular places in Hong
Kong, is always crowded with people. The poetess imagines that she can
push Mongkok, or the noisy space, away. Rong Zi’s behavior reminds
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us of another kind of phobia—haptophobia. As Simmel observes, this

fear—that of touching—has recently become more widespread. People
who have this disease show the following symptoms. They fear being in
“too close a contact with objects . . . for which every live and immediate
contact produces pain” (Vidler, 2000, 58). Although we are not certain
whether or not Rong Zi has this fear of contact, her desperation at going
home suggests that she wants to take shelter from the crowded streets. It
is noteworthy that the poetess seems to consider Taipei her home in this
poem. As such, does Rong Zi really feel hostile to the urban space?
Estrangement
To Rong Zi, Yu Guangzhong and even Lomen, the city not only refers to
the physical urban space, their living place, but it is also the antonym of
nature and their homeland. According to the poets, urbanization makes
the city an unhomely space because it destroys nature. It is interesting to
note that although these poets live in the city, they only notice the draw-
backs of urban life. Their perception of the city is simpler than Raymond
Williams’ generalization of people’s perception of the city. According to
Williams, the dichotomy of the country and the city are always stereo-
typed:
On the country has gathered the idea of a natural way of life: of peace,
innocence, and simple virtue. On the city has gathered the idea of an
achieved centre: of learning, communication, light. Powerful hostile asso-
ciations have also developed: on the city as a place of noise, worldliness
and ambition; on the country as a place of backwardness, ignorance, limi-
tation. (Williams, 1973, 1)
Although Williams comments that the above account in relation to the
city and the country is a stereotypical one, it is in fact a comparatively
objective and comprehensive list. At least we see the merits as well as the
shortcomings of both living spaces. Nevertheless, the Taiwanese mod-
ernist poets have a tendency to mention only the disadvantages of living
in the city.
In addition to being a refuge from her marital life, nature also signifies
Rong Zi’s homeland. The opposition of the country and the city is one of
the major themes in Rong Zi’s poetry. The poetess tells us in her “Linfu
zhi Yuan” [Nymph’s Wishes] that she belongs to the countryside:
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I feel weary and tired

Tired of this noisy wasteland
[. . .]
My friends, the twitter of the birds
are calling
The life which belongs to the forests, to the lakes
to the purple lucerne fields is calling!
[. . .]
Aphrodite
let us rouse ourselves to catch up!
My nostalgia is getting stronger
And the art of playing music with wind and water has been neglected for
a long time! (Rong Zi, 1995, 42–43)
我是倦怠，倦怠了 / 倦于這喧嚷的荒原 . . . . . . / 鳥鳴啁噍 / 我底友人

們在呼喚 / 原屬于林，原屬于湖 / 原屬于紫色苜蓿田的生命在呼
喚！. . . . . . / 阿爾伐 / 讓我們急起直追吧！ / 鄉愁濃了 / 風籟水聲的琴
藝久久地荒蕪了！
Rong Zi describes the city as a wasteland. She tells us that her home-
land is in the countryside where ‘lucerne fields,’ ‘forests’ and ‘lakes’ are
found. The poetess wants to go back to her homeland at once. This poem
not only establishes the opposition of the city and the country, but also
implies that the country represents Rong Zi’s homeland. In short, ‘the
country’ resembles ‘the city’ in signifying more than one meaning. It
refers to the poetess’s homeland as well as to a rural area.
In her poem “Weinisi Boguang” [The Clear Ripples of Venice], the
poetess shows us that although she is physically in Venice, her mind is
tied to Jiangnan where she spent her childhood. Jiangnan is a dreams-
cape to most Chinese poets because it is famous for its natural beauty:
A city which is full of clouds, rainbows and dreams
However, my boat is rocking from left to right and as I look back and
forth
I find they are not the bank of Jiangnan
Not Jiangnan
Not Xuanwu not Xihu
——I do not see the lotus I am familiar with
Going back through time machine when you are in your glory days
Nevertheless, dusk is approaching now spectacular views are no longer
We pass through and never look back! (Rong Zi, 1995c, 236)
多雲彩多虹橋多夢的城 / 只是左搖右晃前顧後盼 / 都不是那江南岸 /

不是江南 / 不是玄武亦非西湖 / —— 不見我熟悉的蓮荷 / 返回時光
隧道在你輝煌時刻 / 唯此刻暮色已至盛景難再 / 我們走過也不再
回頭！
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When Rong Zi feels nostalgic for nature, she may refer to her homeland
as well. As a matter of fact, if nature only referred to rural areas, the
poetess could go back whenever she wanted. I believe Rong Zi’s coun-
tryside embodies symbolic meaning which refers to her homeland of
the past. As such, the poetess remarks that she can never go back. Even
if she could go back to the past through a time machine, the result would
not be the same since Rong Zi would no longer be a young girl.
Rong Zi may not like the modern buildings in the city, but this is not
the major reason for the sense of anti-urbanism in her poetry. I believe
the metaphorical meanings of the city contribute to her hostility to the
city. In other words, Rong Zi does not hate the concrete space of city.
This is the reason why she wants to go back to Taipei immediately when
she does not feel comfortable in Hong Kong. Taipei shelters her from
insecurity after all.
Likewise, Yu Guangzhong also embodies the dichotomy of the coun-
try and the city in his poem “Dianhua Ting” [Telephone Box]:
This small pavilion is neither classical nor pastoral
I am always locked inside of it
[. . .]
I listlessly grasp the receiver, the line is disconnected
A broken umbilical cord is in my hand
What numbers should I dial?
Who am I going to talk to after the line is connected?
I just want to get away from
to get away from this box, this telephone box
to get away from this box, this city
to get away from these drawers, these apartments
to get myself through to the sound of wind
to get myself through to the sound of water
to get myself through to the sound of birds
and to the snores of the primeval forest
(Yu Guangzhong, 1974b, 58–59)
不古典也不田園的一間小亭子 / 時常, 關我在那裡面 . . . . . . / 茫然握著

聽筒, 斷了 / 一截斷了的臍帶握著 / 要撥哪個號碼呢? / 撥通了又該找
誰? / 不過想把自己撥出去 / 撥出這匣子這電話亭 / 撥出這匣子這城
市 / 撥出這些抽屜這些公寓撥出去 / 撥通風的聲音 / 撥通水的聲音 /
撥通鳥的聲音 / 和整座原始林均勻的鼾息
Yu uses a ‘telephone box’ to represent the city. The poet tells us that the
city is neither ‘classical nor pastoral’ and he feels being ‘locked inside
of it.’ He wants to leave the busy life of the city as well as the crowded
environment and go back to nature. On the surface, Yu’s perception of
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92 chapter three
the city and the country is a simple binary opposition. The urban space
is evil and the rural space is holy. However, the line “a broken umbili-
cal cord is in my hand” implies that the ‘nature’ the poet mentioned
embodies symbolic meaning. ‘A broken umbilical cord’ reminds us of a
newborn baby. When a baby is born, it has to separate from its mother’s
body. As Freud points out, mother’s womb is our first home. Since Yu
compares the disconnected telephone line to a broken umbilical cord, I
believe the telephone line symbolizes the poet’s effort to connect with
his homeland through the telephone.
In the last few lines of the poem, Yu Guangzhong tells us that he wants
to return to nature. Since Yu lived in Jiangnan when he was a child, I
think Yu’s yearning to return to nature can be interpreted as his yearn-
ing to return to Mainland China. The poet tries to use the telephone
as an agent to reconnect with his homeland. It is clear that even if Yu
Guangzhong can connect to his homeland by a telephone line, he cannot
reach a concrete place. The poet’s homeland is still absent from his real
life. As such, why does Yu use the image of the telephone to express his
nostalgic feeling? I think Yu is obsessed with an abstract feeling rather
than a concrete place. I will examine this issue in Chapter Four.
While nature in Rong Zi’s and Yu Guangzhong’s poetry represents
Mainland China, physical nature as depicted in Lomen’s poetry is only
a way to achieve a higher state of existence, or ‘Third Nature.’ As such,
his nature poetry seldom depicts physical nature. In his long poem
“Kuangye” [Wilderness], Lomen describes beautiful natural scenery in
the first stanza. In the second stanza, we are told that the countryside has
been destroyed by urbanization. In the third stanza, instead of showing
us an opposition of the country and the city, Lomen tells us that the city
and the country are in harmony with each other, which inspires one to
write a new chapter of Great Harmony:
You are a piece of unfolded blank paper
on which a brush and a pen are writing the New Great Harmony
High-rise buildings sit with mountains
Streets run with rivers
Smoke drifts with clouds
Markets wave with seas
Eyes and waves have the same shape
Display windows and scenery have the same face
Restaurants and garden fields have an identical ancestor
Hotels and wilderness have an identical tribe
Man and the sun have identical last names
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imagining taipei 93
Woman and the moon have identical first names

Bedding and the four seasons sleep together
Lips and petals open in the same way
Alcohol and dew ripple in the same way
Pregnant women and dawn radiate in the same way
The crematorium and night dim in the same way
Squares and the sky walk together
Watches and the earth go around together (Au, 2006, 88)
你是被掀開的一張 / 被毛筆鋼筆寫著新的 “大同篇” / 高樓與山同坐

/ 街道與河同流 / 煙塵與雲同飄 / 鬧市與海同盪 / 眼睛與波浪同形 /
櫥窗與風景同貌 / 餐廳與田園同宗 / 旅館與荒野同族 / 男人與太陽同
姓 / 女人與月亮同名 / 床被與四季同睡 / 唇瓣與花瓣同開 / 酒液與露
水同漾 / 孕婦與黎明同光 / 焚屍爐與夜同暗 / 廣場與天空同行 / 鐘錶
與地球同轉
Lomen objectively juxtaposes natural and man-made elements in this
part of the poem. It is noteworthy that the poet does not include any
value judgments. He does not tell us that mountains are better than high-
rise buildings or that rivers are better than streets. The reason Lomen
does not feel nostalgic for destroyed nature is that he creates ‘Third
Nature’ as his homeland. As I mentioned in Chapter Two, ‘Third Nature’
is a transparent space which helps Lomen resist the rapid changes of
urban life. In other words, the poet accepts the fact that social develop-
ment must destroy rural space, and he chooses to create an imaginative
space for himself. In this case, Lomen’s nature does not represent Main-
land China. The countryside is a living space for him. In the last stanza
of the poem, the poet transcends the country (‘First Nature’), the city
(‘Second Nature’) and reaches ‘Third Nature’:
Temples prefer mountains’ aloofness
The Cross matches the coordinates of heaven
You burnish emptiness and remoteness into a mirror
looking at where the light starts to flow
where water spring starts to gush
where flowers start to blossom
where birds begin to fly
Allowing all the roads to see the starting point
all the sounds to merge into your stillness (Au, 2006, 88)
廟選中了山的清高 / 十字架對正了天堂的座標 / 你把空茫磨亮成一

面鏡 / 望著光開始流動的地方 / 泉水開始湧現的地方 / 花開始開的地
方 / 鳥開始飛的地方 / 讓所有的路都能看見起點 / 所有的聲音都歸入
你的沉寂
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94 chapter three
In the last stanza of the poem, Lomen shows us the wilderness again,
though this wilderness is different from the one sketched before. The
poet implies that this wilderness is transformed by religions. ‘Temples’
and ‘the Cross’ represent the religions of the East as well as the West.
Everything in this wilderness seems to be reborn again because every-
thing starts from the beginning. Although this space reminds us of the
wilderness depicted at the beginning of the poem, the two are not the
same. The wilderness in the last stanza is destroyed but is reborn again.
In other words, it is an imaginary wilderness which is the poet’s ‘Third
Nature.’
In short, Rong Zi, Yu Guangzhong and Lomen assign symbolic mean-
ings to nature and to the countryside. As such, when these poets reveal
their hatred of the city, they may not be referring to the real city. Since
they have been forced into exile, undoubtedly these poets do not like
where they are forced to live. In other words, the Taiwanese modernist
poets show enmity to a living space other than their homeland, and this
other space happens to be an urban space—Taipei. I will suggest that
this is one of the reasons why the Taiwanese poets never see the merits
of living in the city.
If urban space is one major factor that contributes to the making of
urban diseases, being an exile will be another. The exile seems to have
no choice but to live a vagabond life. Jean-Martin Charcot associates
urban diseases such as neurasthenia with vagabondage and questions
the cause and effect of them. Charcot asks, “Would it be the case that
vagabondage leads to hysterical neurasthenia, or rather the reverse that
neurasthenia leads to vagabondage?” (Vidler, 2000, 74) In the case of the
Taiwanese modernist poets, they became vagabonds when they arrived
in Taiwan. In fact, the situation of these Taiwanese modernist poets is
more complicated than that of a vagabond, because they did not come
today only to leave tomorrow. These poets came today and will have to
stay tomorrow. Simmel calls this kind of urban dweller ‘the stranger.’
According to Simmel, “the stranger was not the ‘wanderer who comes
today and goes tomorrow but the person who comes today and stays
tomorrow.’ Fixed within a particular spatial group, the stranger was one
who has not belonged from the beginning. ‘In the stranger,’ Simmel
concluded, ‘are organized the unity of nearness and remoteness of every
human relation,’ in such a way that in relationship to the stranger ‘dis-
tance means that he who is close by is far, and strangeness means that he
who also is far is actually near’” (Vidler, 2000, 70).
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When Simmel analyses the characteristics of the stranger, he talks

about social life in a large city. Simmel remarks that city life creates “the
sense of utter lonesomeness, and the feeling that the individual is sur-
rounded on all sides by closed doors” (Vidler, 2000, 70). The psycho-
logical distance suffered by city dwellers is shared by the exiled or the
Taiwanese modernist poets. This phenomenon also enhances the feeling
of estrangement. Although these poets are physically tied to the land
of Taiwan, their minds are far away from it. Lomen’s “Liulang Ren” [A
Vagabond] best exemplifies this psychological distance:
The boat, exhausted by the sea’s vastness, is in the harbor
By the coffee table, he uses the lamp to bring his own shadow to heel
the animal he carries always with him
Besides it Nana is only as close as what is far away
He drinks the wine until it becomes the moonlight of his hometown

and looks at the empty bottles until they become a desert island
He carries the animal with him
walking toward his own footsteps
Far away, a star is walking
and carrying the sky with it
Tomorrow when the first roll of the blinds

tugs at the sun and turns it into a ladder
he does not know whether he will go up or go down (Au, 2006, 39)
被海的遼闊整得好累的一條船在港裡 / 他用燈栓自己的影子在咖啡
桌的旁邊 / 那是他隨身帶的一種動物 / 除了牠娜娜近得比什麼都遠
/ 把酒喝成故鄉的月色 / 空酒瓶望成一座荒島 / 他帶著隨身帶的那條
動物 / 朝自己的鞋聲走去 / 一顆星也在很遠很遠裡 / 帶著天空在走 /
明天當第一扇百葉窗 / 將太陽拉成一把梯子 / 他不知往上走還是
往下走
In the first line of the poem Lomen compares the protagonist—‘he’—to
a boat. This association implies that he is a wanderer since the normal
state of a boat is to sail in the sea. The boat entering into the harbor
implies that he is settling down. However, the second line tells us that
nothing can hold a vagabond in place: “he uses the lamp to bring his
own shadow to heel.” The metaphor Lomen chooses emphasizes that
the vagabond must wander around forever, for it is impossible to tie
anything up by a lamp. Moreover, it is also useless to leash one’s shadow
instead of oneself. The third line shows ‘the sense of utter lonesomeness’
of the protagonist because he is always on his own, his only company
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96 chapter three
being his own shadow. The last line of the first stanza shows us a para-
doxical relationship of distance. Nana is probably a waitress at the cafe.
She is physically close to the protagonist, yet he feels that she is psy-
chologically far away from him. Likewise, his hometown is actually far
away, but the wine makes him feel that it is close by. This contradictory
perception of distance reminds us of Freud’s theory of the uncanny. The
relationship between the familiar and unfamiliar becomes ambiguous.
In this case, the conception of distance and proximity becomes vague.
In the rest of the poem, Lomen portrays the subject of the poem as a
loner and a wanderer. Although the wanderer seems to settle down at
the beginning, he is still uncertain about his direction at the end.
The poet implies that two factors contribute to the development of
the estrangement between nearness and remoteness, namely, urban
space and the condition of being an exile. The setting of the poem—a
cafe—suggests that the protagonist has settled in a city. The existence of
coffeehouses is a significant indicator of the development of a modern
city.9 As such, the urban space may cause the estrangement. However,
the word ‘hometown’ suggests another possibility. Only people who are
far away from home, such as the exile and the wanderer, yearn for their
hometown. Lomen’s “A Vagabond” hints that both factors can cause
estrangement. I believe the exile experience aggravates the feeling of
estrangement. This is because the vagabond depicted by Lomen is dif-
ferent from Simmel’s stranger. Whereas Simmel’s stranger ‘comes today
and stays tomorrow,’ Lomen’s vagabond comes today and stays for a
while. However, he wanders, either spiritually or physically, from one
place to another all his life.
Zheng Chouyu in his “Pandi de Cheng” [The Basin City] combines
the two factors and proclaims that Taipei is a city of exile:
Taipei city is bathing in the afterglow in her basin
(which is the biggest bathtub for exiles)
Neon lights are floating in the sky, which resemble the kind of laziness that
comes after having a bath
And the Big Dipper, one by one, buttons up the night on the left
9
When Leo Lee Ou-Fan discusses the modernization of Shanghai, he examines the
development of coffeehouses in the city among other things such as department stores,
dance halls and so forth. A detailed account can be found in Lee’s Shanghai Modern:
The Flowering of a New Urban Culture in China 1930–1945. Chapter one, “Remapping
Shanghai,” is the most useful.
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imagining taipei 97
Oh, at this moment, a flock of crows confuses the person who looks far
into the distance
He mistakes the skyscrapers for mountains and rivers
(Zheng Chouyu, 1979, 287)
台北城在她的盆中沐浴餘溫 / (那是世界上最大的流浪人的浴盆啊)
/ 霓虹如浴後的慵懶在夜空浮出 / 而七星依次扣上這夜的左衽 / 啊,
此刻, 鴉群弄亂眺遠人的視線 / 錯將幢幢華廈當是亂帔風的山水
Zheng clearly points out in this poem that Taipei is both a city and a
place for the exiled. An exile’s homeland is an absence; therefore the
exile always looks ‘far into the distance.’ However, the skyscrapers in the
urban space block his or her long distance sight, and the exile mistakes
the high-rise buildings for mountains. Zheng is similar to his fellow
poets who use natural images such as ‘the mountains and rivers’ to rep-
resent their homeland. In fact, either being in the city or being in exile
will make people suffer from psychological diseases such as agorapho-
bia, neurasthenia and so forth. If these two factors are combined, the
Taiwanese modernist poets undoubtedly have a kind of double nostal-
gia. On the one hand, as city dwellers, the fast living tempo contributes
to their feeling of nostalgia for the past. On the other hand, as exiles,
they always feel nostalgia for their lost homeland. Consequently, the
feeling of estrangement of the exiled city dwellers is two-fold.
What happens when people contract urban diseases? Dr. Bruck from
Driburg recorded that one of his patients was a priest “who was terrified
if he was not covered by the vaulted ceiling of his church, and was forced
when in the open to walk beneath an umbrella” (Vidler, 2000, 29). This
priest’s symptoms remind us of Rong Zi’s poem “San” [Umbrella]:
A tiny green umbrella is a lotus leaf
The early morning’s red sun the late evening’s black clouds
which can walk on their own . . .
An umbrella goes against the sky
facing the bright sunny sky braving rain
carrying the transparent notes of simple children’s songs
It is a leisurely and carefree small world
With an umbrella on hand open or close it as you wish
Closed, it will become a stick open, it will become flowers and a pavilion
And I am tranquilly hidden inside this pavilion (Rong Zi, 1995c, 59–60)
一把綠色小傘是一頂荷蓋 / 紅色朝暾黑色晚雲 /. . . . . . 而且能夠行

走 . . . . . . / 一柄頂天 / 頂著艷陽頂著雨 / 頂著單純兒歌的透明音符 /
自在自適的小小世界 / 一傘在握開闔自如 / 闔則為竿為杖開則為
花為亭 / 亭中藏一個寧靜的我。
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98 chapter three
Although this poem does not show us that the poetess is afraid of open
space, her attitude toward an umbrella reminds us of a person suffering
from agoraphobia. According to the poetess, the umbrella becomes a
stick when she closes it, and changes to a pavilion when she opens it. She
feels calm under the umbrella. It is noteworthy that besides the umbrella,
a walking stick is the other thing that an agoraphobic patient usually likes
to carry when he or she goes out in the street. This is because patients
find relief in these physical aids (Vidler, 2000, 29). Rong Zi also com-
pares the umbrella to a pavilion or a shelter. This comparison implies
that when the poetess walks in the street, she seeks shelter. An umbrella
can help protect her from being exposed to open spaces.
Lomen also wrote a poem on the umbrella. It is interesting to note,
however, that the poet is not as optimistic as Rong Zi. He believes that
nothing can help us resist loneliness and the uncanniness of the city:
He leans against the window of his apartment
looking at the umbrellas in the rain
they walk and become a multitude of
lonely worlds
He thinks of the crowd
who come from the crammed
buses and subways
They wrap themselves up, hide at home and
lock the doors
Suddenly
all the rooms of the apartments
rush out into the rain
and exclaim
‘they are also umbrellas’
He is shocked and stands still,
grasping himself tightly until he becomes an umbrella’s handle
the sky an umbrella’s folding frame
Inside the umbrella it is raining
there is no rain outside
(Au, 2006, 166)
他靠著公寓的窗口 / 看雨中的傘 / 走成一個個 / 孤獨的世界 / 想起一

大群人 / 每天從人潮滾滾的 / 公車與地下道 / 裹住自己躲回家 / 把門
關上 / 忽然間 / 公寓裡所有的住屋 / 全都往雨裡跑 / 直喊自己 / 也是
傘 / 他愕然站住 / 把自己緊緊握成傘把 / 而只有天空是傘 / 雨在傘裡
落 / 傘外無雨
At the beginning of the poem, the protagonist—‘he’—is inside his apart-
ment. When he looks outside of his window, the umbrellas remind him
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imagining taipei 99
of “a multitude of lonely worlds.” This is because the people in the crowd

beneath the umbrellas lead lonely lives. Since these people do not have
a sense of security, “they wrap themselves up, hide at home and / lock
the doors.” The umbrellas may help to distance one from the other, and
these people cannot help but feel lonesome. In the second stanza, Lomen
sketches a surrealistic scene, “all the rooms of the apartments / rush out
into the rain.” The poet directly associates the rooms with the umbrellas
because they share one thing in common: they are supposed to protect
people from the rain. In the last stanza, we are told that the whole sky
becomes “an umbrella’s folding frame.” We are all beneath the umbrella.
This transformation reminds us of the first stanza in which the poet says
that the umbrellas in the rain are a multitude of lonely worlds. As such,
we find ourselves inside one big, lonely world at the end. Ironically, there
is no rain outside the big umbrella but it is raining inside of it. Lomen
shows us that we cannot seek safety or protection under an umbrella, in
an apartment or anywhere else in the world.
The analysis of this chapter suggests that the city of Taipei is repre-
sented in different ways in Taiwanese modernist poetry. However, all the
poets share one thing—their sense of anti-urbanism—which manifests
itself in many different forms, such as distorting the city, doing without
the city, feeling hostility toward the monstrous buildings, crimes, sexual
desires and so forth. Since these poets dislike the city so much, why
have they lived in the cities all their lives? There may be many reasons.
According to Esther Cheung, one reason is that the city inspires these
poets to write poetry (Cheung, 2002, 295). As Cheung points out, there
are so many unsolved problems in our world; however, these limita-
tions become a kind of motivation which drives our imagination to new
heights (Cheung, 2002, 295–96).10
Although Cheung’s comment is in relation to the urban writings of
Hong Kong authors, I think it also helps to explain why the Taiwanese
modernist poets have not moved out of cities. The city is a source of
inspiration for them, and Lomen is a good example of this. Though he
always criticizes the city in his poetry he has, nevertheless, been living in
10
Discussion of the relationship between unsatisfactory living environments and
poetic inspiration can also be found in Tung Qizhang’s “The Realistic Experience of the
City and the Textual Experience” (Cheung, 2002, 394–407) and Chen Qingqiao’s “On
the Cultural Imaginary in the City” (Cheung, 2002, 408–22). These articles are collected
in Esther Cheung’s Hong Kong Literature as/and Cultural Studies.
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100 chapter three
Taipei for more than forty years. Rong Zi directly points out that Lomen
draws his inspiration from the city. Lomen must live in the city in order
to conjure up his poetic space. Likewise, Rong Zi is also in a sense an
urban poet. She has to be away from her ideal home—nature—in order
to yearn for it. The city is an ideal location, for it is a binary opposite
to nature. Yu Guangzhong, Luo Fu and Zheng Chouyu do not say very
much about the city in their poetry, but their silence implies that they
are simply not interested in their physical living space. As a result, they
turn to create topics other than the city. In a sense, the city is an indirect
source of inspiration to them as well.
When the house and the city become uncanny spaces, the poets natu-
rally put their hopes on their homeland. But while the private and the
urban spaces are distorted, can the national space be kept intact? In the
last stanza of “Umbrella,” Lomen hints that no space can be a refuge.
In the next chapter, I will discuss how the concept of a fixed home-
land begins to shift as we examine the works of Yu Guangzhong, Zheng
Chouyu and Luo Fu. I will suggest that although the exile experience of
these poets contributes to their loss of a sense of fixed origin, different
poets have different ideas of their homeland. For example, Yu believes
in such things as a fixed origin though he changes the meaning of his
homeland from time to time. Luo resembles Yu who believed in a fixed
origin in the early years, but changed his mind after he returned to his
homeland. As a result, Luo Fu considers ‘homeland’ to be on shifting
ground. In contrast to these poets, Zheng has never believed in such a
thing as a fixed origin. He thinks life is a process of wandering. Since
a lot of recent scholarship on exile writing in the West is influenced
by poststructuralist theories, I will also try to examine to what extent
these theories shed light on our understanding of Taiwanese modernist
poetry.
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CHAPTER FOUR
HOMELANDS AS SHIFTING GROUND
The exiled Taiwanese modernist poets’ works always embody a sense

of yearning. As they yearn for a lost homeland, the meaning of that
homeland changes from time to time. ‘Homeland,’ always considered a
stable entity in the past, has been made unstable in the modern world
by wars, diaspora and so forth. In other words, the mobility of mod-
ern man has resulted in ‘homeland’ as a signifier embodying more than
one meaning. In fact, poststructuralists such as Jacques Derrida and
Jacques Lacan reconsidered the meanings of structure and origin in the
late 1960s. Although the beginnings of poststructuralist theories were a
counter-movement in linguistic theory, they have had great influence on
the scholarship of exile writing.
In his well-known article “Structure, Sign, and Play in the Discourse
of the Human Sciences,” Derrida brings forth numerous important
insights in relation to structure. One of them concerns the center, or
a fixed origin, of a structure, which is especially useful for our under-
standing of people in exile. Before the ‘rupture’ that the poststructural-
ists proposed in the 1960s, people tended to think of structure as having
‘a center.’ Or, they referred to it as ‘a point of presence, a fixed origin,’
which is its native land. However, Derrida shows us that there is no such
thing as a ‘fixed origin.’ The reason why a structure cannot have a center
or a fixed origin is that the function of the center is to organize coher-
ence and to permit the free play of its elements inside the structure. In
this case:
At the center, the permutation or the transformation of elements (which
may of course be structures enclosed within a structure) is forbidden . . . the
center is, paradoxically, within the structure and outside it. The center is at
the center of the totality, and yet, since the center does not belong to the
totality (is not part of the totality), the totality has its center elsewhere. The
center is not the center. (Derrida, 1977, 248)
Derrida further elaborates that “the center had no natural locus, that it
was not a fixed locus but a function, a sort of non-locus in which an infi-
nite number of sign-substitutions came into play” (Derrida, 1977, 249).
In short, Derrida shows us the impossibility of having a fixed origin or a
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102 chapter four
center within a structure. Since there is no such thing as a center or fixed

origin, due to the ‘structurality of structure,’ the meaning of a center
only can be granted by a supplement. Derrida remarks:
One cannot determine the center, the sign which supplements it, which
takes its place in its absence—because this sign adds itself, occurs in addi-
tion, over and above, comes as a supplement. The movement of significa-
tion adds something, which results in the fact that there is always more,
but this addition is a floating one because it comes to perform a vicarious
function, to supplement a lack on the part of the signified. (Derrida, 1977,
260–61)
In other words, it is always the ‘supplement,’ or in Jacques Lacan’s words
‘one more,’ that holds the meaning of its preceding one.
Similarly, in his “Of Structure as an Inmixing of an Otherness Pre-
requisite to Any Subject Whatever,” “Lacan problematizes the unity or
oneness attributed to structure” (Chow, 1999, 32). Lacan points out that
when we consider the genesis of numbers we find the basic formula
‘n plus 1’ (n + 1). For instance, if we put number 2 in the place of n,
number 3 will appear. In this case, number 3 is here to grant existence
to number 2. In other words, the later appearing number 3 holds the
meaning of number 2 (Lacan, 1977, 191). Both Derrida and Lacan try
to tell us that there is no a priori presence of meaning. Rey Chow suc-
cinctly summarizes that:
A structure (such as an integer), no matter how integrated (as one) it
appears, must be understood to be the effect of retroaction—a belated
conferral of meaning on an event (such as the number [2]), which does
not have such a meaning until it has been repeated in an other, subsequent
event (the number [3]). (Chow, 1999, 32)
In short, meaning only can been found in retrospect. Lacan’s (n + 1) the-
ory sheds light on the question of why the origins of the poets, embod-
ied in their poems, changed over time. In fact, the ‘n’ in the formula is
an unknown number; the genesis of numbers can be any number. For
example, the number 0 is the genesis of numbers if we put number 0 in
the place of n. We can also put number –1 in the place of n as well, if we
wish to. In this case, number –1 might then become the genesis of num-
bers. On the one hand, no number can become the genesis of numbers,
and on the other, every number can claim to be the genesis of numbers.
In short, the origin is a shifting ground.
Following the poststructuralist idea of origin, a number of contempo-
rary studies of exile writings have reconsidered the ideas of home, iden-
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homelands as shifting ground 103
tity, homecoming and so forth. To name only a few of them, in “Home

and Identity,” Madan Sarup writes “we speak of ‘home from home’ ”
(Sarup, 1998, 94). Home, therefore, is not static. Sarup is also fascinated
by the idea of identity. “It can be hybrid or multiple. It can be constituted
through community: family, region, the nation state. One crosses fron-
tiers and boundaries” (Sarup, 1998, 93). Sarup associates the concept of
home with the notion of identity and concludes that “identity is not to
do with being but with becoming” (Sarup, 1998, 98).
Sarup’s ideas of identity echo those of Stuart Hall’s discussed in “Cul-
tural Identity and Diaspora.” According to Hall, “there are at least two
different ways of thinking about ‘cultural identity’ ” (Hall, 1990, 223).
While one concept assumes “a fixed origin to which we can make some
final and absolute Return,” the other considers that ‘cultural identity’ is a
matter of positioning (Hall, 1990, 226). However, a study of Yu Guang-
zhong’s poetry suggests a third kind of cultural identity which is a com-
bination of Hall’s two concepts. I will discuss this issue in detail in the
latter part of this chapter.
Rob Nixon notes that “homecoming does not allow for simple resto-
rations” (Nixon, 1998, 114). According to Nixon, homecoming may cre-
ate a feeling of anxiety, as the exile may have become used to the sense
of loss. In some cases, the obsession with the sense of loss that sustains
the returnees in exile becomes a “version of security” that they do not
want to lose (Nixon, 1998, 116). As a result, the exile defers his or her
homecoming, and the imaginative obsessions of homecoming take hold
instead. In addition, the meaning of homecoming also multiplies; the
dreamland may take the place of the actual homeland.
Inspired by the poststructuralist theories of origin, Chow re-exam-
ines the meaning of nostalgia in Wong Kar-war’s Happy Together. In
her “Nostalgia of the New Wave: Structure in Wong Kar-war’s Happy
Together,” Chow suggests that the object of nostalgia in this film is “no
longer an emotion attached to a concretely experienced, chronological
past; rather, it is attached to a fantasized state of oneness, to a time of
absolute coupling and indifferentiation that may, nonetheless, appear
in the guise of an intense, indeed delirious, memory” (Chow, 1999, 35).
The nostalgic object of the film is, then, a mythic one. Chow points out
that the main characters pursue “an originary state of togetherness—
a kind of Edenic perfection in terms of human relationships” (Chow,
1999, 36). Chow’s analysis not only reinforces the idea that the concept
of origin embodies multiple meanings, but also suggests the possibility
of employing poststructuralist theories to explain non-Western cultural
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104 chapter four
works. How do these theories help us to understand the concept of ori-

gin in the Taiwanese modernist poets’ works?
Among the five poets I chose for study, Yu Guangzhong, Rong Zi, Luo
Fu and Zheng Chouyu’s works often embody a recurrent theme: their
nostalgia for the lost origin. If we examine their poetry closely we will
find that these poets have different ideas on the concept of origin. Yu
Guangzhong believes in the concept of a fixed origin, and he struggles
to find this lost origin. Nevertheless, traveling, studying and working
abroad helped Yu Guangzhong understand that the lost origin could not
be restored, and as a result, he tried to construct a mythic one.1 Similarly,
Luo Fu also believed in the concept of a fixed origin at first. His idea
of origin also changed after he returned to his homeland in Mainland
China. Luo’s homecoming contributed to the development of a feeling
of uncanniness. The once familiar homeland had become unfamiliar.
Luo Fu’s later idea of origin reminds us of that of the poststructuralists:
the origin is a shifting ground. When Zheng Chouyu started to write
poetry, his idea of origin was already similar to that of the poststructur-
alists’. He considers life a process of wandering. In the rest of the chapter,
I will examine these three different concepts of origin under three major
topics, “Yearning for the Lost Origin,” “Homecoming” and the “Origin
as a Shifting Ground.”
Yearning for the Lost Origin
Yearning for the lost homeland and searching for cultural identity are
two essential themes that repeatedly occur in Yu Guangzhong’s poetry.
The concept of ‘homeland’ changes from time to time and Yu Guang-
zhong’s cultural identity undergoes transformations as well. Paradoxi-
cally, despite the changeable nature of home and identity shown in the
poet’s works, Yu Guangzhong always believes in, and searches for, a fixed
origin. Eventually, Yu Guangzhong constructed for himself a fi xed ori-
1
Rong Zi shares similar beliefs with Yu Guangzhong. For instance, the poetess
believes in such a thing as a fixed origin and she tried hard to search for it. In spite of the
fact that Rong Zi’s idea of homeland changes from time to time, the poetess eventually
finds herself a fixed homeland—the world of nature. Detailed accounts of the meanings
of nature can be found in Chapter Three and Five. My study in this chapter will concen-
trate on Yu Guangzhong.
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gin (ancient China) and an identity (Chinese poet). I will discuss these
issues in detail in what follows.
Mother, child and the map are Yu Guangzhong’s favorite images. Th e
poet frequently employs these images to symbolize his lost origin. A
study of the maternal and infantile images in Yu Guangzhong’s poetry
helps to demonstrate that the poet’s lost origin has various meanings.
It can refer to a concrete place such as Mainland China or Taiwan. In
addition, the lost origin can be an abstract idea; it may refer to Chi-
nese culture or to an obsession with the sense of loss. An examination
of the image of the map can help to answer the question: how is Yu
Guangzhong’s origin developed? I will discuss the maternal and infan-
tile images first and the image of the map later.
In “Xiangchou” [Nostalgia], the maternal and infantile images are
employed to represent Mainland China:
When I was a child,
nostalgia is a small postage stamp.
I am on this side,
mother is on the other.
[. . .]
Now
nostalgia is a shallow strait.
I am on this side,
the Mainland is on the other. (Yu Guangzhong, 1974b, 56–57)
小時候 / 鄉愁是一枚小小的郵票 / 我在這頭 / 母親在那頭 . . . . . . 而現

在 / 鄉愁是一灣淺淺的海峽 / 我在這頭 / 大陸在那頭
In the first stanza of the poem, Yu Guangzhong does not tell us that
the image of the child is a metaphor for Yu Guangzhong and the image
of the mother is a metaphor for Mainland China. The suspension of
this information reminds us of Freud’s idea of homeland. Freud’s theory
of the uncanny suggests that our first homeland is our mother’s womb
(Freud, 1964, 245). Once we leave our mother’s body, we are sent into
exile. This idea helps to explain the reason why nostalgia exists between
the child and the mother. In “Nostalgia,” a small stamp is used to bridge,
or to measure, the gap. We learn in the last stanza that the gap can never
be bridged. The Taiwan Strait separates the Mainland China and Taiwan,
or the mother and the child. This poem shows that Yu Guangzhong’s
concept of homeland is static; the lost origin is always there.
While Freud’s theory helps to explain “Nostalgia,” it is contradicted in
Yu Guangzhong’s other poem “Toutai” [Reincarnation]. The concept of
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106 chapter four
having a fixed origin can be best exemplified by the idea of going back
to mother’s womb. In “Reincarnation,” Yu Guangzhong reveals that he
longs to return to his mother’s womb.
Let me kneel down
feeling repentance and in prayer
a crawling baby
prostrates itself and worships
in order to return to its mother
to suckle its mother’s sweet milk
Oh, open your fertile womb
and let me reincarnate
again (Yu Guangzhong, 1974b, 110–11)
讓我翻身跪倒 / 一半懺悔, 一半是禱告 / 一個匍匐的嬰孩 / 膜拜用五

體來膜拜 / 為了重認母親 / 吮甘醇的母奶 / 張開肥沃的子宮啊 / 讓我
再從頭 / 向你投胎
The maternal image in this poem is similar to that in “Nostalgia,” imply-
ing that the lost origin is a fixed one. However, if the maternal image in
“Nostalgia” clearly refers to a concrete homeland, the mother depicted
in “Reincarnation” symbolizes something different. It is noteworthy that
when the baby wants to return to his mother’s womb, it shows repen-
tance. Why and what does the baby, or Yu Guangzhong, need to repent?
The poet was, in fact, forced into exile. He did not want to leave Main-
land China, so leaving his motherland for Taiwan was not by his own
volition. For this reason, I suggest that the maternal image is a meta-
phor for Chinese culture, rather than the geographical space of China.
Yu Guangzhong turned his back on Chinese tradition in favor of the
Western modernist one in the early 1960s. He did, however, choose to
reclaim Chinese tradition a few years later. For this reason, the lost ori-
gin Yu Guangzhong refers to is not necessarily a concrete place, but an
abstract idea.
As I discussed in Chapter Three, Freud’s neurotic patients considered
women’s genitals uncanny; they did not wish to return to the womb.
Although Yu Guangzhong’s maternal image reminds us of Freud’s the-
ory, the poet’s image embodies different meanings from Freud’s. While
Freud considers the literal meaning of a woman, Yu Guangzhong is
interested in the metaphorical meaning of the image. For instance, since
the maternal image is associated with Chinese culture in “Reincarna-
tion,” Yu Guangzhong longs to return to his mother’s womb.
Yu Guangzhong reinforces the idea that the lost origin can be an
abstract idea instead of a concrete place in “Shi Nian Kan Shan” [Look-
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ing at the Mountains for Ten Years]. However, the abstract idea does not
refer to Chinese culture as it does in “Reincarnation.” Yu Guangzhong
reveals in this poem that the lost origin he yearns for is basically an
obsession with the sense of loss. In other words, it does not matter to
which specific home the poet refers.
Looking at the mountains for ten years, not these green mountains in
Hong Kong
But those behind these green mountains
Those in the vast land
[. . .]
Looking at the mountains for ten years, I hate these green mountains
which block my dreamland in the North
It is merely because of the stubborn memories of my childhood
I look at the mountains for ten years and never see them
[. . .]
Suddenly I realize these mountains actually are my lost dreamland
(Yu Guangzhong, 1985, 54–55)
十年看山, 不是看香港的青山 / 是這些青山的背後 / 那片無窮無盡的

後土 . . . . . . / 看山十年, 恨這些青山擋在門前 / 把那片朝北的夢土遮
住 / 只為了小時候, 一點頑固的回憶 / 看山十年, 竟然青山都不曾入
眼 . . . . . . / 頓悟那才是失去的夢土
Yu Guangzhong tells us in this poem that he regrets spending all his
time yearning for what is lost. The poet’s dreamland is the landscape
of mountains behind those he faced in Hong Kong. Yu Guangzhong
uses an infantile image—the memories of a child—to express his nostal-
gic feelings for his motherland. The poet does not feel nostalgia for the
Mainland, but is obsessed with the dreamland or the loss itself. After Yu
Guangzhong left Hong Kong for Taiwan, he developed nostalgic feelings
for Hong Kong, which became a dreamland, or a new loss.
In “Duan Nai” [Weaning], Yu Guangzhong not only embodies the
idea that his lost origin is an obsession with the sense of loss, but, by
employing two maternal images, he indicates that he wishes to break
away from this obsession. Yu Guangzhong would like to choose one of
them as his homeland.
I always think that I belong to the extensive land on the other side
Because of a vague map
A broken map, which is soaked through by tears
I forget to appreciate the soil under my feet
This land provided me with clothes, food and sheltered me until I grew
up
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108 chapter four
This evergreen overseas fairyland

[. . .]
I always think that it is only a sampan
Until one day I start to worry about
Losing this tiny fairyland as well,
I have found that I also belong to this island
The mother who no longer feeds me with her milk is still my mother
The weaning child, I am so happy that
Although I lost Lei Zu, I still have Ma Zu
一直, 以為自己只屬于那一望大陸 / 為了一張依稀的地圖 / 淚溼未干

的一張破圖 / 竟忘了感謝腳下這泥土 / 衣我, 食我, 屋我到壯年 / 海外
這座永碧的仙山 . . . . . . / 一直, 以為這只是一舢渡船 / 直到有一天我開
始憂慮 / 甚至這小小的蓬萊也失去 / 才發現我同樣歸屬這島嶼 / 斷奶
的母親依舊是母親 / 斷奶的孩子, 我慶幸 / 斷了嫘祖, 還有媽祖
There are two maternal images in this poem: Lei Zu 嫘祖, and Ma Zu
媽祖. While Lei Zu is associated with ancient Mainland China, Ma Zu
refers to Taiwan. Lei Zu is a legendary figure who was the concubine of
China’s earliest legendary king—King Huang 黃帝. Though it is diffi-
cult to determine the exact time of her existence, she undoubtedly lived
prior to the Xia dynasty 夏朝, which was established approximately four
thousand years ago.
Ma Zu is a goddess worshipped by Chinese fishermen. According to
the legend, Ma Zu was a fisherman’s daughter who became a goddess
after her death in 987 (Song dynasty). Ma Zu is considered the patron
saint of the fishermen. Since most Chinese people who migrated to
Taiwan from Fujian province were fishermen in the second half of the
sixteenth century, Ma Zu became a popular goddess in Taiwan.
In the last line of the poem, the poet tells us that the mother he breaks
away from is Lei Zu. The poet points out that although he loses one
of his mothers, namely, Mainland China, he still has the other one,
Taiwan. It is interesting to note that the poet actually breaks away from
feeling nostalgic for the concrete place that was Mainland China. This
is because he ‘lost’ Mainland China long ago. Although Yu Guangzhong
proclaims himself a weaning child, he is still obsessed with the fear of
losing his mother. It seems that the poet can never grow up. In effect, Yu
Guangzhong cannot do without a homeland and needs to have a sense
of security. In this case, the poet wants to reconnect with Taiwan.
In addition to the maternal images, Yu Guangzhong also uses the
image of a map to represent his lost origin. He describes the map as
‘broken’ and ‘vague.’ The poet compares the map to Mainland China
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and the soil under the poet’s feet to Taiwan in this poem. In fact, the
map is associated with ‘an illusion,’ but the soil reminds us of some-
thing concrete (Wood, 1992, 108). Yu Guangzhong wrote “Weaning”
in 1973 when he had been in exile from the Mainland for more than
twenty years. The poet associates Mainland China and Taiwan with Lei
Zu and Ma Zu accordingly. He again not only refers to his origin as a
geographical location, but also as a cultural tradition. Is it then possible
for Yu Guangzhong to break away from China as a concrete place and as
a representation of Chinese culture, and turn to Taiwan and Taiwanese
culture?
The poem “Huhuan” [Calling] shows that the meaning of Yu Guang-
zhong’s origin changes yet again. However, he seems to anchor himself
with Chinese culture at last.
My mother calls me
going home having dinner
I can think of my old age
When the sun sets, my sweat is getting cold
Inside a five-thousand-year deep ancient house
A calling comes from it
which is more comfortable, touching
From far away, calling me to go home (Yu Guangzhong, 1974b, 83–84)
母親喊我 / 吃晚飯的聲音 / 可以想見晚年 / 太陽下山, 汗已吹冷 / 五

千年深的古屋裡 . . . . . . / 就傳來一聲呼叫 / 比小時更安慰, 動人 / 遠遠,
喊我回家去
The ‘five-thousand-year deep ancient house’ refers to five thousand years
of Chinese culture; ‘home’ also refers to Chinese culture. The maternal
image no longer refers to a homeland. Interestingly, the mother becomes
someone who calls to her son, or to the poet, to return home. It is note-
worthy that this poem depicts Yu Guangzhong’s old age. Although the
poet still portrays a maternal image in this poem, he implies that hav-
ing a home is the most important thing to an old man. In fact, the poet
says that he returns to the house and not to his mother. I believe the
poet is searching for a fixed or an eternal home. While human beings
represented by the images of mother and child are ephemeral, the five
thousand year-old ancient house of Chinese culture is able to resist the
tyranny of time. As such, the poet declares that this five thousand year-
old culture is his final home. This idea is reinforced by my examination
of the image of the map in the next section of this chapter. Yu uses the
image of the map to depict the subtle relationship between the meanings
of his origin and the poet’s displacements.
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110 chapter four
Quest for a Mythic Origin
Yu Guangzhong uses the image of the map to demonstrate that his lost
origin is a mythical one. Using a map as an image implies that the poet
is not talking about reality because a map is associated with illusion. In
The Power of Maps, Denis Wood says that maps pretend to show us real-
ity. However, it is just a kind of construction (Wood, 1992, 18). Wood
further elaborates that a map is only:
An illusion: there is nothing natural about a map. It is a cultural artifact,
a cumulation of choices made among choices every one of which reveals
a value: not the world . . . but loaded with intentions and purposes; not
directly, but through a glass; not straight, but mediated by words and other
signs; not, in a word, as it is, but in . . . code. (Wood, 1992, 108)
Although Yu Guangzhong does not draw a real map, the images of the
maps he employs in his poetry are also loaded with ‘intentions and
purposes.’ They represent the poet’s dreamlands. In this section, I will
examine how Yu Guangzhong’s idea of a mythic origin developed over
time.
Before Yu Guangzhong left Mainland China for Taiwan, he felt nos-
talgia for a mythic origin, the countries of the West. According to Yu
Guangzhong, he loved making maps from the time he was only a middle
school student. Though the poet liked drawing the map of China, he
enjoyed drawing the maps of foreign countries even more. Countries
such as Finland, Greece, Switzerland and The Netherlands were among
his favorites, though he loved Italy the most due to his fascination with
Venice, Rome, Caesar, Juliet and so forth (Yu Guangzhong, 1980, 67).
In Yu Guangzhong’s well-known poem “Yin Yi Ba Si Er Nian Putao-
jiu” [Drinking the Wine of 1842], the poet takes us to Southern Europe,
the Mediterranean, Africa and so forth.
What pure and scarlet blood of the wine!
It injects itself into my chest warmly and slowly,
Which makes my pleasant heart conceive the summer nights of South
Europe,
Conceive the golden sunshine of the Mediterranean,
And the songs of the nightingales of Provence
[. . .]
However, all these things withered during that summer.
A thousand miles away, one hundred years before, other people’s past
events
[. . .]
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Everything is gone, only the magic cup in my hand remains

Which is still holding the spring night and summer morning of the
foreign country of one hundred years ago!
何等芳醇而又鮮紅的葡萄的血液! / 如此暖暖地, 緩緩地注入了我的

胸膛, / 使我歡愉的心中孕滿了南歐的夏夜, / 孕滿了地中海岸邊金黃
色的陽光, / 和普羅旺斯夜鶯的歌唱 . . . . . . / 但是這一切都已經隨那個
夏季枯萎。 / 數萬里外, 一百年前, 他人的往事 . . . . . . / 一切都逝了, 只
有我掌中的這只魔杯 / 還盛著一世紀前異國的春晚和夏晨!
Yu Guangzhong draws a kind of map of Southern Europe in this poem.
Although the image of a map is not directly mentioned in the poem, his
favorite countries and places are presented simultaneously in it, as on a
map. When the poet wrote this poem, he had never been to Europe. In
other words, Yu Guangzhong does not yearn for a concrete place in this
poem. The mapping of the various locales and the French wine clearly
suggest that the poet is obsessed with Western culture. The origin the
poet depicts here therefore, is an imaginative one.
After Yu Guangzhong left Taiwan for the United States, the displace-
ment helped to change the meaning of maps for him. For example, in
“Dang Wo Si Shi” [When I am Dead], the poet indicates that his home
is in Mainland China.
When I am dead, bury me between the Yangtze River and the Yellow
River
My head will rest; my white hairs will be covered with black soil
In China, the most beautiful and the most motherly nation,
I will sleep calmly . . .
[. . .]
I want to pierce through the darkness for the dawn of China
For seventeen years, I devoured the map of China with my hungry eyes,
From Xihu to Taihu
And to Zhongqing, where there are Chinese francolins everywhere,
As if I were at home (Zheng, 1994, 357–58)
當我死時, 葬我, 在長江與黃河之間, / 枕我的頭顱, 白髮蓋著黑土 / 在

中國, 最美最母親的國度 / 我便坦然睡去 . . . . . . / 想望透黑夜看中國的
黎明 / 用十七年未饜中國的眼睛 / 饕餮地圖, 從西湖到太湖 / 到多鷓
鴣的重慶, 代替回鄉
The mapping in this poem is obviously different from that of “Drinking
the Wine of 1842.” Rivers and places such as the Yangtze River, the Yel-
low River, Xihu, Taihu and Zhongqing help to suggest a map of China. It
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112 chapter four
is noteworthy that Yu Guangzhong refers to China as ‘the most motherly

nation.’ This expression implies a comparison; it seems that Yu Guang-
zhong has more than one motherland. Among all of them the poet
feels most at home in Mainland China. As I discussed before, the term
‘homeland’ embodies various meanings, and the observation is again
reinforced by this poem. Yu Guangzhong further suggests that the term
‘homecoming’ has more than one meaning. On the one hand, it refers to
physically going back to China. Yu Guangzhong hopes that if he cannot
return to the Mainland while he is alive, he can be buried in China after
he dies. On the other hand, it seems that looking at the map of China
can take the place of the poet’s actual return to his homeland.
On the surface, the China Yu Guangzhong mentions here is contem-
porary because he is talking of a place he can return to after he dies.
However, since the image the poet uses to signify China is a map or
an illusion, I believe that Yu Guangzhong also considers contemporary
China a mythical origin. This is most likely because the poet cannot
go back to his motherland for political reasons. Yu Guangzhong uses
‘the darkness’ to symbolize China of the 1960s. Although the poet is
not explicit about the situation, I believe he is referring to the Cultural
Revolution (1966–1976).
Yu Guangzhong's travel experience was relatively extensive. He had
been to the United States three times, and had also taught in Hong Kong
for approximately ten years. These subsequent displacements, however,
did not change the locus of Yu Guangzhong’s origin, but rather changed
the period of time of the location. For example, in “Xiangchou Si Yun”
[Four Stanzas on Homesickeness], and “Haitang Wen Sheng” [Begonia
Tattoo], the time period of Yu Guangzhong’s home shifts from contem-
porary Mainland China to the China before 1949. In the second stanza
of “Four Stanzas on Homesickeness,” the poet tells us that a red begonia
triggers his ‘pain of homesickness.’
Give me a red begonia, oh, red begonia
Begonia as red as blood
The scalding pain of seething blood
Is the scalding pain of homesickness
Give me a red begonia, oh, red begonia (Yeh, 1992, 102)
給我一張海棠紅啊海棠紅 / 血一樣的海棠紅 / 沸血的燒痛 / 是鄉愁的

燒痛 / 給我一張海棠紅啊海棠紅
Yu Guangzhong does not mention maps nor include any reference to
mapping in this poem. However, the map of old China during the KMT’s
rule before 1949 was in the shape of a begonia. After 1949 the map of
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China is in the shape of a rooster (Jiao, 1999, 49). Choosing the begonia
instead of the rooster to describe the map of China, Yu implies that his
origin has changed from contemporary China to the pre–1949 China.
In “Begonia Tattoo,” Yu Guangzhong not only reinforces the idea of
his obsession with the old map in the shape of a begonia, but also indi-
cates that this kind of obsession is a painful one.
The small scar on the left of the chest was forgotten
[. . .]
Until he got old
And felt pain in his heart one day
He looked at his naked body in the mirror
The scar, the scar has already grown up
Who slapped him on his chest and left the fingerprint
A bloody crab, a begonia tattoo
He surprisingly looked at the distorted picture
The begonia, he does not know
Whether it is an external
Or internal injury
He cannot tell (Yu Guangzhong, 1974b, 43–44)
一向忘了左胸口有一小塊傷痕 . . . . . . / 直到晚年 / 心臟發痛的那天 /

從鏡中的裸身他發現 / 那塊疤, 那塊疤已長大 / 誰當胸一掌的手印 /
一只血蟹, 一張海棠紋身 / 那扭曲變貌的圖形他驚視 / 那海棠 / 究竟
是外傷 / 還是內傷 / 再也分不清
The period of time of Yu Guangzhong’s origin does not change in this
poem; it remains the China before 1949. However, the poet associates
the begonia map with negative images such as scars and injuries. These
associations foretell Yu’s later break from his obsession with Mainland
China.
In the poem “Baiyu kugua” [The White Jade Bitter Gourd], Yu Guang-
zhong again depicts the image of a map, this time referring to ancient
China.
Vast were the Nine Regions, now shrunk to a chart,
Which I cared not to enfold when young,
But let stretch and spread in their infinities
Huge as the memory of a mother’s breast. (Yu Guangzhong, 1992, 82)
茫茫九州只縮成一張輿圖 / 小時候不知道將它疊起 / 一任攤開那無

窮無盡 / 碩大似記憶母親, 她的胸脯
The map is a symbol of ancient China. Generally speaking, China was
divided into nine regions in ancient times. On the surface, Yu Guang-
zhong’s origin changes from modern China to ancient China. However,
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114 chapter four
it is noteworthy that the maternal and infantile images again emerge. The
map is compared to ‘the memory of a mother’s breast.’ Both the images
of map and mother refer to the poet’s origin. The mother’s breast, which
is associated with breastfeeding, may refer to nurturing. In addition to
ancient China, then, these two images are also associated with Chinese
culture. In fact, the major image of this poem is the bitter gourd, and Yu
Guangzhong’s emphasis is on searching for his cultural identity instead
of questing for his origin. I will examine this poem in detail in the next
part of this chapter. All in all, my analyses of the image of the map show
that although the map as a metaphor for the origin shifts its meaning
from time to time, Yu Guangzhong finally came to consider ancient
Chinese culture as his mythic origin.
Searching for a Cultural Identity
I believe no other Taiwanese modernist poet demonstrates the insta-

bility of identity better than Yu Guangzhong. Since the poet traveled
extensively, he wrote numerous poems on the topic of identity crisis.
Yu Guangzhong left Mainland China for Taiwan in 1950, and he spent
one year, 1958, studying in the United States. The poet was twice invited
to teach in the U.S. in the 1960s, and he taught in Hong Kong in the
1970s before settling down in Taiwan in 1985. The poet did not suffer
from a cultural identity crisis until he went to the U.S. Yu Guangzhong
considered his American trip a kind of “cultural exile” (Yu Guangzhong,
1986, 8).
Cultural identity is not a simple issue. Stuart Hall in his “Cultural
Identity and Diaspora” says that:
There are at least two different ways of thinking about ‘cultural identity’.
The first position defines ‘cultural identity’ in terms of one, shared cul-
ture, a sort of collective ‘one true self ’, hiding inside the many other, more
superficial or artificially imposed ‘selves’, which people with a shared his-
tory and ancestry hold in common. (Hall, 1990, 223)
According to Hall, the second position of cultural identity is:
A matter of ‘becoming’ as well as of ‘being’. It belongs to the future as
much as to the past. It is not something which already exists, transcending
place, time, history and culture. Cultural identities come from somewhere,
have histories. But, like everything which is historical, they undergo con-
stant transformation. Far from being eternally fixed in some essentialised
past, they are subject to the continuous ‘play’ of history, culture and power.
(Hall, 1990, 225)
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If we examine Yu Guangzhong’s work closely, we will fi nd that Hall’s

two interpretations of cultural identity help us to understand the poet’s
cultural identities. Yu Guangzhong has been searching for a ‘one true
self ’ and for an ever-transforming self in history for decades. Though Yu
Guangzhong realizes that he can never return to his lost past, in searching
for an ever-transforming self in history, the poet fi nds himself returning
to ancient Chinese culture. In other words, one of the interpretations of
Yu Guangzhong’s cultural identity—searching for an ever-transforming
self—is not an equivalent to Hall’s second position of cultural identity.
Although they have similarities, Yu Guangzhong’s cultural identity is a
derivative of both of Hall’s definitions of cultural identity.
Yu Guangzhong spent some time searching for a ‘collective true self.’
In the preface “Zhi Duzhe” [To the Reader] of Zai Leng Zhan di Nian Dai
[In Time of Cold Wars], Yu clearly points out that there is such a thing as
a ‘collective one true self,’ who can represent all Chinese:
A thousand stories make one story:
The theme forever is the same theme
Forever the shame and the glory:
When I say China I only mean
Such as myself and you and him. (Yu Guangzhong, 1970, 2)
一千個故事是一個故事 / 那主題永遠是一個主題 / 永遠是一個羞恥

和榮譽 / 當我說中國時我只是說 / 有這麼一個人: 像我像他像你
Yu Guangzhong made this declaration upon his return from his sec-
ond visit to the U.S. This ‘searching for a collective one true self ’-type
of cultural identity is not a ready-made concept in Yu Guangzhong’s
case. As I discussed in the last section, the meaning of homeland in Yu
Guangzhong’s poetry changed over time, and the definition of China
was no exception; it, too, underwent a transformation. For example,
China refers to contemporary Taiwan and Mainland China, as well as
ancient China (Huang, 1979, 92). The theme of China first appeared
in Yu Guangzhong’s works which were written during his first visit to
the U.S. “Xindalu de Zaochen” [The New Continent’s Morning], “Wo zhi
Gutihua” [The Solidified Me] and “Wo de Nianlun” [My Annual Ring]
are some examples. In the poem “The New Continent’s Morning,” the
poet juxtaposes ‘ancient China’ with Chilung Harbor (Yu Guangzhong,
2004, 264–66). Yu Guangzhong does not distinguish China from Tai-
wan. When the poet says in “The Solidified Me,” “But the sun of China
is too far away from me” 中國的太陽距我太遠, it appears that ‘China’
refers to both Mainland China and Taiwan (Yu Guangzhong, 2004, 297).
The poet was not an exile in the United States—he spent only a year
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116 chapter four
there before returning to Taiwan—and therefore the theme of ‘China’

was not well established before he returned to Taiwan.
Yu Guangzhong wrote three volumes of poetry after returning to
Taiwan, namely, Wu Ling Shaonian [A Youth of Tang], Tianlangxing
[Sirius] and Lian de Lianxiang [Associations of the Water Lily]. Several
poems in A Youth of Tang and Sirius embody the theme of nostalgia for
China, or the search for the collective one true self. In Associations of the
Water Lily, however, Yu Guangzhong denotes a new direction, a search
for cultural identity, which for him, is a search for an ever-transforming
self in history. In what follows I will concentrate my discussion on the
ever-transforming self.
Yu Guangzhong’s struggle between the two types of cultural identity
remained latent for many years. This is because the poet put emphasis
on transformation, exploration and experimentation in terms of style
and theme in his early years. As a result, it is not easy to discern the
development of the poet’s two cultural identities. Generally speaking,
Yu Guangzhong began to search for an ever-transforming self—the sec-
ond position of cultural identity—in his Associations of the Water Lily,
which was written between 1960 and 1963. This second kind of cultural
identity was developed simultaneously with the first, since A Youth of
Tang and Sirius were also written during this period. Although Associa-
tions of the Water Lily was a great success, with more than seven editions
published by 1969, Yu Guangzhong did not finish developing this theme
until he began his lyric collection called The White Jade Bitter Gourd.
In the preface of Associations of the Water Lily, Yu Guangzhong points
out that he wishes his water lily could achieve a kind of ‘trinity,’ by which
he means that ‘thing,’ mankind and god can become three in one.2 The
‘thing’ transforms into mankind, and mankind transforms into god
(Yu Guangzhong, 1964, 7). In this case, ‘thing’ refers to a water lily, and
mankind refers to a girl. As a matter of fact, the girl is both a water lily
and a god because, in the poems, she transforms into both of them. In
addition, Yu believes that the life of a water lily is a kind of reincar-
nation that lasts only one summer. The water lilies of this year are the
same as those of last year (Yu Guangzhong, 1964, 8). The stems of this
2
In English, the singular of ‘god’ is usually capitalized and refers to the Christian,
Jewish or Muslim God. Lower-cased ‘god’ is usually used in the plural and refers to the
gods of polytheistic religions. In Yu Guangzhong’s case, since the ‘god’ he refers to is his
lover—a girl—I use the lower case, singular ‘god.’
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year’s water lilies connect with last year’s and also with those of a thou-
sand years ago (Yu Guangzhong, 1964, 11). In effect, a kind of eternity
is achieved. However, this transformation is not directly related to the
development of Yu Guangzhong’s cultural identity, for this lyric collec-
tion is mainly about the poet’s romantic interest. Th e lovers (the poet
and the girl) cannot be together, and as a result, the poet chooses the
water lily to symbolize the girl; whenever the poet sees water lilies, they
will remind him of Zhen Zhen. In “Yongyuan, Wo Deng” [Forever, I Am
Waiting], Yu Guangzhong directly points out the relationship between
Zhen Zhen and water lilies:
In the pond, in the summer, if only there is
A petal of scarlet in them, why is it necessary to see you?
Water lily is Zhen Zhen’s nickname; a water lily is Zhen Zhen
Whenever I think of you, Zhen Zhen, looking at a water lily is like seeing
You (Yu Guangzhong, 1964, 84)
只要池中還有, 只要夏日還有 / 一瓣紅艷, 又何必和你見面? / 蓮是甄

甄的小名, 蓮即甄甄 / 一念甄甄, 見蓮即見人
The poet further elaborates the relationship between Zhen Zhen and a
god in “Liangqi” [Amphibious]:
Planting you in the middle of water, Zhen Zhen, you become a sleeping
water lily
Transplanting you on the bank, O water lily, you wake up and become
Zhen Zhen
[. . .] in the water you are a god, out of water you are a human being
Amphibious is your soul (Yu Guangzhong, 1964, 88–89)
植你于水中央, 甄甄, 你便是睡蓮 / 移你于岸上, 蓮啊, 你便醒為甄甄 /

. . . . . . 你入水為神, 你出水為人 / 兩棲的是你的靈魂
Since Yu Guangzhong’s romantic love is restricted in the secular world,
he tries to place his hope in the divine world, which is beyond restric-
tions including time and space. His love, therefore, becomes eternal. In
“Zhuguang Zhong” [Under the Candlelight], Yu Guangzhong describes
how he achieves eternity through his love:
We only have, only have the present. The crimson fog of the candlelight
Pushes time away from all sides
[. . .]
A pair of stubborn lovers who fall in love with each other, in Italy
In the ripples of Luo river, in the fields of Mt. Huashan, in here, in
eternity (Yu Guangzhong, 1964, 108–10)
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118 chapter four
我們也只有, 只有現在。燭光的紅霧 / 將時間向四面推開 . . . . . . / 一對

頑固的情人相愛, 在意大利 / 在洛水波心, 在華山畿, 在此地, 在永恆
In this poem, Yu Guangzhong tells us that he and Zhen Zhen have nei-
ther the past nor the future; they only have the present. The element of
time, then, is eliminated. Eternity is achieved in a timeless world. How-
ever, Yu Guangzhong questions this eternal love in his poem “Mijin”
[Getting Lost] which was penned one year after he wrote “Under the
Candlelight”:
After you die you will come out of water, fluttering, and become a fairy
After I die? I will go into water
Drifting and will become a ghost, become a shark-man with frozen skin
You are on the water at that time. I am under the water
At that time; do you remember, last summer?
(Yu Guangzhong, 1964, 122)
你死後該出水, 翩翩, 成水仙 / 我死後? 我死後應入水 / 漂漂成水鬼,

成冰膚的鮫人 / 你在水上, 那時, 我在水下 / 那時你記不記得, 去夏?
In short, although the poet tries to undergo transformation and achieve
eternity through love, he eventually fails to do so. There are, however, at
least two elements in this lyric collection that contribute to the further
development of the theme of continual transformation in history. First
of all, the poet’s identity is rooted in Oriental culture, or to be specific,
in ancient Chinese culture. Secondly, his cultural identity is not static
and is under the process of transformation. These two elements can
be found in Yu Guangzhong’s later poem “Huo Yu” [Bathing in Fire].
According to Zhong Ling 鍾玲, the poem is about the processes of
‘making a decision—catharsis—eternity.’ The poet realizes that there are
two roads leading to eternity, namely bathing in fire and bathing in ice.
Although bathing in fire is much more difficult than bathing in ice, the
poet chooses fire instead of ice. This is because “Fire is more transpar-
ent than ice, deeper than water” (Huang, 1979, 166). The poet is like a
phoenix that is born from a fire:
My song is a kind of eternal yearning
My blood is burning. My soul is bathing in the fire
In the blue ink, listen, there are songs from the fire
Rising, becoming clear after death, and more sonorous
(Yu Guangzhong, 1970, 39)
我的歌是一種不滅的嚮往 / 我的血沸騰, 為火浴靈魂 / 藍墨水中, 聽,

有火的歌聲 / 揚起, 死後更清晰, 也更高亢
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Zhong points out that the kind of phoenix mentioned here is not a Chi-
nese phoenix, but comes from ancient Arabic legend (Huang, 1979,
168). Nevertheless, the phoenix is an Oriental symbol, which is compa-
rable to the Western symbol of the swan. In addition to the elements of
Oriental culture and processes of transformation, another new element
is found in this poem—Yu Guangzhong’s goal or ambition. Th e poet
is unlike the phoenix; he cannot be reborn after he dies. In order to
achieve eternity or immortality, the poet wishes to be remembered in
history for his creative writing. If this goal is not clearly expressed in this
poem, it becomes more obvious in “Gouweicao” [Green Bristle Grass]
and “Siwang, Ta Bushi Yiqie” [Death, It is Not Everything]. In “Green
Bristle Grass,” the poet says that death is our only permanent address.
Unless our reputations can match R. M. Rilke’s or Li Bai’s 李白, eternity
is merely a mirage:
In a word, no one can argue against the grave
Death, is the only permanent address
[. . .]
Unless the names transcend and keep up with stars
To join Rilke or Li Bai (Yu Guangzhong, 1970, 51–52)
總之最後誰也辯不過墳墓 / 死亡, 是唯一的永久地址 . . . . . . 除非名字

上升, 向星象去看齊 / 去參加里爾克或者李白
In “Death, It is Not Everything,” Yu Guangzhong makes it clear that he
will be different from the others when he dies, and that his reputation
will be preserved for posterity:
Death, you are not everything
For my hearse will go in a different direction
[. . .]
Death, you are not everything, you are not,
For the most important thing is not
What I hand over to the grave, but
What I hand over to history (Yu Guangzhong, 1970, 80–81)
死亡, 你不是一切 / 因為我的柩車不朝那方向 . . . . . . / 死亡, 你不是一

切, 你不是 / 因為最重要的不是 / 交什麼給墳墓, 而是 / 交什麼給歷史
We have so far discussed the three elements that help to establish the
poet’s second cultural identity. While the processes of transformation
and the poet’s ambitions are well defined, his cultural preference is still
in question. The symbols such as the water lily and the phoenix do not
originate from Chinese culture, but have roots in Oriental culture. This
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120 chapter four
problem was solved after Yu Guangzhong came back from his third
visit to the United States, when most of the lyrics collected in The White
Jade Bitter Gourd were written. In the preface of the collection, the poet
points out that when he reached middle age, he started to look back to
ancient Chinese culture. Yu Guangzhong writes poems in relation to his
meditation on the past. The poet further elaborates that ‘three-dimen-
sional’ modern poetry should embody the vertical historical sense, the
horizontal regional sense and the crisscross network of reality. People
who are reluctant to enter into the special temporal-spatial region of
their nation and talk about transcending time and space are simply
engaging in a kind of escape (Yu Guangzhong, 1974b, 3). As a result, the
poet uses a Chinese symbol—a white jade bitter gourd—to represent
his ever-transforming self in history in the poem “The White Jade Bitter
Gourd.”
According to Huang Weiliang 黃維樑, the bitter gourd is a favorite
food among Chinese people, although Westerners would probably not
appreciate its bitterness. Moreover, the gourd referred to in the poem
is made of jade, and jade has always been favored with the highest sta-
tus in ancient China (Huang, 1979, 279–80). In addition to the focus
on Chinese culture, emphasis has also been placed on the processes of
transformation. An ordinary bitter gourd is transformed into a white
jade bitter gourd through an artist’s craftsmanship. The original bitter
gourd, which was the model for the white jade bitter gourd, and the art-
ist who made the white jade bitter gourd, disappeared long ago. Only the
artifact, the white jade bitter gourd, can survive the tyranny of time and
achieve eternity. It is noteworthy that the white jade bitter gourd is not
merely a ‘thing’ according to the poet; it seems to be ever transforming
and eternal at the same time:
Seeming awake yet asleep, in a light slow and soft,
Seeming, idly, to wake up from an endless slumber,
A gourd is ripening in leisureliness
[. . .]
once a gourd and bitter,
Now eternity’s own, a fruit and sweet. (Yu Guangzhong, 1992, 82–83)
似醒似睡, 緩緩的柔光裡 / 似悠悠醒自千年的大寐 / 一只瓜從從容容

在成熟 . . . . . . / 曾經是瓜而苦 / 被永恆引渡, 成果而甘
In addition to the eternity that the white jade bitter gourd embodied,
it is important to note that Yu Guangzhong actually saw this artifact at
the National Museum of Taiwan. The environment of the museum may
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also contribute to the visitor’s experiencing a sense of eternity. Accord-

ing to Nelia Dias, “In the space of the museum, the visitor was invited
to take account of the linear development of ideas. Through the sense
of vision, the spectator was able to transcend the time and space of the
objects to situate himself in the timeless, abstract and analytic space of
the museum” (Dias, 1998, 168).
I will suggest that the characteristics of the museum and the white
jade bitter gourd help the poet to shape his second cultural identity.
Huang Weiliang and Huang Guobin 黃國彬 remark that Yu Guang-
zhong compares himself to the white jade bitter gourd (Huang, 1979,
217, 283). Huang Weiliang explains that if this poem were merely about
the bitter gourd itself, Yu Guangzhong would not use terms such as
‘memory,’ ‘chart’ and ‘young’ to describe it. In fact, as I have mentioned,
reading or drawing a ‘chart’ (map) has been one of the poet’s favorite
activities since he was a child (Huang, 1979, 285). A detailed discus-
sion of the image of the map can be found in the previous section of
this chapter.
Huang Weiliang further elaborates that the poet wishes to achieve
immortality or eternity, just as the bitter gourd has done. Yu Guang-
zhong believes that he can achieve eternity or immortality through his
poetry (Huang, 1979, 287–92). The white jade bitter gourd was crafted
in ancient China. It transcends the past and the present as a piece of art.
Likewise, the cultural roots of Yu Guangzhong also date back to ancient
China.
In short, the poet’s ‘second cultural identity’ is well established in
the poem “White Jade Bitter Gourd.” However, as I pointed out before,
this cultural identity is not an equivalent to Hall’s second position on
cultural identity. According to Hall’s second interpretation, cultural
identity should not be “eternally fixed in some essentialised past” (Hall,
1990, 225). As we can see, Yu Guangzhong’s second interpretation of
cultural identity is based on ancient Chinese culture, and it is ‘eternally
fixed in eternity.’ The elements such as ‘eternity’ and a ‘fixed past’ remind
us of Hall’s first interpretation of cultural identity, whereas other ele-
ments such as the ‘future’ and ‘transformation’ remind us of Hall’s sec-
ond interpretation of cultural identity. I suggest that the development of
Yu Guangzhong’s second cultural identity is a combination of Hall’s first
and second interpretations of cultural identity. The development of Yu
Guangzhong’s two cultural identities is then completed. There has been
no further major change in his poetry up to the present. I will discuss Yu
Guangzhong’s cultural roots in detail in Chapter Five.
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122 chapter four
Homecoming
The best way to examine whether there is such a thing as a fixed ori-
gin is to go back to the so-called place of origin. In his “Ellipsis,” Der-
rida remarks that “repeated, the same line is no longer exactly the same,
the ring no longer has exactly the same center, the origin has played”
(Derrida, 1985, 296). Although Derrida does not deal with the issue
of homecoming in “Ellipsis,” his theory helps us to discern the idea
of homecoming. In his paper, Derrida uses a book as a metaphor for
a center or a tradition, and writing as a metaphor for the wandering
from the center. Paradoxically, writing is not possible without consult-
ing or returning to the book, because it has all the resources the writing
needs. However, the return to the book does not mean a mere repeti-
tion. According to Derrida:
Repetition does not reissue the book but describes its origin from the van-
tage of a writing which does not yet belong to it, or no longer belongs to
it, a writing which feigns, by repeating the book, inclusion in the book.
Far from letting itself be oppressed or enveloped within the volume, this
repetition is the first writing. The writing of the origin, the writing that
retraces the origin, tracking down the signs of its disappearance, the lost
writing of the origin. (Derrida, 1985, 295)
In other words, every return of the writing to the book is a rewriting of
the origin. As the title of the paper “Ellipsis” implies, something is miss-
ing and the circle is incomplete. In fact, the word ‘ellipsis’ has a Latin ori-
gin, which embodies two meanings: omission and an incomplete circle.
The French title “L’ellipse” also refers to two meanings: omission and a
regular oval (Zheng Min, 1998, 58). Each time the poet returns to the
book, he contributes to the construction of a spiral which is an incom-
plete circle. This is because every return is not an exact repetition of the
original circle.
The exile’s return to his origin is similar to the writing’s return to the
book. Neither the exile nor the writing can return to their origins. Der-
rida’s “Ellipsis” raises one important point which helps us to reconsider
the issue of homecoming: every return is a creation rather than a repeti-
tion. The exiles can never return to their previous homes. There are at
least two reasons why such a homecoming is impossible. First, the exiles
may become used to a kind of melancholy caused by the wandering life.
Sometimes, these sad feelings become ‘imaginative obsessions’ of the
exiles’ writings (Nixon, 1998, 116). They do not wish to lose these feel-
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ings by returning home. Second, the sense of uncanniness caused by

displacement makes the once familiar homeland unfamiliar. I will use
Yu Guangzhong as an example to briefly discuss imaginative obsessions.
The relationship between uncanniness and homecoming will be exam-
ined through a study of Luo Fu’s poetry in the next section.
In his “Refugees and homecomings: Bessie Head and the end of exile,”
Rob Nixon discusses in detail how the exiled writers may really not want
to go home. Nixon points out that:
The decision to re-enter may offer release; it may also provoke, in the
same breath, an outpouring of trepidation. On the one hand, return, how-
ever compromised, presents the prospect of imaginative renewal. This
is a priceless prospect for writers who have found themselves plumbing
an ever-shallower pool of recollections, the initial wrong of banishment
having been compounded by that secondary injustice, the evaporation of
memory. Yet the promise of replenishment has its threatening side, too,
for it draws writers away from the imaginative obsessions that sustained
them in exile, obsessions which, however melancholy, came over the years
to offer a version of security. (Nixon, 1998, 116)
Nixon thoroughly lists all the pros and cons of homecoming. Among the
poets I chose for my study, Yu Guangzhong is most obsessed by yearning
for his lost homeland. For instance, Yu Guangzhong exceeds other poets
in the number of nostalgic poems he writes on China. It is interesting
to note, nevertheless, that though he yearned to go back to Mainland
China, he deferred his homecoming for years. The KMT lifted martial
law in 1987, but Yu Guangzhong did not go back to China until 1992
and then only to attend a conference in Beijing. In fact, Yu’s wife visited
the Mainland via Hong Kong on her own in 1980, and other poets such
as Luo Fu and Lomen went back to China in 1988, only months after the
lifting of the travel ban.
I believe that Yu Guangzhong did not go back to his homeland as
soon as he could have because he did not want to lose his imaginative
obsession. I think writing nostalgic poems offers Yu Guangzhong, in
Nixon’s words, ‘a version of security.’ As Fu Mengli 傅孟麗 points out,
after Yu Guangzhong went back to China, “he had to deconstruct his
nostalgic poems” (Fu, 1999, 228). Homesickness is always a major theme
in Yu Guangzhong’s poetry; therefore ceasing to write nostalgic poems
undoubtedly would threaten his inspiration.
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124 chapter four
The Uncanniness of Homecoming
Luo Fu’s idea of ‘origin’ was dramatically transformed aft er his home-
coming. Luo Fu resembles Yu Guangzhong in that he believed in the
idea of a fixed origin before he returned to Mainland China. Luo Fu’s
homecoming contributed to the change of his concept of homeland. The
poet came to believe that the origin was a shifting ground. Luo Fu dis-
covered that his homeland was an uncanny place. I will first discuss Luo
Fu’s idea of a fixed origin and then the uncanniness of his homecoming.
The concept of origin as a shifting ground will be examined last.
Although Luo Fu believed in a fixed origin early in his career, his
idea of homeland underwent a process of change. Luo Fu’s first nostalgic
poem can be traced back as early as 1970. In his poem “Yue Wen” [Ask-
ing the Moon], Luo expresses his nostalgia for Mainland China when he
is looking up at the moon:
Looking up at you
My hometown has already become yesterday’s light cough
Is nostalgia farther than Changan? (Fei, 1994, 181)
仰首向你 / 故鄉已是昨日的一聲輕咳 / 鄉愁比長安還遠?

Fei Yong 費勇 points out that the moon symbolizes Chinese culture as
well as Luo’s homeland (Fei, 1994, 180). According to Fei, the moon
has special meaning in Chinese tradition. Although Fei does not further
elaborate on the meaning of the moon, it is always associated with the
theme of nostalgia in classical Chinese poetry. In addition, Changan was
an ancient capital that was especially influential and prosperous during
the Tang dynasty. Whenever people mention Changan, they immedi-
ately refer to the Tang thereafter. As such, I think Luo Fu’s homeland
refers to both ancient Chinese culture and ancient China.
These ideas—homeland as ancient Chinese culture and ancient
China—are reinforced in “Yun Tang Lushe Chuye” [First Night at Yun
Tang Inn]:
Except for snow
Everything belongs to the Tang dynasty
The style of the door, the height of the window
[. . .]
Aeolian bell carries
Wang Wei’s chanting through the wind (Luo Fu, 1981, 11)
除了雪 / 一切都是唐朝的 / 門的款式, 窗的高度 . . . . . . / 簷鈴自風中傳來 /

王維的吟哦
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When Luo Fu wrote this poem, he was in South Korea. Since South
Korea is close to Mainland China in terms of both geographical loca-
tion and culture, Luo’s trip reminded him of ancient China, ancient Chi-
nese tradition and his separation from both of them. The interior design
and the furniture in his hotel room, for example, were associated with
ancient China. The aeolian bell reminded Luo of the Tang poet Wang
Wei, another link to ancient Chinese culture.
The meaning of homeland is equated to Luo’s hometown in “Wuye
Xiao Li” [Peeling a Pear at Midnight]. The word ‘pear’ in Chinese shares
an identical pronunciation with the Chinese word for ‘separation.’3 As
a result, the pear is always used as a metaphor for separation. In Luo’s
case, the pear in this poem is associated with his separation from his
hometown in Mainland China.
It is an
Ice-cold
Pear
Which shines with brassy skin
Cutting the pear open into halves, I find
Its chest
Hiding
A deep well
[. . .]
The knife falls from my hand
I bend down to look for it
Why, the floor is all of
My brassy skin (Luo Fu, 1981, 25–26)
那確是一只 / 觸手冰涼的 / 閃著黃銅膚色的 / 梨 / 一刀剖開 / 它胸中 /

竟然藏有 / 一口好深好深的井 . . . . . . / 刀子跌落 / 我彎下身子去找 / 啊!
滿地都是 / 我那黃銅色的皮膚
This poem is about peeling a pear at midnight. Since the poet feels
thirsty, he wants to eat a pear to quench his thirst. When the poet peels
the pear, the color of its skin—brassy—reminds him of Chinese people.
In addition, the hollow where the stone sits reminds him of a well. The
well is very important to Chinese people, since it is always associated
with ‘hometown.’ There is a Chinese saying, ‘Beijing-lixiang’ 背井離鄉,
which means literally ‘turning away from the well and leaving one’s
hometown,’ or more commonly, ‘leaving one’s native place.’ As such, it is
3
The word ‘pear’ in Chinese 梨 [li] shares an identical pronunciation with the Chi-
nese word for ‘separation’ 離 [li].
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126 chapter four
obvious that the main theme of this poem is the poet’s nostalgia for his
hometown in Mainland China.
In “Xuedi Qiuqian” [A Swing in Snow], Luo Fu makes it clear that his
homeland is where he spent his childhood:
Looking back, on yesterday’s swing I see
My childhood as cold and bleak as snow
Forcing in my face
Ah! The fragrance of snow
The fragrance of my sister who was on the swing
If I swing higher, I will feel sad
I will see that inside the courtyard
The setose thistle-like nostalgia walks gradually faster (Luo Fu, 1981, 32)
回首, 乍見昨日鞦韆架上 / 冷白如雪的童年 / 迎面逼來 / 啊! 雪的膚香

/ 鞦韆架上妹妹的膚香 / 如再盪高一些, 勢將心痛 / 勢將看到院子裡
漸行漸速的 / 薊草般的鄉愁
Luo reveals a personal experience in this poem. He remembers playing
with his sister in the past and this memory triggers his nostalgia. In
other words, his origin refers to his hometown. It is noteworthy that Luo
and his sister play on a swing in the poem. The swing is associated with
something unstable. The higher the poet swings, the farther he is from
the ground or the land. This image reminds us of Luo Fu’s separation
from his homeland and his family. Since Luo considered his hometown
his origin, the poet went on a ‘trip’ to his homeland immediately once
the political situation permitted. Luo’s idea of homeland was shattered,
however, on his return to his native land.
The uncanny always has its place in the exiles’ works on homecom-
ing. Shortly before Luo Fu went back to his homeland, he wrote a
poem about his trip. He imagines that he meets the poet Li Yuanluo
李元洛 in the Mainland. Both Luo Fu and Li Yuanluo came from Hunan
Province, and had become acquainted through correspondence. Luo Fu
planned to meet Li Yuanluo when he went back to the Mainland. He
surmised that the trip would create an uncanny feeling. In his poem
“Hunan Da Xue” [Heavy Snow in Hunan], Luo Fu tells us that:
Before we exchange a few words of greeting
I feel somewhat as though I’ve been cut off for generations, which seized
me with terror
Fortunately, the fragrance of the wine coming from the stove
Eliminates the shivering caused by history (Luo Fu, 1990a, 17–18)
寒暄之前 / 多少有些隔世的怔忡 / 好在火爐上的酒香 / 漸漸袪除了歷

史性的寒顫
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Luo Fu clearly points out that the uncanny is caused by history, that is,
by temporal displacement. Although the poet realized the uncanniness
of homecoming before he went back to his old town, he thought that he
could easily overcome it. According to this poem, he imagines that wine
can help him eliminate the uncanny feeling. It is clear, then, that Luo
believed that he could return to his origin even before his homecoming.
Nevertheless, when Luo actually stepped onto his native land, he under-
stood that he could never get rid of the feeling of uncanniness.
In “Yu Hengyang Binguan de Xishuai Duihua” [Talking With a Cricket
at Hengyang Guest House], the poet found that his hometown was no
longer familiar to him:
Lying in Hengyang Guest House, where my hometown was before
It becomes a foreign land in the rest of my life
[. . .]
You ask where I will go in the future
Where will I settle down when I grow old?
[. . .]
These questions really embarrass me, my friend
I had once been
A fish trapped in a dry rut
Then I transformed into a silkworm which was covered by a cocoon
Now I have become an old spider
Hanging over a broken thread,
And am destined to sway all my life (Luo Fu, 1990a, 27–30)
躺在這前半生是故土後半生是 / 異鄉的 / 衡陽賓館 . . . . . . / 你問我今

後的行止 / 終老何鄉? / 這個問題問得我多麼難堪啊, 老鄉 / 我曾是 /
一尾涸轍的魚 / 一度變成作繭的蠶 / 于今又化作一只老蜘蛛 / 懸在一
根殘絲上 / 註定在風中擺盪一生
It is interesting to note that Luo uses a ‘fish,’ ‘silkworm’ and ‘spider’
to symbolize himself. The poet tells us that he undergoes a process of
transformation. At the beginning he is a fish, and as a fish he is trapped
in a dry rut. A fish cannot live without water; it cannot go anywhere
or do anything but wait to die in a dry rut. In other words, the poet
does not have freedom. According to Luo Fu, he later transformed into
a silkworm. Since the silkworm is covered by a cocoon, he not only loses
freedom, but is also kept from the outside world. Although ‘dry rut’ and
‘cocoon’ remind us of homes for a fish and a silkworm respectively, they
are unhomely homes. The fish will die eventually in a dry rut, and the
silkworm will also ‘die’ in a sense, for it will metamorphose into a moth.
The images of fish and silkworm share one thing in common, which is
that both subjects will die in their unhomely homes.
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128 chapter four
In Luo Fu’s case, Taiwan is the poet’s home away from his original
home. Since he was not able to go back to Mainland China before 1988,
he might have died in Taiwan or somewhere else other than his original
home. Once Luo Fu returned to China, he no longer compared himself
to a fish or to a silkworm. Instead, he transformed into ‘an old spider,’
which is ‘hanging over a broken thread.’ A spider’s web always reminds
us of its home. The comparison between Luo Fu’s homecoming and a
spider hanging over its broken web implies that the poet became home-
less after he returned to his so-called homeland. A spider can always
repair its broken web by spinning it again. However, Luo Fu’s compar-
ing himself to an old spider implies that the spider or the poet may be
too old to spin or to make a new web or home again. As a result, the old
spider and the poet can never settle down or be at home.
Luo Fu does not tell us the reason why he became homeless after
his homecoming. However, in the first two lines of the passage cited
above, the poet implies that the uncanny feeling created by temporal
displacement cannot be dismissed easily. His hometown of Hengyang
has become a strange or foreign place to him. The homecoming shat-
tered his dream of going back to the place he treasured in his memory.
Consequently, he predicts that he will never in his life be able to settle
down. Words and phrases such as ‘hanging over’ and ‘sway’ imply that
the poet will lead a wandering life in the future.
One year after Luo returned from Mainland China, he wrote “Zai Bie
Hengyang Chezhan” [Saying Good-bye Again to Hengyang Station]. If
the poet does not clearly explain his uncanny feelings in “Talking with a
Cricket at Hengyang Guest House,” he tells us more in this poem:
That year, I was here to say good-bye to you
My hand waved in the wind,
Which was like a broken lotus root
Forty years later
Its fibers are still hanging in the middle of the air
[. . .]
It is good to go home
It is good to be sad
It is good to see my own shadow
Posted loosely on the broken wall of my old house
However, my clothes are not warm enough to endure the cool autumn
days
Before it snows
I bring with me a small pocket of childhood again
I glue together my shattered dream
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With saliva and pack it into my knapsack hastily

[. . .]
And my waving hand
Still remains hanging over the forty-year
Yet-to-be defrosted
Nostalgia (Luo Fu, 1990a, 52–56)
那年, 我在此向你告別 / 風中舉起的手 / 如一截斷藕 / 四十年後 / 藕絲

依舊懸在半空 . . . . . . / 回家真好 / 淒涼真好 / 看到自己的影子 / 浮貼在
老屋的半堵牆上真好 / 只是, 衣衫單薄, 不耐秋寒 / 下雪之前 / 我又
帶著剩下小半口袋的童年 / 把碎了的夢 / 用口水黏合 / 草草摺入行囊
. . . . . . / 而我揮動的手 / 依舊懸在四十年來 / 未曾冰解的 / 鄉愁裡
This poem is divided into three parts. In the first part, Luo is leaving his
hometown for Taiwan at Hengyang station forty years ago. In the sec-
ond part, we learn that the poet did not feel at home when he returned
to his old house forty years later. Luo went to visit his birthplace during
his trip to the Mainland, and after he arrived at his old home, he was
totally disappointed. The mountain was barren, the pond dried up, and
all the trees were cut down. His nostalgic dream was destroyed on the
spot, and the poet even asked whether it was really his hometown. His
old home was broken, looked a lot smaller than he remembered, and a
group of strangers lived there who considered Luo Fu to be a passing
traveler instead of the owner. The poet concluded that if nostalgia is
a kind of illness, it would be an incurable disease in him (Long, 1998,
209–10). As a result, in the last part of the poem, the poet tells us that his
nostalgia for his hometown will always remain.
In addition to the uncanny feeling caused by temporal displacement,
I think another reason that contributes to the poet’s nostalgia for his
hometown after his return to it is that he is a returnee to his native land.
He does not belong any longer to the locals.
Traveling as Collecting of One’s Identity
Every homecoming entails travel since the returnee must journey back
to his homeland. However, being a traveler implies that the returnee is
different from the locals, which means he can never be at home. Being
a traveler is, in fact, different from being a tourist. Critics such as Paul
Fussell lament that “travel is now impossible and that tourism is all
we have left” (Fussell, 1980, 41). Fussell distinguishes the traveler and
explorer from the tourist. According to Fussell:
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The genuine traveler is, or used to be, in the middle between the two
extremes. If the explorer moves toward the risks of the formless and the
unknown, the tourist moves toward the security of pure cliché. . . . It is
between these two poles that the traveler mediates, retaining all he can of
the excitement of the unpredictable attaching to exploration, and fusing
that with the pleasure of “knowing where one is” belonging to tourism.
(Fussell, 1980, 39)
Although Fussell succinctly tells us the differences between the explorer,
the traveler and the tourist, he fails to demonstrate how a person can
choose to be a traveler instead of a tourist. While we can easily under-
stand that not all common people can be explorers, we cannot easily tell
the subtle difference between a traveler and a tourist.
Trinh T. Minh-ha points out that a traveler is always considered a
“privileged seer and knowledgeable observer” (Trinh, 1998, 22). In
order to distinguish him- or herself from the banal tourist, Trinh Minh-
ha states:
The traveler has to become clandestine. He has to imitate the Other, to
hide and disguise himself in an attempt to inscribe himself in a counter-
exoticism that will allow him to be a non-tourist—that is, someone who
no longer resembles his falsified other, hence a stranger to his own kind. . . .
To travel can consist in operating a profoundly unsettling inversion of
one’s identity: I become me via an other. (Trinh, 1998, 22–23)
According to Trinh, being a tourist means to look for exoticism. In order
to be a non-tourist, one has to ‘imitate the Other,’ which means to imi-
tate the locals, and to counter exoticism. In other words, in order to be
a traveler instead of a tourist (a falsified other), one has to turn oneself
“into another falsified other (in imitating the Other)” (Trinh, 1998, 23).
Traveling implies that “the process of othering in the (de)construction
of identity continues its complex course” (Trinh, 1998, 23).
The identity of the returnee is much more complicated than that of
the traveler and the tourist. In theory, the returnee’s identity is no dif-
ferent from that of the locals. Nevertheless, since homecoming involves
a process of traveling, the identity of the returnee undoubtedly under-
goes a process of transformation. As such, in the case of the returnee,
there is otherness within what seems to be familiar. Even if the returnee
wants to hide and disguise himself as a non-tourist, not to mention a
local inhabitant, he will easily be singled out. In other words, a returnee
seems to have no choice but to be someone other than a traveler or a
local inhabitant.
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The title of the collection of Luo Fu’s homecoming poetry is “Shen-

zhou zhi Lu” [A Trip to the Divine Land]. ‘The Divine Land’ is a poetic
name for China, and therefore Luo considers his going back to China
as a trip instead of a homecoming. The poet visited a lot of tourist spots
after he left his unfamiliar hometown: Hangzhou’s Xi Hu, Shaoxing’s Lu
Xun Museum, Shanghai’s Long Hua Temple, Beijing’s Imperial Palace,
the Great Wall, Tian’anmen Square, the Temple of Heaven and so forth.
Luo Fu was treated as a guest during his so-called homecoming trip,
and he did not stay with his family. According to Long Bide 龍彼德, the
poet and his wife stayed at Hengyang Guest House instead. After having
unpacked his luggage at the guesthouse, Luo went to visit his brothers
and their families. He realized then that things had changed tremen-
dously in his hometown (Long, 1998, 204).
Since Luo Fu was one of the first Taiwanese poets to go back to Main-
land China, his return was not simply a personal matter—it became a
national event. In addition to the poet’s relatives, other people such as
news reporters, Mainland writers and government officials waited for
Luo at Hengyang station (Long, 1998, 200). Even when the poet went to
visit his mother’s grave, government officials accompanied him.
Although Luo Fu traveled around China, he tried to distinguish
himself from other tourists. In “Shanghai Hongkou Gongyuan Jijing”
[The Scenery at Shanghai Hong Kou Garden], Luo plays the role of
observer and tells us how the Japanese tourists disturb the sleeping Lu
Xun 魯迅:
Both God
And the muddy carrot
Can enter
Of course those Japanese tourists, who bow whenever they meet people
are included
You see
They are holding their cameras
And roasting a poem for autumn
Under their flowered umbrellas
They are twittering
[. . .]
At last, their noises
Arrived at Lu Xun’s graveyard
[. . .]
The master is holding an enormous Chinese stone
Falling asleep with his frowning brows and angry eyes
(Luo Fu, 1990a, 64–66)
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上帝 / 和帶泥巴的胡籮蔔 / 皆可進入 / 當然包括逢人鞠躬的日本遊客

/ 你看 / 他們正舉起照相機 / 在拷貝一首秋天的詩 / 小花洋傘底下 /
嘈嘈切切, 啁啁啾啾. . . . . . / 他們終於 / 鬧到了魯迅的墓前 . . . . . . / 大師
正抱著一塊巨大的中國石頭 / 橫眉入睡
This poem clearly depicts the characteristics of tourists. Luo points out
that tourists are noisy and ignorant, as the words ‘twittering’ and ‘noises’
clearly indicate. Visiting a graveyard should be a solemn activity. Nev-
ertheless, these Japanese tourists behave as if they are having a garden
party. They compose poems, talk loudly and take photos.
As an observer, Luo is obviously different from these tourists. He per-
ceives something that other tourists will never know. The poet surmises
that Lu Xun is unhappy with the tourists, especially the Japanese visitors.
According to Luo, tourists tend to be noisy, which is not in harmony
with the solemn graveyard. Lu Xun was a revolutionary writer, and he
was strongly against the idea of China becoming a semi-colonial, semi-
feudal society. Although Lu died before Japan’s full-scale invasion, Japan
was one of the major aggressors before his death. As such, the Japanese
tourists’ presence at Lu Xun’s graveyard is rather ironic. It seems that
these Japanese tourists are not aware of the embarrassment involved.
They carelessly give salutes to Lu Xun before they continue chatting.
The cynicism embodied in Luo Fu’s depiction reminds us of Lun Xun’s
writing style. The image of the ‘muddy carrot’ is reminiscent of Japanese
people; when Japan invaded China, Chinese people called the Japanese
‘the root of a carrot.’4 To distinguish himself from the tourists, Luo Fu
tries to identify with the locals and even with Lu Xun. However, it seems
that the poet ultimately fails to become a local inhabitant in Mainland
China ever again.
Making Exile His Homeland
After having taken his first trip to Mainland China, Luo Fu returned
repeatedly. Between 1988 and 1995, he returned to the Mainland eleven
times. In addition to Mainland China, he also visited Southeast Asia,
Eastern Europe, the Soviet Union, Western Europe and the United States
during this period. Luo’s experiences reinforced his feelings of being a
4
Chinese people called Japanese people ‘the root of a carrot’ luobotou 蘿蔔頭 during
Sino-Japanese war.
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passing traveler. For instance, in “Hui Mian Jiu” [Gray Vulture], the poet
tells us that he is only a passing traveler in his native land:
We fly from our far away home
And take a rest here. Suddenly we hear some noises from the forest
The hunting rifles are blowing their noses
Our faces turn to gray at once
[. . .]
Native land, is only
An inaudible call in the autumn wind
Passing traveler. Passing traveler. Passing traveler.
Is aimed at, is trapped
Is treated as an ‘alien’ passing traveler (Luo Fu, 1999b, 92–93)
我們從很遠的家園飛來 / 在此棲息。驟然聽到樹林中 / 獵槍擤鼻

涕的聲音 / 我們的顏面 / 便頓時灰了起來 . . . . . . / 故鄉, 只是秋風中 /
一聲聽不清楚的呼喚 / 過客。過客。過客。 / 被瞄準, 被誘捕 / 被視
為 “非我族類” 的過客
Luo Fu compares himself to a gray vulture in this poem. Luo and the
gray vulture leave their native land and rest ‘here.’ It is noteworthy that
the poet’s homeland turns into ‘An inaudible call in the autumn wind.’
His concrete homeland is deconstructed and becomes a voice or some-
thing abstract. Luo Fu does not directly point out the nature of the voice,
but the next line implies that the voice is calling to the ‘passing traveler.’
His homeland considers the poet a passing traveler, or Luo Fu is a pass-
ing traveler in his homeland. The poet not only becomes a passing trav-
eler or an alien in his homeland but also in other places. This is because
the setting of this poem is a place other than the poet’s homeland. He is
‘aimed at’ and ‘trapped’ and ‘treated as an alien’ in this resting place as
well. In short, Luo Fu becomes homeless.
In 1996, one year after he wrote this poem, Luo Fu immigrated to
Canada. According to the poet, he had been hesitant to make the deci-
sion to emigrate. He made his choice, however, after he went back to
Taiwan from the Mainland in 1994. This fact seems to reinforce the idea
that Luo lost his homeland after he returned to it. During an interview
with the reporter Chen Weixin 陳慧心 in Canada, Luo Fu remarks that
home is a center to Chinese people, though he does not know where it
is now. The poet concludes that home and homeland is wherever he is
(Long, 1998, 341).
Luo Fu is not at a loss for the idea of his homeland. According to Luo,
he hopes that his choosing exile will bring a breakthrough in his poetry
writing. Luo notices that many great poets in Chinese literary history,
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such as Qu Yuan 屈原, Han Yu 韓愈, Du Fu 杜甫 and Su Dongbo (Su

Shi) 蘇東坡(蘇軾), were sent into exile, where many masterpieces were
written. Luo remarks that “Death in the Stone Chamber” is the prod-
uct of his first exile. He expects his second exile will help him to create
something original (Long, 1998, 337–38). In other words, Luo’s emigra-
tion does not separate him from Chinese tradition. On the contrary, Luo
Fu and Chinese culture are linked even more tightly by his second exile.
A detailed account on the relationship between Luo Fu and Chinese
tradition can be found in Chapter Five.
The Origin is a Shifting Ground
Although Yu Guangzhong occasionally changed the time period of

his idea of homeland, he was consistent in terms of geography, always
referring to Mainland China. In comparison, the meanings of Zheng
Chouyu’s ‘home’ are continually moving along on a chain of signifiers.
Meaning has no exact location, for it is never tied to one particular sign;
it always rests in between two signs. The poet seems to have no fixed
origin, not even a mythic one. Zheng Chouyu’s idea of origin reminds
us of that of the poststructuralists. Zheng’s father was a prominent fi gure
in the military, and even as a child he often accompanied his father, who
fought on many fronts, both north and south. The poet’s early, frequent
changes of home in the Mainland contributed to making him a stranger
everywhere. As a result, he cannot integrate into any community, not
even his own country. Zheng Chouyu claims that life is a process of
wanderings. Not being home, or the absence of home, is his plausible
‘home.’ In the rest of the section, I will not only examine how the idea
of origin as a shifting ground is depicted in Zheng’s works, but will also
discuss to what extent the poet’s idea resembles the poststructuralist
theories in relation to origin.
In spite of his enthusiasm for climbing mountains, Zheng chose to
work at Chilung harbor. The poet’s choice of employment is similar to
self-exile. According to Liu Denghan 劉登翰, the sea symbolizes wan-
dering and drifting in Zheng’s poems; mountains represent the poet’s
tranquil home (Liu, 1996, 257). When the poet chose to work at sea, he
left his home for a wandering life. Nevertheless, Zheng spent most of his
leisure time climbing mountains, and he wrote many poems related to
mountains.
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When the poet visits the mountains, he does not want to leave. In
“Shan Wai Shu” [A Letter to the Outside of the Mountains], Zheng
declares that he feels at home in the mountains, and that he will never
think of returning to the sea:
You don’t need to miss me
I am in the mountains . . .
[. . .]
I am from the sea
Mountains are the frozen waves
(I no longer believe in the news from the sea)
My yearning to return
Never emerges again (Zheng Chouyu, 1979, 57–58)
不必為我懸念 / 我在山裡 . . . . . . / 我是來自海上的人 / 山是凝固的波

浪 / (不再相信海的消息) / 我底歸心 / 不再湧動
It is noteworthy that Zheng compares mountains to ‘the frozen waves.’
The curves of the mountains remind the poet of those of waves. Since
mountains are motionless, the ‘waves’ made by them seem to be ‘frozen.’
Although the poet tells us that he will not yearn for the sea again, the
image he uses implies his nostalgia for the sea. In other words, Zheng
finds himself a center (the mountains) and at the same time denies it
within the same poem.
In “Xiangwang” [Yearning], the poet reveals that the sea represents
Taiwan and that the mountains refer to the Mainland:
Pushing the window open
We live in the sea
We laugh in the sea
Our songs resound through the sea . . .
[. . .]
We live in the sea
On the window, there are the shadows of the August greenery on the
island
However, my heart is thinking of
The land in the outer sky— (Zheng Chouyu, 1979, 7–8)
推開窗子 / 我們生活在海上 / 我們笑在海上 / 我們的歌聲也響亮在海

上 . . . . . . / 我們生活在海上 / 窗扉上是八月的島上的叢蔭 / 但啊, 我心
想著那天外的 / 陸地—
Zheng Chouyu again claims and disclaims a place as his homeland
within this poem. Zheng tells us that he feels at home in Taiwan, and
that he enjoys living on the island. In the first stanza of the poem, the
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poet indicates that he and his people live in the sea. We learn, however,
that these people live on an island instead of living in the sea. The island
always refers to Taiwan in modern Taiwanese poetry. The poet and his
people seem to be happy to live on the island. They laugh and they sing
songs; they love the landscape. In spite of all of this, the poet misses the
Mainland.
When Zheng continues to describe the Mainland in this poem, he
shifts from one place to the other. It seems that he cannot rest in one
place:
I think of the stories of guns and horses in the border town
In the northern open country, the seasons in which tents are pitched on
the Chinese sorghum
I think of
The grayish watchtower and the attic which shines with golden lights
One after another, the footsteps of the camels
And I also think of the evenings, which are filled with the running water
of Jiangnan
Of the nights at the small teahouse by the bank of Xiangjiang River
And of the lyrical bugle from the mountains of Guizhou and Guangxi . . .
我想著那邊城的槍和馬的故事 / 北方原野上高梁起帳的季節 / 我想
著 / 那灰色的城角閃金的閣樓 / 一步一個痕跡的駱駝蹄子 / 而我也
想著江南流水的黃昏 / 湘江岸上小茶館的夜 / 和黔桂山間抒情的角
笛......
Zheng does not consider China a homogenous place. The China Zheng
Chouyu mentions is full of diversities and complexities. Different areas
and places have various customs and landscapes. For instance, the bor-
der town brings to mind guns and horses. There are tents, Chinese sor-
ghum and camels in the northern part of China. In essence, after the
poet chooses the Mainland as his homeland, he deconstructs it from
within. Zheng eventually overthrows the center he established within
the poem.
When Zheng wrote this poem in the 1950s, he was optimistic about
going back to the Mainland. He says:
We live on the sea
The setting sun has already filled the gorge with the dense golden flowers,
which are like a long bridge
connecting to the west, connecting to hopes. (Zheng Chouyu, 1979, 9)
我們生活在海上 / 夕陽已撒好一峽密接的金花, 像長橋 / 搭向西方,

搭向希望。
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The ‘west’ here refers to the Mainland because, geographically speaking,

China is to the west of Taiwan. According to Zheng, his nostalgia for
the Mainland intensified over time. In the 1960s, the poet stated that
he would write more poems on his nostalgia for the Mainland (Zheng
Chouyu, 1979, 333). However, Zheng decided to study in the United
States in 1967, and he has remained there for decades. Thus, Zheng
Chouyu has chosen to live even further away from his homeland.
After Zheng Chouyu left Taiwan for the United States, the mean-
ings of home in his poems are further complicated. In “San Ge Meiguo”
[Three United States], the United States as a signifier embodies three
meanings. The first United States refers to the one where daily activities
are carried out:
We compete, travel, smile and use our brain to
Participate in legal activities
We send our children to [school] and get them back
We carefully make money and cautiously pay it out
我們去競爭旅行微笑用頭腦從事 / 法律的活動 / 我們把孩子送去

又接回來 / 小心賺了錢又仔細地繳出去
The first idea of the United States is actually the living place of the poet,
where he works and raises his children. Most Americans consider this
place their home. However, Zheng perceives something different or
unusual in the territory. The poet tells us that there is an undercurrent
of opposition in the second United States:
The color of the domain is excellent on the same level of
temperature we are careful about changes of it inside the safety zone
We roll up in the flag of cold wind
and bear the earthquake of fire (Zheng Chouyu, 1997, 189)
那版圖的色彩則是特異的在同一層 / 氣溫中在寒暑自知的平安裡 /

卻捲著寒風的旗 / 忍著火的地震
In the second United States, the seemingly safe place turns out to be
unsafe. The poet uses natural images such as ‘cold wind’ and ‘earth-
quake’ to signify danger. Zheng Chouyu again disavows the peaceful
United States he depicted before. Nevertheless, the poet does not rest
with this United States, but develops a third one. Zheng chooses to live
in the third United States:
We live in the third United States on the
same continent the contents of our lives are a bit too old-fashioned
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We spend half of our time longing for the distant place

spending half the time, we continuously revise
the essence of our culture
When we are having dinners when we are gathering with our friends and
relatives
we miss and revise this kind of reality (Zheng Chouyu, 1997, 188)
我們住在第三個美國在同一塊 / 大陸上我們生活的內容要老式的

多 / 我們用一半的時間思念遠方 / 用一半的時間不斷地溫習 / 那髮膚
文化的精義 / 在飲食中在親朋頻頻的暖聚時 / 我們所思念和溫習的
是這種的真實
The poet tells us in this part that he and his relatives spend most of their
time remembering the past and longing for a distant place. Zheng does
not tell us what ‘the distant place’ refers to; perhaps he means Mainland
China, Taiwan, both of them or somewhere we will never know. In addi-
tion to place, the poet feels nostalgic for Chinese culture as well. He not
only assigns multiple meanings to the place he feels nostalgic for, but
also allocates paradoxical meanings to the definition of ‘diaspora’ and
‘reality.’ The word ‘diaspora’ is associated with scattering. Chinese people
who are sent into exile scatter around the world, and Zheng Chouyu is
one such person. The poet, however, associates ‘diaspora’ with gathering.
‘Diaspora’ brings the scattered people together. According to Zheng, he
and his family always gather with friends.
Likewise, the word ‘reality’ reminds us of something real, the true
situation that actually exists in life. Nonetheless, Zheng tells us that the
‘reality’ he refers to is associated with Chinese culture that exists only
in one’s mind. Although the poet lives in the third United States, he
considers the distant place and Chinese culture his home. Zheng again
develops and denies his home within the same poem.
When Zheng Chouyu had a chance to return to the place and the
culture he felt nostalgic for, he disavowed them by injecting otherness
into them. In “Zai Changan Guo Baise Shengdan” [Spending a White
Christmas in Changan], the poet imagines the Da Yan Pagoda and the
Xiao Yan Pagoda as Christmas trees for a father and his children:
Da Yan Pagoda is father’s Christmas tree
Xiao Yan Pagoda is Xiao Ming’s and Xiao Hua’s
[. . .]
Under the Pagoda
The house-shaped presents are wrapped up
By white wrapping papers
Mother opens her box, which is Han Jade
The girl opens hers, which is a Tangsancai
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[. . .]
Tonight every city in the world is Bethlehem
And Changan becomes more peaceful and saintly
(Zheng Chouyu, 1997, 48–49)
大雁塔是爸爸的聖誕樹 / 小雁塔是小明和小華的 . . . . . . / 在塔下 / 房

屋形狀的禮物都裹著 / 白色的包裝紙 / 媽媽打開是一盒漢玉 / 妹妹打
開的則是唐三彩 / 今夜世界上每個城都是伯利恆 / 長安就更是平安
與聖善了
It is noteworthy that the poet looks at Changan from a Westerner’s point
of view. He not only refers to the ancient Chinese architectural artifacts
of Da Yan Pagoda and Xiao Yan Pagoda as Christmas trees, but also con-
siders Changan a kind of Bethlehem. All houses have become Christ-
mas presents. Although Zheng returns to his homeland, we cannot see
his Chinese identity in this poem. Nor does the poet pay attention to
ancient Chinese culture. Instead, he distorts and deconstructs Chinese
culture by Westernizing it. However, Zheng also distorts Western cul-
ture by injecting Chinese elements into it. For instance, the Christmas
trees turn into ancient Chinese architecture. On the one hand, Zheng
denounces all his possible homelands—Chinese culture and Western
culture—in this poem. On the other hand, the poet chooses to rest in
between these two cultures.
Zheng Chouyu’s idea of origin as a shifting ground resembles post-
structuralist theories to a great extent. Although Zheng tries to deny a
fixed origin in all his poems, the refined Chinese language he uses to
compose his poems suggests that his spiritual home is always Chinese
culture. I will discuss the issue of ‘Language as Home’ in detail in Chap-
ter Five.
Finding Stability in Instability
The above analyses suggest that these poets’ ideas of homelands are free-
floating. Although the dwelling places of these Taiwanese poets changed
from time to time, they never considered their identity a fragmentary
one. For example, as I mentioned before, Luo Fu writes in “Talking
with a Cricket at Hengyang Guest House” that he was once a fish, then
transforms into a silkworm and at last becomes an old spider. It is clear
that the fish, the silkworm and the spider are Luo’s metaphorical identi-
ties. However, Luo does not claim himself a hybrid of them; a fi sh is a
fish, a silkworm is a silkworm. The poet always has an unmixed identity
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140 chapter four
even though he is transformed, and these Taiwanese modernist poets

undoubtedly consider themselves Chinese.
The reason why the Taiwanese poets are able to keep an unmixed
identity is that they always consider China their homeland, even though
the time period and the mapping of China have changed over time. Th is
phenomenon contradicts the poststructuralist theories of origin. For
example, the changes of Yu Guangzhong’s homeland are mainly due to
temporality. Yu has claimed both contemporary China and the China
of his childhood as his homeland. Eventually, the poet came to con-
sider ancient China his homeland. Although Zheng Chouyu has lived
in the United States for decades, he tells us that he lives in the ‘third
America.’ The poet is always thinking of China and Chinese culture. In
short, these poets cannot find a fixed and stable origin in the real world.
As a result, they try to conjure up an imaginative space in their poetry. It
seems that stability can only be found in instability. All in all, a process
of cultural mediation seems to be helpful when cross-cultural activities,
such as the application of poststructuralist theories to the understand-
ing of Chinese modernist poetry, are involved.
After having discussed how the places—houses, the city and home-
land—become placeless in this and the previous two chapters, I will
next examine how the Taiwanese modernist poets try to accommodate
placelessness by creating an imagined literary community. These poets
attempt to return to the ancient Chinese tradition through three major
elements: language, memory and nature. I will discuss how these three
elements contribute to the Taiwanese modernist poets’ reconnection
with Chinese culture. As I pointed out in this chapter, the concept of
origin is a shifting ground. There is no such thing as a fixed origin. In
this case, can the exiled Taiwanese modernist poets ever return to their
cultural roots? Or do they lose their cultural origins as well? I will try to
answer all these questions in Chapter Five.
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CHAPTER FIVE
IMAGINED LITERARY COMMUNITY:

LANGUAGE, MEMORY AND NATURE
My analyses in the previous chapters suggest that the Taiwanese mod-

ernist poets do not consider their living spaces, such as their houses and
the city of Taipei, homely. Worse still, the experience of exile contributes
to the dissolution of the boundary of their homelands. It is true that
these ideas are significant in the works of the exiled poets; however, we
can also see that these poets try to return to Chinese tradition in their
poetry and to conjure up an imagined literary community to replace
the lost homeland. In other words, when these poets realize that all
places become placeless in the real world, they try to do without physi-
cal place.
The concept of imagined communities has been discussed by several
critics. For example, Benedict Anderson points out that a nation is “an
imagined political community.” Anderson elaborates that “it is imagined
because the members of even the smallest nation will never know most
of their fellow-members, meet them, or even hear of them, yet in the
minds of each lives the image of their communion” (Anderson, 1991, 6).
In addition, “it is imagined as a community, because, regardless of the
actual inequality and exploitation that may prevail in each, the nation is
always conceived as a deep, horizontal comradeship” (Anderson, 1991,
7). According to Anderson, three factors contribute to the development
of imagined communities as nations, namely, the decline of sacred lan-
guages, the loss of the dynastic realm, and the fundamental change in
the apprehension of time (Anderson, 1991, 36). However, “print-capital-
ism . . . made it possible for rapidly growing numbers of people to think
about themselves, and to relate themselves to others, in profoundly new
ways” (Anderson, 1991, 36). Anderson remarks that “the novel and the
newspapers . . . provided the technical means for ‘re-presenting’ the kind
of imagined community that is the nation” (Anderson, 1991, 25).
In the case of the novel, the plot is compared to the modern concept
of time. All the characters of a particular novel may not know each other,
and one character may not know what the other characters are up to at
any one time. However, as omniscient readers, we know exactly what
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142 chapter five
each character is doing at any given moment. In other words, an imag-

ined community is conjured up in readers’ minds, with the author’s help,
and this imagined community is guided by the story’s godlike vision of
time. In reality, we never know every member in our community, nor
are we able to surmise what other people are thinking or doing at any
one time. What makes the formation of a nation possible is confidence
and imagination. Although we do not know exactly the actions of oth-
ers, we have “complete confidence in their steady, anonymous, simulta-
neous activity” (Anderson, 1991, 26).
Likewise, newspapers create an imagined linkage, and according to
Anderson, two sources help to form this linkage. First, the news one
reads in the newspaper is “simply calendrical coincidence. . . . The date at
the top of the newspaper, the single most important emblem on it, pro-
vides the essential connection—the steady onward clocking of homoge-
neous, empty time” (Anderson, 1991, 33). Second, reading a newspaper
in the morning is like a substitute for morning prayers, and readers
imagine that many people perform the ceremony with them simultane-
ously (Anderson, 1991, 35).
Anderson’s theory is not without limitations. For instance, the con-
ception of changes in time that Anderson refers to is restricted to coun-
tries with Christian beliefs. The critic does not take countries with other
religious beliefs into consideration. Moreover, Leo Lee points out that
“Anderson does not go into much depth . . . in fleshing out the compli-
cated process whereby [newspapers and novels] are used to imagine
the nation (aside from citing two Philippine novels)” (Lee, 1999, 46). In
other words, Anderson does not show clearly how print culture helps to
create an imagined community. Based on Anderson’s theory of an imag-
ined community, Lee further elaborates on the role print culture plays in
inventing “the nation as an ‘imagined community’ ” in modern China.
Lee points out that “the nation as an ‘imagined community’ in China was
made possible not only by elite intellectuals such as Liang Qichao, who
proclaimed new concepts and values, but also, more important, by the
popular press” (Lee, 1999, 46). Lee discusses extensively how the jour-
nals such as Dongfang zazhi [Eastern miscellany] and Xiaoshuo yuebao
[Short story monthly] contributed to the development of an imagined
new China even before the establishment of the Republican nation-state
in 1912 (Lee, 1999, 46–47).
Du Weiming 杜維明 brought forth the idea of ‘Cultural China’ in
1987. According to Du, ‘Cultural China’ embodies three different mean-
ings which can be represented by three kinds of people. The first kind
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imagined literary community 143
refers to Chinese people in Mainland China, Taiwan, Hong Kong, Macau

and Singapore. The second kind includes all ethnic Chinese living in
other places, for example, Malaysia, Thailand, Canada, the United States
and so forth. The last kind includes nationals who come from differ-
ent countries. For example, they may be Japanese, American, German,
French, Russian and so forth. As long as these people are connected
to China, no matter if they are academics, politicians, entrepreneurs or
journalists, they are considered members of ‘Cultural China’ (Du, 1999,
8–13).1 In fact, no clear-cut definition of ‘Cultural China’ has been found
so far. In his paper “Four Questions in Relation to Cultural China,”
Wang Gengwu 王賡武 asks what the time scale of ‘Cultural China’ is?
Does it start from ancient China or contemporary China? What kinds
of Chinese traditions should we take into account, since some traditions
are more dominant than others? (Chen, 1994, 3–10). Wang’s questions
help to demonstrate that Du’s ‘Cultural China’ is mapped synchronic-
ally. In fact, although Anderson’s, Lee’s and Du’s concerns are different,
their theories share one thing: they depict the imagined communities
synchronically.
The imagined literary community created by the Taiwanese modern-
ist poets is different from these ideas because it is delineated both syn-
chronically and diachronically. While Anderson, Du and Lee describe
a horizontal comradeship in their theories, the Taiwanese modernist
poets outline a horizontal and a vertical comradeship. On the one hand,
these poets developed a horizontal comradeship by establishing poetry
societies. On the other hand, they returned to the Chinese tradition of
remembering, which emphasizes vertical linkage. This tradition was
practiced among the ancient Chinese intellectuals who always embod-
ied their predecessors’ thoughts and works in their own. Stephen Owen
remarks that these ancient Chinese poets and intellectuals wanted to be
remembered through remembering. This tradition was first practiced
by Confucius and became one of the major Chinese traditions. I will
discuss the concepts of horizontal and vertical comradeship in detail in
the latter parts of this chapter.
1
The concept of ‘imagined communities’ can be found in Benedict Anderson’s Imag-
ined Communities. The idea of ‘Cultural China’ is discussed in detail in Du Weiming’s
Wenhua Zhongguo de Renzhi yu Guanhuai [Understanding Cultural China] (8–13).
The idea of “the nation as an ‘imagined community’ in modern China” is examined in
Leo Lee’s Shanghai Modern. Chapter Two entitled “The Construction of Modernity in
Print Culture” is the most important.
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144 chapter five
Taiwanese modernist poets are always associated with Westerniza-

tion. In this regard, what does the ancient Chinese element embodied
in these modernist poets’ works imply? As a matter of fact, their alli-
ance with ancient Chinese culture does not distance them from Western
modernism, but rather unites them with their Western counterparts. As I
mentioned in Chapter One, the modernist writers in the West juxtapose
the past and the present together in their work. In other words, Western
modernist writers embody tradition. When the Taiwanese modernist
poets returned to the Chinese tradition, they shared similar modernist
aesthetic concerns with their Western counterparts. However, this simi-
larity between the Western and the Taiwanese modernist poets does not
suggest that the former influenced the latter.
When Western modernism was received in Taiwan in the 1950s, the
Taiwanese modernist poets put stress on the superficial resemblances,
such as technique and content of the writings of the West, rather than on
Western modernist aesthetics. Taiwanese modernist poetry was often
considered an inferior imitation of its Western counterpart. In fact, the
reception of Western modernism in Taiwan underwent a process of cul-
tural mediation. The subtle relationship between the Western modernist
writers and their tradition was undermined in the reception of Western
modernism in Taiwan. Therefore, when Taiwanese modernist writers
returned to the Chinese tradition, they thought that they had discarded
modernist poetics.
For example, Yu Guangzhong considers modernist poetics and Chi-
nese tradition a binary opposition. Yu points out that his long poem
“Tianlangxing” [Sirius] is not a successful modernist work. The reasons
are many, including the fact that the poem embodies Chinese elements
(Yu Guangzhong, 1998a, 153–54). Since Taiwanese modernist poets
were not aware of the subtle relationship between modernist poetics and
the Western tradition, we cannot say that they were influenced by West-
ern modernism when they returned to the Chinese tradition. Ironically,
their return to Chinese tradition accidentally helped the Taiwanese
modernist poets parallel Western modernist aesthetics.
In the rest of the chapter, I will discuss how both horizontal and ver-
tical comradeships are established among Taiwanese modernist poets.
Emphasis will be on the formation of the vertical comradeship as an
imagined literary community. While the poetry societies established
in the 1950s helped to develop the horizontal comradeship, the main
factors that contribute to the development of the vertical comradeship
include language, memory and nature.
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First, I will use Zheng Chouyu’s poetry to explain how language helps
the poet return to Chinese tradition. Then, the questions of how and
why memories are fabricated will be discussed with reference to Luo Fu
and Yu Guangzhong’s work. I will also examine how the imagined liter-
ary community is formed through the fabrication of memories. Lastly,
nature, as embodied in Lomen and Rong Zi’s works, implies that they are
trying to return to Chinese tradition through the Taoist school. In fact,
these factors act as a means to an end: to help these Taiwanese modern-
ist poets reunite with their Chinese cultural roots such as Confucianism,
Taoism and Buddhism.2 Can the Taiwanese modernist poets ever return
to their tradition? What are the implications behind these observations?
I will discuss these issues in detail at the end of the chapter.
Horizontal Comradeship
Although the Taiwanese modernist poets are more interested in estab-

lishing a vertical linkage with ancient poets, the poetry societies they
formed in the 1950s helped them develop a horizontal comradeship as
well. As I pointed out in Chapter One, the five poets I have chosen for
my study come from three different poetry societies—Xiandai Pai, Lan
Xing and Chuang Shiji. There are many reasons why the poets orga-
nized these poetry societies. When Ji Xian 紀弦 organized Xiandai Pai,
he advocated adopting Western works, from Baudelaire onwards. Th e
Chuang Shiji promoted surrealist poetry. A revolt against Westernized
poetics, Lan Xing advocated the Chinese lyric. Since these poets’ beliefs
were different, they often quarreled with one another. For instance, the
written polemics between Yu Guangzhong and Luo Fu concerned Yu’s
long poem “Sirius.” While Luo criticized the work for not meeting the
2
As Lao Siguang points out, Confucianism is the mainstream of Chinese philos-
ophy. Pragmatism is represented by the Mohist School and the Legalists. Liberalism
is manifested by the Taoist School and Buddhism. However, according to Li Zehou,
Confucianism, Taoism, Zen and Li Sao influence traditional Chinese aesthetics. The cul-
tural roots I refer to in this chapter are based on Li’s classification. There are two reasons.
First, my analysis puts emphasis on Chinese cultural roots as the traditional Chinese
aesthetics. Second, the traditional Chinese aesthetics suggested by Li can be found in
the Taiwanese modernist poets’ works. A detailed account of Chinese cultural roots can
be found in Chapter Two of Lao Siguang’s Zhongguo Wenhua Yao Yi [The Essence of
Chinese Culture], in Chapter One of Xiao Huarong’s Zhongguo Shixue Sixiangshi [The
History of Chinese Poetics], and in Le Zehou’s Huaxia Meixue [Chinese Aesthetics].
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146 chapter five
basic criteria of modernism, Yu retorted that he wanted to disassociate

himself from modernism (Yu Guangzhong, 1998a, 149–65).
According to Yu Guangzhong, the establishment of Lan Xing was a
revolt against Ji Xian’s Xiandai Pai. Tan Zihao 覃子豪, one of the initia-
tors of Lan Xing, asked: If modern Chinese poetry is merely a horizontal
transplantation from the West, where will our roots be? (Liu, 1996, 61)
In spite of the discrepancies among the poetry societies, I suggest that
these societies formed a horizontal comradeship. These three poetry
societies share one thing: they challenged “the anticommunist ethos of
the time” (Yeh, 1992, xxxviii). As Yeh points out:
Many poets in postwar Taiwan sought to create an alternative discourse.
Granted, their poetry displayed a wide array of styles and themes. When
collectively viewed, however, their works contrast sharply with the main-
stream discourse promoted by the Nationalist government. . . . (Yeh, 1992,
xxxviii)
In other words, these poetry societies used different means to achieve
a similar end. It is noteworthy that in the manifesto of Xiandai Pai’s
journal, Xiandai Shi [Modern Poetry], Ji Xian points out that one of
the missions of the journal is anti-communism (Ji Xian, 1982, 185).3
Nevertheless, Ji and other members of Xiandai Pai seldom wrote anti-
communist poetry. On the contrary, most poets saw Modern Poetry as a
way of providing them a free space in which to create works that did not
have an anti-communist theme. (Liu, 1996, 40).
In the first manifesto of Chuang Shiji, Luo Fu wrote that anti-com-
munism was one of the main aims of the journal and the poetry society.
This focus was changed three years later in the second manifesto, writ-
ten in 1959, to instead embrace surrealism (Liu, 1996, 47). According to
Luo, the rules advocated in the first manifesto were just rough ideas. The
poets only had some basic concepts in their minds, but they failed to
materialize the ideas (Luo Fu, 1982, 16–17). The poets of Chuang Shiji
never realized the rules advocated in the first manifesto. As Luo points
out, their mentality was similar to those of Western modernist writers.
This is because most of the poets of Chuang Shiji were soldiers and were
forced into exile. The state of homelessness is one factor which contrib-
uted to the Taiwanese modernist poets’ receptiveness of Western mod-
ernist works (Luo Fu, 1982, 19). Luo and the poets of Chuang Shiji were
3
This piece of information is quoted from the manifesto of Xiandai Pai’s journal.
Although the author’s name was not mentioned, I assume the founder, Ji Xian, wrote it.
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more interested in expressing their own feelings in their works rather

than in government policy.
Lan Xing is different from Xiandai Pai and Chuang Shiji in that from
the beginning it did not advocate any political ideology. The Lan Xing
poets searched for a new style, a new form for modern poetry. The
poetry society’s focus was on daily life (Tan Zihao, 1982, 186).4
In short, although Xiandai Pai and Chuang Shiji advocated anti-
communism in their manifestos, the main focus of their members’
works concerned their personal feelings. As such, these two poetry
societies, as well as Lan Xing, form an invisible horizontal comrade-
ship, which is in contrast to the anti-communist policy advocated by the
KMT government.
Vertical Comradeship
The Taiwanese modernist poets in this study established a vertical com-

radeship among themselves by returning to the tradition of remember-
ing. Stephen Owen states: “Classical Chinese literature made a promise,
early in its history, that it would be a means to perpetuate the self of the
good writer” (Owen, 1986, 1). Owen elaborates:
There are chains of remembrance, linking one past to pasts still more
remote, and sometimes also reaching into a speculative future that will
remember our remembering. And as we discover and commemorate the
rememberers of the past, it is easy to conclude that in remembering we
ourselves will be remembered and will be worthy of memory. Such con-
tracts of remembrance bind a civilization through time. (Owen, 1986, 17)
Ancient Chinese intellectuals were passionately fond of the past. This
tradition can be traced back as early as Confucius. According to the
master, “I transmit; I do not make” (Owen, 1986, 17).5 Owen remarks:
Transmission is no mere duty, reluctantly performed: it is a central piece
of the machinery of civilization, whose imperfect functioning is watched
with anxiety and passion. (Owen, 1986, 18)
Thus, instead of being anxious about their own influence, ancient
Chinese intellectuals’ were anxious about not transmitting accurately.
4
I assume the founder of Lan Xing, Tan Zihao, was the author of the manifesto,
though author’s name is not mentioned in the manifesto.
5
In Confucius’ words: shu erh pu tso [述而不作].
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148 chapter five
Similarly, Yeh points out that Chinese culture, in contrast to English tra-
dition, does not put stress on originality. According to Yeh:
Although the sense of belatedness has haunted many Chinese poets since
the Golden Age of Tang (618–907), it has not proved as great an obstacle
as has the influence of tradition in English poetry. Chinese poets working
within the Classical genre usually resolve the problem of overdue change
by reintegrating themselves into the tradition through emulation. In a
culture that does not place great value on originality and individuality,
emulation is by no means an admission of failure but a perfectly viable
means of establishing oneself as a member of a long, homogeneous tradi-
tion. (Yeh, 1991, 2)
This early tradition, however, was abolished during the May Fourth
literary movement. Yeh states that “modern Chinese poets rejected all
aspects of the classical canon: language, form, and prosody” (Yeh, 1991,
21). Although a few poets such as Fei Ming and Bian Zhilin returned
to traditional Chinese poetics, their return did not last long. While Fei
ceased to write, Bian began to support progressive revolutionary litera-
ture. After 1949, the Taiwanese modernist poet Ji Xian advocated a direct
or horizontal transplantation of Western poetics since Baudelaire.
If we examine the poetry of Lomen, Luo Fu, Rong Zi, Yu Guangzhong
and Zheng Chouyu closely, we will find that they developed an imagined
literary community in their later poetry by returning to ancient Chinese
tradition. To a certain extent, these poets resemble the ancient Chi-
nese poets who believed in being remembered through remembering.
Owen does not tell us how the poets can be remembered. However, the
works of these Taiwanese modernist poets show us that they are trying
to develop a vertical comradeship by writing refined Chinese language,
fabricating memory and developing a pastoral dream. Th is comradeship
helps the modernist poets return to their cultural homeland.
Language as Home
Among the poets I have chosen for study, the experiences of displace-
ment for Zheng Chouyu and Luo Fu are more complicated than the
others. Zheng and Luo emigrated to the United States and Canada,
respectively. As a result, they had to learn a new language: English. I
believe that Zheng faced greater language challenges than Luo did;
Zheng taught at a university in the U.S., and Luo is retired and lives in
Richmond near Vancouver. Luo suffers less from the language problem,
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since he lives in a community with large numbers of Chinese Canadian

immigrants. In spite of the fact that Luo and Zheng emigrated to English
speaking countries, both poets continue to write poetry in Chinese. In
this case, what does the poets’ choice of language imply?
According to Alice Yaeger Kaplan:
Language equals home . . . there is no language change without emotional
consequences. Principally: loss. . . . That language is a home, as surely as
a roof over one’s head is a home, and that to be without a language, or to
be between languages, is as miserable in its way as to be without bread.
(Kaplan, 1994, 63)
It is obvious that the home Kaplan refers to is a spiritual rather than a
physical one. Kaplan further explains that different kinds of languages
remind us of different kinds of homes. For example, “there are languages
in which we feel our mother’s heart beating; other languages in which
we feel distant and safe; other languages—jargon languages in particu-
lar—are the language of professional ambition and achievement; others
the language of pain” (Kaplan, 1994, 63). In this case, what does the
Chinese language mean to Zheng and Luo?
Karla Schultz points out that “language can be a ‘home’ for people
who have lost their cultural home physically” (Bammer, 1994, 96).
When Zheng and Luo decided to immigrate to North America, they
not only lost their physical home, but their language or cultural home as
well. Likewise, when the poets returned to the Chinese language, they
spriritually returned to their cultural home. In other words, the Chinese
language helps the Taiwanese modernist poets reunite with their home-
land. Since Zheng has been living in the U.S. since 1967 and his work
is famous for its Chinese flavor, I will concentrate on the relationship
between language and home by examining his poetry.
I believe that Zheng was aware of the subtle relationship between lan-
guage and home even before he left Taiwan for the U.S. In fact, when
other Taiwanese modernist poets used experimental or Westernized
Chinese language to write poetry, Zheng used refined Chinese to write
his works. According to Yang Mu 楊牧, “Zheng Chouyu is a Chinese
poet in China.” Yang explains: “There are many foreign poets in modern
China. These so-called foreign poets use rusty Chinese to express their
‘modern feelings.’ However, Zheng is a Chinese poet in China. This is
because he uses refined Chinese to write poetry. The images he uses are
accurate and the rhythms of his poems are beautiful. Besides, they are
absolutely modern” (Yang, 1974, 157).
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150 chapter five
Yang further demonstrates Zheng’s refined modern Chinese language

through the poet’s most famous poem “Cuowu” [Mistake]:
I pass by Jiangnan
The face waiting in and out of seasons blooms and fades as the lotus
The east wind does not come, the willow would not fly
Your heart resembles a lonely town
which is like a green pebbly street facing the dusk
Footsteps are not heard, the spring curtain would not unveil
Your heart is a tightly closed small window
The noises made by my horse are a beautiful mistake
I am not a returnee, but a passer-by . . .
我打江南走過 / 那等在季節裡的容顏如蓮花的開落 / 東風不來, 三月

的柳絮不飛 / 你底心如小小的寂寞的城 / 恰若青石的街道向晚 / 跫音
不響, 三月的春帷不揭 / 你底心是小小的窗扉緊掩 / 我達達的馬蹄是
美麗的錯誤 / 我不是歸人, 是個過客 . . . . . .
According to Yang, Zheng’s poetic language is a modern one. He uses
the second line as an example and points out that the form “manifests”
the content (Yang, 1974, 158). It is noteworthy that the form of Classical
poetry is determined by certain rules in which the form does not have
an organic relationship with the content. Since modern Chinese poetry
is free from formal regulations, poets can create an organic relationship
between the form and content. In fact, it is difficult to find a line such
as the second line of this poem, which has fifteen Chinese characters, in
Classical Chinese poetry: “The face waiting in and out of seasons blooms
and fades as the lotus.” Regulated Classical Chinese poems usually have
five or seven characters per line. Of course, there are a few exceptions.
For example, Li Bai’s “Jiang Jin Jiu” [Invitation to Wine] has seventeen
characters in one line.
Do you not see the Yellow River come from the sky,
Rushing into the sea and never come back? (Xu, 1995, 113)
君不見黃河之水天上來, 奔流到海不復回!
However, as Yang remarks, such a long line is quite unusual in Classical
Chinese poetry. This characteristic—form manifests content—can only
be found in modern Chinese poetry. The second line of Zheng’s “Mis-
take” tells us that a woman has been waiting for her lover’s return for
years. The length of the line helps to create a feeling that the duration of
the wait is very long. Yang stresses that this technique—form expressing
content—is a modern one.
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Zheng’s works embody a sense of ‘Chineseness,’ though he uses mod-

ern techniques to write poetry. As Yang points out, the terms or images
Zheng uses always remind us of Classical Chinese poetry, though we
cannot tell where the term or the line comes from. Although Zheng nei-
ther writes poems on ancient Chinese poets, nor embeds these poets’
works in his own, the terms Zheng uses are the terms used by ancient
poets, and thus are full of meaning. Zheng does not merely repeat
these old terms or images; otherwise his poems would become clichéd.
The poet rejuvenates these traditional images or old terms through
modern ideas, and as a result, when we read Zheng’s poems we find
ourselves reading something familiar at the beginning, but something
new at the end.
In “Mistake,” terms such as ‘east wind,’ ‘willows,’ ‘spring curtain,’
‘returnee,’ and ‘passer-by’ are heavily loaded. A ‘lonely woman miss-
ing her husband’ is an archetype in Classical Chinese poetry.6 Zheng
rejuvenates this old theme with a novel point of view. In Classical Chi-
nese poetry, poets depict the loneliness either from the husband’s or
the wife’s point of view. Zheng, however, outlines the story from a third
party’s—a stranger’s, or a passer-by’s—point of view. This intrusion of
the passer-by deepens the woman’s loneliness for she mistakes the noise
of the stranger’s horse to be that of her husband’s. She is momentarily
overjoyed, but when the woman finds out she has made a mistake, her
disappointment is doubled.
The shifting point of view not only helps to depict the psychologi-
cal aspect of the woman, but also implies that the woman’s desires are
restrained. The woman has been waiting for her lover for a long time. In
the second line of the poem, Zheng compares the woman with the lotus
which ‘blooms and fades’ every year. We do not know how long this
woman has been waiting, but during all these years the woman seems to
turn inward. Zheng likens the woman’s heart to ‘a lonely town’ and to ‘a
tightly closed small window.’ Since the woman restrains her desires, she
feels very lonely.
The image of the horseman is in opposition to that of the woman.
While the woman is associated with immutability, the horseman reminds
us of mutability. For instance, the woman is always there waiting for
6
A lonely woman missing her traveling husband is one of the major themes in
Classical Chinese poetry. For instance, in Zhongguo Lidai Mingshi Fenlei Da Dian [An
Anthology of the Major Themes in Classical Chinese Poetry] ‘a lonely woman missing
her husband’ is classified as one significant theme.
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152 chapter five
her lover, but the horseman is on a journey. Moreover, the woman tries
to suppress her desire, while the appearance of the horseman helps to
arouse it. These characteristics of the woman and of the horseman again
remind us of some Classical Chinese elements. In ancient times, Chinese
women were supposed to stay at home, and be loyal to their husbands
or their male elders. In contrast, men always left their women behind in
favor of wars and Imperial examinations.
This poem, however, cannot be categorized as Classical Chinese
poetry. The woman depicted in Zheng’s poem is on the verge of trans-
gression. The appearance of the stranger or the horseman helps to trig-
ger her desire. The sentiment of the woman expressed in this poem is a
modern one, for she exhibits her desire in front of a stranger.
Similarly, in “Can Bao” [A Fortress in Ruins], Zheng again endows
some heavily loaded terms with new meanings:
The guards have gone home, leaving behind
A border fortress in ruins.
A prairie of the nineteenth century is
Nothing now but a stretch of sand dunes.
The tip of an arrow,
The nail where once a bugle hung,
Cobblestones on the tower
Smoothed by nightfalls and homeward-gazing boots—
All is old,
All rusty with wind and sand.
Where a century ago heroes tied their horses,
Where a century ago warriors honed their swords,
I unload my saddle with a heavy heart.
There is no key to history’s lock,
No sword in my pack.
Let me ask for a clangorous dream—
In the moonlight, I issue that mournful “General’s Order”
From the strings of my lute. (Yeh, 1992, 123)
戍守的人已經歸了, 留下 / 邊地的殘堡 / 看得出, 十九世紀的草原啊 /

如今, 是沙丘一片 . . . . . . / 怔忡而空曠的箭眼 / 掛過號角的鐵釘 / 被黃
昏和望歸的靴子磨平的 / 戍樓的石垛啊 / 一切都老了 / 一切都抹上風
沙的鏽 / 百年前英雄繫馬的地方 / 百年前壯士磨劍的地方 / 這兒我黯
然地卸了鞍 / 歷史的鎖啊沒有鑰匙 / 我的行囊也沒有劍 / 要一個鏗鏘
的夢吧 / 趁月色, 我傳下悲戚的 “將軍令” / 自琴弦 . . . . . .
The terms such as ‘a border fortress in ruins,’ ‘a bugle hung,’ ‘saddle,’
‘swords,’ “General’s Order” and ‘lute’ immediately remind us of Classical
Chinese war poetry. But, we cannot locate exactly where all these terms
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come from, because they are so common in Classical Chinese poetry.

Although Zheng tries to imagine himself as an ancient general in this
poem, the poet tells us that he is not; he does not have a sword, but only
a dream. At the end, all Zheng can do is to play “General’s Order,” a Clas-
sical piece of music. It is noteworthy that “General’s Order” embodies at
least two meanings. First, it refers to the order issued by a general, and
second, it is the title of a Classical musical piece. It is obvious that the
atmosphere created by Zheng in this poem was meant to lead the reader
to think of the first meaning of the term. Nevertheless, in the last line the
poet reveals that the entire description of the poem is only an illusion.
The past is gone. All he can do now is play his music.
Zheng Chouyu depicts a similar image in both “A Fortress in Ruins”
and “Mistake.” Although we do not know the identity or occupation of
the horseman in “Mistake,” we are reminded of a military man since he
rides on a horse. The image of the military man is obvious in “A For-
tress in Ruins.” However, the general depicted in the poem feels very
sad because he is too old to return to the battlefield. Is it merely a coin-
cidence that Zheng often depicts military men in his poetry? Or is the
poet making an association with something else?
These poems do not directly provide an answer to us; however, they
remind us of Zheng’s background. The poet’s father was a general of the
KMT government who fought on many fronts during the national war.
As a result, Zheng, as a child, kept traveling from place to place with no
permanent home (Wang Weiming, 1999, 281). This leads us to believe
that he is perhaps depicting his father in his poems, or that Zheng places
himself in his father’s position and imagines himself as a military man.
Although we are not certain what the image of the military man refers
to, this image reminds us of the policy of the period: The KMT govern-
ment planned to launch a counter-attack against Mainland China. I will
discuss the image of the military man later in this chapter.
In addition to the image of a military man, “A Fortress in Ruins”
resembles “Mistake” in that Zheng expresses new ideas by using an old
theme. It was not unusual for ancient poets to mourn for the ruins of
a battlefield. Since this poem was written three years earlier than “Mis-
take,” I believe that Zheng created a ‘beautiful mistake’ formula in this
poem. In this case, it is the reader who makes a mistake. When we
assume the poet issues a general’s order, Zheng indicates to us that we
made a mistake. The “General’s Order” is only a piece of music. In short,
the contrast between the reader’s expectations and the poetic truth con-
tributes to the enrichment of the old theme.
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“A Fortress in Ruins” and “Mistake” were written in 1951 and 1954,

respectively. Zheng Chouyu lost his physical home in Mainland China.
Although Taiwan is part of China, the ‘Chineseness’ embodied in Zheng’s
poems implies that he was trying to develop a cultural home. As was
mentioned earlier, Taiwan seemed like a foreign place to the Mainland-
ers after having been colonized by Japan for almost fifty years. Many Tai-
wanese people only spoke Japanese.7As such, migration to Taiwan was
an experience of exile, and this helped to consolidate Zheng’s cultural
roots. He intended to secure his cultural home by writing refined Chi-
nese. Zheng Chouyu’s passion for Chinese tradition did not change after
his emigration. The poet kept on writing poetry in Chinese. In addition,
Zheng again returns to Chinese tradition by utilizing the image of Jing
Ke 荊軻 in his poetry. I will discuss this issue later on.
All in all, Zheng considers language the most important tool in con-
juring up his cultural home. His belief becomes explicit in his later
poems. According to the poet, a slight change of the language can cause
nostalgia. In his poem “Qing Kong” [Blue Sky], Zheng says:
Somewhat removed from the dialects, the listener, simply because of this,
has his nostalgia rekindled (Zheng Chouyu, 1987, 54)
一點點方言的距離, 聽者, 就因此而有些 / 鄉愁了

Zheng was in Canada when he wrote this poem. He noticed that people
in Quebec spoke French with a Canadian accent. If a French person
were to hear this dialect, they would immediately realize that they were
not at home. Since Zheng’s first language is Chinese, he undoubtedly felt
nostalgic for his cultural home when he heard French or English being
spoken around him.
By contrast, although the language Luo Fu used is not refined Chi-
nese, the poet explicitly shows that he wants to be part of the imagined
literary community. As a matter of fact, the language Luo Fu uses in
“Du Bao” [Reading the Newspaper] exhibits a sense of playfulness. Luo’s
poem is divided into five parts: ‘Editorial,’ ‘International Page,’ ‘Social
Affairs Page,’ ‘Supplement’ and ‘Advertisements.’ In the second part of
the poem, the poet juxtaposes all countries together and repeats ‘has
fever’ four times:
7
A detailed account of the Mainlanders’ impressions of postwar Taiwan can be found
in Li Xiaofeng’s article “Zhan Hou Chuqi Taiwan Shehui de Wenhui Chongtu” [The Cul-
tural Conflicts in Postwar Taiwan] (Li, 1996, 284–87).
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The Philippines has fever

Korea has fever
The Persian Gulf has fever
The moon which is on the roof of the United Nation’s building has fever
(Luo Fu, 1990b, 204)
菲律賓在發燒 / 韓國在發燒 / 波斯灣在發燒 / 聯合國大廈屋頂的月亮

在發燒
These few lines are quoted from the ‘International Page’ part of the poem.
The reason why Luo Fu puts these countries or places together is that,
at the time of writing in 1988, they all had problems. Luo juxtaposes all
the events of that time on the page. This part of the poem suggests that
the date at the top of the newspaper provides an imagined link between
these incidents. The language used in this part is neither refined Chinese
nor poetic. In fact, as Yeh points out, repeating a single word five times
in a short poem is not a practice of traditional Chinese poetry (Yeh,
1991, 6). In short, we cannot see any significant relationship between
this poem and the Classical Chinese tradition. However, the continuity
becomes explicit in the ‘Supplement’ section of the poem:
Li Bai Yes
Su Dongpo Yes
Li Qingzhao Yes
Cao Xueqin Yes
No matter who wants to go out or go into history
one must line up and be patient
to wait for his turn (Luo Fu, 1990b, 208–09)
李白有 / 蘇東坡有 / 李清照有 / 曹雪芹有 / 不論誰要走出歷史或

走進歷史 / 都請耐心排隊 / 輪番上陣
The language and content in this part are also playful. Luo repeats the
word ‘yes’ four times. The first four lines of the poem remind us of
someone who is taking attendance. However, the names called are great
poets and writers from the past. Although Luo uses playful language, he
does not discontinue his relationship with his precursors. It is notewor-
thy that the conception of time mentioned in the fifth line is similar to
that of ancient Chinese intellectuals who believed that they had a close
relationship with the past and their remote ancestors. Th ese people can
break through the barrier between past and present. In Luo Fu’s words,
these ancient Chinese intellectuals could ‘go out or go into history.’ I will
discuss this issue in detail in the next section.
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156 chapter five
In addition to its association with Chinese tradition, “Reading the

Newspaper” also reminds us of Baudelaire’s idea of the democratization
of poets in the modern world. In fact, Li Bai, Su Dongpo, Li Qingzhao
and Cao Xueqin were all highly respected in Chinese literary history. In
this poem, however, they resemble kindergarten students waiting to be
called upon, and as such, these once sacred poets and writers become
ordinary people. These ancient poets are similar to the modern poet
depicted by Baudelaire. In “Loss of a Halo,” Baudelaire describes a poet
who loses his halo in the street. The poet is recognized by someone in an
apparently indecent place, perhaps a brothel. The poet does not feel sad
about his loss. On the contrary, he enjoys living incognito.
I like it here. You are the only person who has recognized me. Besides I am
bored with dignity, and what’s more, it is perfectly delightful to think of
some bad poet picking it up and brazenly putting it on. To make some one
happy, ah, what a pleasure! Especially some one you can laugh at. Think of
X! Think of Z! Don’t you see how amusing it will be?
(Baudelaire, 1970, 94)
It is interesting to note that there is a sense of happiness embodied in
Baudelaire’s passage. The poet depicted in the passage is excited about
his loss, and he laughs at someone who still clings to the so-called poetic
halo. Luo Fu is different from Baudelaire in that he seems to be neutral
about the loss of the poetic halo. Luo reports this fact to his readers with
a matter-of-fact tone though the language he uses is playful. We cannot
tell whether Luo enjoys the new status of poets in the modern world or
not. In fact, Luo also notices the commodification of poetry; the ancient
Chinese poetry, which once belonged to exclusive readers such as aris-
tocrats and intellectuals, has turned into a kind of commodity in the
modern world. As long as you have the money to buy a newspaper, you
can read the poetry. Your social status is irrelevant. Thus, poetry loses
its halo in the modern world. Although Luo Fu keeps silent about the
democratization and commodification of poetry in the modern world, I
believe that he does not particularly share Baudelaire's view of approval.
Perhaps this is because Luo tries, in some of his poetry, to reconnect
with pre-modern China, when poetry was still highly respected. I will
discuss this issue in the next section.
In short, language is only one of the factors which help to develop an
imagined literary community. In addition to language is the fabricating
of memories.
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Fabricating Memories
Fifteen years after his emigration, Zheng Chouyu published his poetry
anthology entitled Yan Ren Xing [The Travels of Someone from Yan].
‘Yan’ is the old name for Hebei Province, which dates back to the Zhou
Dynasty (approx. 770 B.C.). Zheng was born in Hebei in 1933 though his
birthplace was no longer called ‘Yan’ by that time. The reasons why the
poet calls himself a ‘Yan’ person are many. I believe that Zheng wanted
to show us that Chinese culture is his cultural homeland.
In the first poem of the collection, which bears the same title as
the anthology itself, Zheng imagines himself as an ancient Chinese
wanderer:
Haven’t yet sung a song How can I be
the generous and promise-keeping
Yan person? Looking out from this bank; how wide is the Yi River?
[. . .]
However, the wanderer is already in disguise, a map is hidden inside his
loose-fitting gown
There is a sword inside the map. How can his sleeves dance in the air?
And how can the Rocky Mountains be
his temporary lodging? [. . .]
(Zheng Chouyu, 1987, 3–4)
未酬一歌豈是 / 慷慨重諾的 / 燕人, 從這岸張望, 易水多寬 ? . . . . . . / 而

浪子已喬裝, 寬袍懷圖 / 圖中有劍, 兩袖豈能飛舞 ? / 而落磯山 / 豈能
落足 ? . . . . . .
The story of the ancient Chinese assassin Jing Ke is embedded in Zheng’s
poem. The lines quoted above remind us of Jing Ke’s poem “Yi Shui Ge”
[The Song of the Yi River]:
The wind soughs and sighs, alas, the Yi River is chilly
The hero leaves, alas, and will not return (Lin Geng, 1989, 97)
風蕭蕭兮易水寒, 壯士一去兮不復還!
This poem was written by Jing Ke before he set out to assassinate the
First Emperor Qin around 227 B.C. Prince Yan and Jing’s friends saw
him off by Yi River. Jing Ke recited this poem to bid his friends farewell.
According to the poem, Jing seemed to know that he would die during
the assassination. Armed with a hidden sword wrapped in a map of Yan,
Jing attempted to kill the emperor when he ‘presented’ the map to him.
Jing failed and was killed. Terms and phrases such as ‘the song,’ ‘the Yi
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158 chapter five
River,’ ‘a sword inside the map,’ and ‘the Yan person’ in Zheng’s poem
clearly remind us of Jing Ke’s story. The ‘sword’ and the ‘loose-fitting
gown’ help to depict an image, i.e. an ancient Chinese youxia. In olden
times, a youxia referred to someone who was adept in martial arts, had
a strong sense of justice and was ready to help the weak.
It is noteworthy that Zheng Chouyu again depicted a militant fi gure
in “The Travels of Someone from Yan.” The militant figure becomes
more specific in this poem. He is no longer a horseman or an old gen-
eral. Zheng compares himself with a youxia in this poem.
Jing Ke was a youxia of the Warring States. He traveled from court
to court in an attempt to give full play to his martial arts and talents.
Consequently, Jing was accepted by the prince of Yan. If the image of the
horseman in “Mistake” reminds us of a wanderer, Zheng indicates to us
in “The Travels of Someone from Yan” that the wanderer masquerades
as an ancient assassin.
Why does Zheng embody the image of Jing Ke in his poem? I believe
the poet identifies with Jing Ke. Jing was both a poet and a youxia, and as
such he traveled from state to state during the Warring States Period. At
last, Jing settled in Yan though it was not the youxia’s native land. (Jing
Ke’s birthplace was Qi.)
Zheng Chouyu resembles Jing Ke. For example, as I pointed out
before, Zheng followed his father and traveled from province to prov-
ince when he was a child. The poet was exiled to Taiwan and eventually
settled in the United States. Both Jing and Zheng accepted the fact that
life was a process of wanderings. The concept of ‘native land’ seems to be
insignificant to them. Since he was very young, Zheng has always con-
sidered himself a wanderer in the universe (Wang, 1999, 281). Zheng
accepts that exile or wandering is life. However, when critics label Zheng
as a wandering poet, he refutes the label. He points out that wander-
ing, or being in exile, is his living experience, and that the topics in his
poetry in relation to this kind of experience have their roots in ancient
Chinese literature (Wang, 1999, 281).
Although Zheng Chouyu does not further elaborate on his ancient
Chinese references, I believe the poet refers to the youxia tradition,
which can be traced back to the Warring States Period (474–221 B.C.).
Before the unification of China under the Qin in 221 B.C., the so-called
Hundred Schools of Thought were fostered, and Legalism was one
of them. The concept of the youxia was first mentioned in Han Fei’s
韓非 works Han Fei Zi. Han Fei was the Legalist philosopher; however,
he did not affirm the youxia’s behavior. It is interesting to note that
the youxia was affirmed by Sima Qian 司馬遷 in his Shiji [Historical
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Records]. Since Sima was a Confucian scholar, he selectively confirmed

the youxia’s conduct. Although the youxia deviates from the Confucian
doctrines, the concept of the youxia is accepted to some extent.8
In short, the tradition Zheng tries to recapture is the youxia tradition.
However, Zheng’s youxia image is different from those in the past. In the
postscript of the poem, the poet tells us that he wrote this poem when
he was in the U.S. Zheng Chouyu and poets Ao Ao 翱翱, Wong Tak-wai
黃德偉, Wang Runhua 王潤華 and others discussed resuming publica-
tion of the poetry magazine Xingzuo [Constellation] in Wisconsin. The
title of the magazine—Constellation—reminds Zheng of his poem “Gui
Hang Qu” [The Song of Sailing Back]. Zheng Chouyu writes in the poem
that when poets die, they will become stars in the sky. Zheng uses poets
such as Qu Yuan and Shelley as examples and imagines that they formed
a constellation after they died (Zheng Chouyu, 2000, 5).
Since Zheng Chouyu was invited to write for the magazine Constella-
tion, he likened his participation in it to dying (Zheng Chouyu, 1987, 7).
In other words, Zheng Chouyu compares his participation in a poetry
club to an assassination. In this way, Zheng again applies the ‘beautiful
mistake’ formula in this poem. When the readers expect the youxia-
poet to do something serious, such as attempt an assassination, the poet
tells us that he is going to meet his friends to talk about poetry writing.
Zheng Chouyu again rejuvenates the meaning of the youxia.
Zheng is not the only Taiwanese modernist poet who embeds ancient
Chinese legends in his works. If we compare Zheng with Yu Guang-
zhong and Luo Fu, we will find that the relationship between the ancient
Chinese poets and Yu, as well as Luo, is closer than that of Zheng. For
example, Zheng Chouyu does not develop an intimate relationship with
Jing Ke. Zheng tells us that he masquerades as Jing. The poet implies that
Jing is a historical figure who cannot be duplicated in the here and now.
Nevertheless, Yu Guangzhong and Luo Fu believe that poets, whether
they belong to the past or present, can travel freely in time. Yu and Luo’s
conception of time was also popular among ancient Chinese intellectu-
als, and this conception of time helps the Taiwanese modernist poets
to fabricate memories in order to conjure up an imagined literary
community.
8
Li Baochun’s “Cong Youxia, Shaoxia, Jianxia dao Yixia” [From Youxia, Shaoxia,
Jianxia to Yixia] (Li, 1993, 91–130) provides a detailed account of the development of
the concept of xia.
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160 chapter five
In his Lost Time: On Remembering and Forgetting in Late Modern Cul-

ture, David Gross divides memories into two different types—individ-
ual and collective. Individual memory refers to the recollection of “the
events, feelings, or experiences of one’s personal past.” Nevertheless, col-
lective memory exists to make sure “each of its members . . . recall certain
supra-individual things, and it often goes to great lengths not only to
encourage but to compel such memories for the sake of social or cul-
tural cohesion” (Gross, 2000, 77).9 In other words, collective memory is
actually a kind of cultural memory. Generally speaking, we acquire cul-
tural memories through formal and informal education. I will suggest
that the kind of memory the Taiwanese modernist poets try to fabricate
in their poems is a combination of individual and collective memories.
The reasons why the Taiwanese modernist poets fabricate memories
are many. I think one reason is that they suffer from what Richard Terdi-
man calls ‘memory crisis.’ According to Terdiman:
In a world of change, memory becomes complicated. Any revolution,
any rapid alteration of the givens of the present places a society’s connec-
tion with its history under pressure. . . . People experienced the insecurity
of their culture’s involvement with its past, the perturbation of the link
to their own inheritance, as what I want to term a ‘memory crisis’: a sense
that their past had somehow evaded memory, that recollection had ceased
to integrate with consciousness. In this memory crisis the very coherence
of time and of subjectivity seemed disarticulated. (Terdiman, 1993, 3–4)
Although Terdiman’s discussion refers to Europe, I think his idea can
help us to understand the Taiwanese modernist poets’ attitudes toward
memory. Yu and his contemporaries were born after the May Fourth
literary movement. This movement advocated a disassociation with
the ancient Chinese traditions, such as Confucianism, Taoism and
Buddhism.
After Chiang Kai-shek retreated to Taiwan, he tried to understand
why the KMT government was defeated by the CCP. Chiang concluded
that the KMT government did not propagate its ideology through litera-
ture as the CCP did. As a result, Chiang strictly controlled publications
in Taiwan, and most literary works written before 1949 were banned in
9
A detailed account of individual and collective memories can be found in David
Gross’s Lost Time: On Remembering and Forgetting in Late Modern Culture. The chap-
ters on the “Varieties of Memory” and “The Social Frames of Memory” are the most
important.
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Taiwan. Chiang Kai-shek advocated anti-communist literary works and

Classical Chinese literature (Lu, 1995, 3–22).
Since the May Fourth tradition had already become the Taiwanese
modernist poets’ tradition, these poets suffered a ‘memory crisis’ when
they were forced to disassociate themselves from it. In this regard, when
these poets tried to return to ancient Chinese tradition, they faced many
difficulties. This is because these poets suffered from the threat of amne-
sia or loss of memory. As such, the ancient Chinese poets’ literary tradi-
tion, which is to be remembered through remembering, did not satisfy
these poets’ needs. The Taiwanese modernist poets tried to create an
intimate and personal relationship with preceding poets. To do this,
however, they had to fabricate their memories. Yu Guangzhong and Luo
Fu fancied that they could go back and forth in time to talk to these
poets in person. They tried to fabricate memory based on the ancient
Chinese intellectuals’ conception of time.
How the ancient Chinese perceived time is not an easy question to
answer, and it is not the purpose of this project to study this issue in
detail. However, critics seem to have different ideas concerning this
subject. According to Michael Loewe, ancient Chinese writings show
that there are two concepts of time: cyclical and linear. Loewe further
elaborates:
Time was seen as a thread or line (ji) that linked past and present. It pro-
vided a starting point towards which men and women could trace their
ancestry and the permanent existence of their kin, stretching from one
generation to another. . . . But time was also seen as a scale or track (li),
along which there ran remorselessly the ever repetitive cycles of birth,
death and rebirth. . . . Recognition of the stage that had been reached in
the cycle led to a life of contentment and harmony. (Loewe, 1999, 76)
Loewe remarks that the motives behind these concepts of time are
to “search for permanence and for reconciliation with the changes of
nature that disrupt human continuity” (Loewe, 1999, 76).
On the other hand, other critics such as Wu Kuang-ming and Huang
Chun-chieh tend to believe that the ancient Chinese apprehend time
neither as a straight line nor a cycle. Instead, they claim that the ancient
Chinese perceived time as reciprocal. According to Wu:
Chinese thinking concretely moves from the familiar here to the
strange there, moving in space that takes time. This sort of thinking is
as space-timed as it is ‘metaphorical.’ . . . Since such a spatiotemporal
interpenetration is usually called ‘history,’ Chinese thinking is historical.
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162 chapter five
Thinking in China moves in the context of history, moving between past

and future, back and forth, and so history which typifi es Chinese think-
ing is time-spaced. Thus spatiotemporal interpenetration in metaphor
and history, as its predominant trend, typifies Chinese thinking. (Huang,
1995, 4–5)
Similarly, Huang Chun-chieh notices that “Chinese thinking is inter-
penetrative and intersubjective, and their ‘time’ is reciprocal—the past
giving factuality to the present, the present giving meaning to the past,
mutually corresponding, going back and forth in time. Such a ‘time’ is
justifiably called ‘historical’ ” (Huang, 1995, 77).
I think Loewe’s, Wu’s and Huang’s remarks represent two different
perceptions of time. While Chinese people in general believe in both
cyclical and linear concepts of time, Chinese intellectuals tend to believe
in reciprocal time. Ancient Chinese intellectuals always used the past to
explain the present and vice versa. Yu Guangzhong and Luo Fu embody
the latter conception of time in their works and try to create the imag-
ined literary community through it.
In “Wu Ling Shaonian” [The Youth of Tang], Yu Guangzhong recon-
structs his cultural roots which are found in Confucianism:
My anger embodies Sui Ren Shi, my tears have Da Yu
My ears can hear the drumbeats at Zhuo Luk
My grandfather shoots down nine suns in legend
My uncle’s name can scare away the Chan Yu
Do you hear me? Give me another bottle of Gaoliang
An expensive fur coat is displayed at the show-window of the auction
I pawn my Wuhua horse and what remains is my arthritis
我的怒中有燧人氏, 淚中有大禹 / 我的耳中有涿鹿的鼓聲 / 傳說祖父

射落了九隻太陽 / 有一位叔叔的名字能嚇退單于 / 聽見沒有? 來一瓶
高梁! / 千金裘在拍賣行的櫥窗裡掛著 / 當掉五花馬只剩下關節炎
In the passage quoted above, many terms refer to Chinese legendary
characters and Classical Chinese poems. For instance, ‘Sui Ren Shi’ was
a legendary king who discovered fire and cooked food with it. ‘Da Yu’
was a reputed founder of the Xia Dynasty (ca. 2070 B.C.–1600 B.C.).
He was famous for regulating rivers and watercourses. ‘Zhuo Luk’ was
where legendary figures ‘Huang Di’ 黃帝 vigorously fought with ‘Chi
You’ 蚩尤. The ‘grandfather’ the poet refers to is another legendary fig-
ure: ‘Hou Yi’ 后羿. According to the legend, ‘Hou Yi’ shot down nine
suns. In line four, Yu tells us his uncle’s name can scare the ‘Chan Yu’
away. ‘Chan Yu’ refers to the king of Xiongnu 匈奴. The poet’s uncle
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refers to Li Guang 李廣 who was a famous general in the Han Dynasty.

It is noteworthy that all these famous people are mythical figures except
Li Guang and ‘Chan Yu.’
The ancient Chinese always looked backward to a past which was not
necessarily a historical past. For instance, Confucius considered the leg-
endary monarchs or sages—Yao 堯 and Shun 舜—the model rulers in
ancient China and the period under these legendary fi gures’ reign the
best years. In Owen’s words, there is always ‘the lost totality’ out there
waiting to be reconstructed (Owen, 1986, 2).
Yu’s poem does not casually juxtapose these famous figures. These
people represent, or map, an imaginary world to which ancient Chinese
intellectuals such as Confucius wanted to return. As such, Yu identifies
with Confucius and shares a similar kind of dream with the master.
In addition to the depiction of ‘a lost fullness,’ Yu also implies that
the golden age of poetry—the Tang dynasty—is gone. The last two lines
of the poem remind us of Li Bai’s poem “Invitation to Wine”:
A host should not complain of money he is short,
To drink with you I will sell things of any sort.
My fur coat worth a thousand coins of gold
And my flower-dappled horse may be sold
To buy good wine that we may drown the woes age-old. (Xu, 1995, 112)
主人何為言少錢, 逕須沽取對君酌! 五花馬, 千金裘, 呼兒將出換美酒,

與爾同銷萬古愁!
In the Tang dynasty, Li Bai sold his ‘fur coat’ and ‘flower-dappled horse’
to buy drink. Li’s behavior was both heroic and romantic. Yu Guang-
zhong is also a poet, and he also has a fur coat and a flower-dappled
horse to sell. However, what Yu gets in return is only arthritis.
Yu once again identifies with a famous figure. This time it is Li Bai.
Although Li Bai is always depicted as a romantic poet, he was also a
disciple of Confucius. In fact, ancient Chinese poets tended to believe
in more than one philosophy. In general, when the poets won the impe-
rial favor, they were guided by Confucian doctrines. Nevertheless, the
ancient poets would turn to Taoism or Buddhism when they lost court
favor, and Li Bai was no exception. When he was in favor with the court,
he was a follower of Confucianism; after he lost imperial favor, Li turned
to Taoism. Yu tries to show us that he remembers both Confucius and Li
Bai, and he wants to be remembered through remembering.
Yu Guangzhong implies, however, that his dream does not come
true. In the first line of the poem, Yu tells us that he is angry and sad.
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The poet does not tell us the reason why he feels this way. Yu then
juxtaposes famous figures from Chinese tradition and claims that they
are his ancestors. Although the poet fabricates an intimate relationship
with these famous figures (for example Hou Yi becomes his grandfather,
Li Guang his uncle) they exist only in Yu’s ‘memory.’ We do not discern
any interaction between the poet and these famous people. Yu under-
stands that those ‘good old days’ cannot come back. I believe this is one
of the reasons why Yu feels sad and angry.
In “Yu Li Bai Tong You Gaosu Gonglu” [Traveling With Li Bai on the
Highway], “Xi Li Bai” [Teasing Li Bai] and “Shiren—He Chen Ziang Tai
Tai Gang” [The Poet—Arguing With Chen Ziang], Yu tells us that return-
ing to Chinese cultural roots is no longer a dream. The poet embodies a
reciprocal conception of time in his works in order to fabricate his per-
sonal memories. As a result, Yu directly interacts with famous Chinese
poets in history and thus becomes a member of the imagined literary
community. In “Teasing Li Bai,” Yu imagines that he is a close friend of
Li Bai’s, and can even tease him:
You were once the Yellow River pouring from heaven,
That shook the Ying Mountains
And flung open the Dragon Gate,
But now Yellow River comes flooding from your lines,
Surging and foaming in laughter
All the way into the sea.
[. . .]
The Yellow River is pomp enough for you,
Leave the Yangtze to youngster Su. (Yu Guangzhong, 1992, 96)
你曾是黃河之水天上來 / 陰山動 / 龍門開 / 而今黃河反從你的句中來

/ 驚濤與豪笑 / 萬里滔滔入海 . . . . . . / 有一條黃河, 你已夠熱鬧的了 / 大
江, 就讓給蘇家那鄉弟吧
Yu Guangzhong talks directly to Li Bai in this poem. Th e pronoun
‘you’ in the poem refers to Li Bai. In the first line of the poem Yu again
reminds us of Li’s poem “Invitation to Wine”: “Do you not see the Yel-
low River come from the sky . . .?” Yu tells Li Bai that since Li is so good
at depicting the Yellow River, whenever we think of the Yellow River
we will recall Li Bai’s lines. In other words, according to Yu, the Yellow
River becomes Li’s river.
In the rest of the poem, Yu tries to make a bargain with Li Bai. The
poet thinks that Li should be satisfied to have the Yellow River. He sug-
gests that Li Bai should leave the Yangtze River to another poet (Su Shi).
Su wrote a very famous poem on the Yangtze River which is “Chi Bi
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Fu” [To The Charms of Nian-nu: Meditation on the Past at Red Cliff ].
As Owen points out in An Anthology of Chinese Literature, “ ‘To The
Charms of Nian-nu’ is probably Su Shi’s most famous lyric, written on a
visit to what he thought was the site of the great battle at Red Cliff dur-
ing the Three Kingdoms. Cao Cao had brought his army to the northern
shore of the Yangzi River and was preparing a fleet to cross over and
invade the southern kingdom of Wu” (Owen, 1996, 579).
Eastward goes the great river,
its waves have swept away
a thousand years of gallant men.
And they say
that west of the ancient castle here
is that Red Cliff
of Zhou Yu and the Three Kingdoms. (Owen, 1996, 579)
大江東去, / 浪淘盡千古風流人物。 / 古裡西邊, / 人道是三國周郎赤壁
Yu seems to be a negotiator who tries to solve the dispute between Li
Bai and Su Shi. This poem brings forth one important fact in relation
to the imagined literary community. These poets become friends despite
the temporal barrier. Li was a poet of the Tang Dynasty and Su a poet of
the Song Dynasty, not to mention Yu who is a modern poet. How can
these poets get to know each other and become friends? How can Yu
‘talk’ to these ancient poets? I believe that the conception of reciprocal
time helps Yu to fabricate his personal memory. The poet ‘remembers’
when he returned to the Tang and Song dynasties to talk to these great
poets in person.
In the poem “The Poet—Arguing With Chen Ziang,” Yu again talks
directly to a famous poet of the Tang period. In addition, the Taiwanese
poet also shows us that he is a successor to this well-known poet.
There are our forefathers preceding you, and will be some latecomers
succeeding you
You are in the middle to hand on the torch
Handed on one by one from preceding generations
Handing on one by one to the succeeding generations
The burning light struggles to get free, but it is captured in your fist
Stormy wind and rain beat your hair and stare at your tangled hair
All of a sudden, the world gets an electric shock and burning
Your face radiates the legendary lights
It cannot be perceived when you are too close, but the lights will become
obvious when you are far away
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前有古人, 後有來者 / 中間的一炬火你擎傳 / 一手手, 從前接來 / 一

手手, 向後傳去 / 燙手的光奮掙, 擒在你拳裡 / 風吹雨打你的髮看你
的亂髮 / 大地一愕間觸電而燃燒 / 你的臉發出傳說中的光芒 / 近時不
顯, 遠時才赫現
Chen Ziang was a poet of the Tang Dynasty. His famous poem “Deng
Youzhou Tai Ge” [On Climbing Youzhou Tower] is about loneliness.
Chen feels very sad that when he visits Youzhou, he thinks he is alone
in the world. He believes that there is no one preceding nor succeeding
him in history. He is a loner in the universe. This thought moves Chen
to tears:
Where are the sages of the past
And those of future years?
Sky and earth forever last,
Lonely, I shed sad tears. (Xu, 1987, 8)
前不見古人, 後不見來者! 念天地之悠悠, 獨愴然而涕下!

Yu disagrees with Chen and points out that there are poets preceding
and succeeding Chen. According to Yu Guangzhong, Chen resembles
a bridge which connects the poets who precede and succeed him. The
handing of the torch is a symbol; the poets who hand lighted torches
to others, and the poets who receive the torches, all qualify to become
members of an imagined literary community. After a poet becomes a
member, his or her face ‘radiates the legendary lights.’ Yu again invents
a memory. The poet imagines that he goes back to the Tang Dynasty
and argues with Chen. In addition, Yu sees how Chen received the torch
from his precursor.
In “Traveling with Li Bai on the Highway,” Yu further elaborates that
people can travel freely in the imagined literary community. Both tem-
poral and spatial barriers are overcome. In this poem, Yu drinks and
travels with Li Bai as a friend in Taiwan. He even lends money to Li
Bai:
You should not have drunk so much wine in the bar
the imported whisky is different from the Shandong wine
it is a strong drink. Wang Lun should be blamed,
he should not treat you and have these foreign women
pour wine into your glass again and again.
You should listen to doctor’s advice, not Wang Lun’s
[. . .]
You always want to be an immortal, a knight
Is it because Mt. Kun Lun is too far away, so you look for sloppy knight and
muddled immortal in your wine bottles?
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—Oh! Be careful, watch out!

overtaking this kind of container truck is not a trifling matter
slow down, slow down, I beg you
[. . .]
—Oh! Listen, isn’t it a police siren?
It is coming up; let’s stop the car at the roadside.
Be quick, change your seat with me, don’t let
the traffic police find out you are a drunk driver
[. . .]
In fact, your driver’s license has been kept by the bar since last week
because of your debts
[. . .]
—Is it six thousand dollars? All right, I will pay for you first
[. . .]
If Wang Wei did not go to attend the conference
on the pollution of Wangchuan
we would have
gone back to Pingdong in his old car (Yu Guangzhong, 1998b, 71–74)
剛才在店裡你應該少喝幾杯的 / 進口的威士忌不比魯酒 / 太烈了, 要

怪那汪倫 / 擺什麼闊呢, 儘叫胡姬 / 一遍又一遍向杯裡亂斟 / 你該聽
醫生的勸告, 別聽汪倫 . . . . . ./ 你一直說要求仙, 求俠 / 是崑崙太遠了,
就近向你的酒瓶 / 去尋找邋遢俠和糊塗仙嗎? / －啊呀要小心, 好險
哪 / 超這種貨櫃車可不是兒戲 / 慢一點吧, 慢一點, 我求求你 . . . . . ./
－咦, 你聽, 好像是不祥的警笛 / 追上來了, 就靠在路旁吧 / 跟我換一
個位子, 快, 千萬不能讓 / 交警抓到你醉眼駕駛 . . . . . ./ 何況你的駕駛執
照上星期 / 早因為酒債給店裡扣留了. . . . . . / －六千塊嗎? 算了, 我先
墊 / 要不是王維一早去參加 / 輞川污染的座談會 / 我們原該 / 搭他的
老爺車回屏東去的
Yu has direct interactions with the ancient poets in this poem. The
reciprocal concept of time is clearly shown, as he and the ancient poets
go back and forth between past and present. First of all, ancient poets
such as Li Bai, Wang Wei and Li Bai’s friend Wang Lun are no longer,
‘there-then.’ Instead, they are ‘now-here.’ If we perceive time as a straight
line, these ancient poets should be always there and not here. It is obvi-
ous that these ancient poets do not belong to our time-space. Neverthe-
less, these poets come all the way from Tang China to modern Taiwan.
They drink and travel with Yu. ‘Whisky,’ ‘driver’s license,’ ‘traffic police,’
‘pollution’ and ‘conference’ all refer to things in modern life.
On the one hand, the ancient poets come here to experience our
modern life; on the other hand, Yu goes back and forth to tell us what
happens to the ancient poets in both Tang China and modern Taiwan.
Yu tells us that Li Bai drinks a lot at a bar and that the great poet’s driver’s
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168 chapter five
license is being kept there. Further, we also know what happened to Li

Bai in the Tang Dynasty in Yu’s poem. Wang Lun was a good friend of Li
Bai, who always brought wine to Li. Li Bai led an unhappy life due to his
losing court favor. As a result, he became a Daoist initiate (Owen, 1996,
400). Li’s poems always depicted his encounters with the immortals.10 In
addition to Li Bai, Yu also tells us where Wang Wei lived during the Tang
Dynasty; he lived in Wangchuan after he retired. In short, the concept of
time Yu depicts in this poem is reciprocal.
It is interesting to note that the poets such as Li Bai, Su Shi, Chen
Ziang and even Wang Wei share at least one thing in common: At
the beginning of their careers, they all believed in Confucianism and
wanted to make contributions to the Imperial Court. However, these
poets eventually turned to either Taoism or Buddhism after they lost
court favor. For example, Chen and Li turned to Taoism and wanted to
be immortal. Su’s philosophy is rather complicated. He was a follower
of Confucianism when he was only a child. After he lost court favor
and was sent into exile, he was influenced by Taoism and Buddhism. In
other words, his thoughts are a mixture of Confucianism, Taoism and
Buddhism. Likewise, Wang turned to Taoism and Buddhism after he
retired from the court.11
Why does Yu choose to develop intimate relationships with these
ancient poets? I believe Yu Guangzhong’s experience of being an exile
causes him to make this choice. As I pointed out in “The Youth of Tang,”
Yu is a follower of Confucianism. Yu was forced into exile for politi-
cal reasons and was deprived of the right to make a contribution to his
homeland. Nevertheless, Yu does not turn to Taoism and Buddhism
as the ancient poets did. For instance, in “Traveling with Li Bai on the
Highway,” Yu remains sober when Li gets drunk. In other words, when
Yu Guangzong cannot serve the government, he chooses to conjure
up the imagined literary community instead of turning to Taoism or
Buddhism.
10
A detailed account of Li Bai’s ‘undying’ theme can be found in Stephen Owen’s An
Anthology of Chinese Literature (Owen, 1996, 400–03).
11
Li Bai’s life and philosophy can be found in Wang Yunxi’s Li Bai Ji Qi Zuopinxuan
[Li Bai and His Works]. A detailed account of Chen Ziang can be found in Han Lizhou’s
Chen Zi’ang Yanjiu [A Study of Chen Ziang]. Ye Jiaying examines Su Shi in detail in her
paper “Dongpo ji qi Ci” [Dongpo and His Ci Poetry] which is collected in Gudian Shici
Jiangyanji [Lectures on Classical Shi and Ci Poetry] (Ye, 1997, 245–74). Th e thoughts
and life of Wang Wei are described in detail in Wang Congren’s Wang Wei Meng Haoran
ji qi Zuopinxuan [The Works of Wang Wei and Meng Haoran].
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Likewise, Luo Fu also realizes that “memory played a crucial role in

giving people a consistent sense of identity” (Gross, 2000, 2). Therefore,
Luo fabricates his memories, too. He chooses to develop a relationship
with poets that can help him construct his own identity. Luo imagines
that he is drinking with another Tang poet, Li He, in his poem “Yu Li He
Gong Yin” [Drinking with Li He]:
Please come and take a seat, I want to drink with you
Tonight is the darkest in history
We are not ordinary men and should not feel sad because
our poems are not included in the Three Hundred Tang poems
[. . .]
Tonight’s moon will not become brighter because of
our gathering through the ages
Taking advantage of the darkness, I will write you an obscure poem
I do not care whether they understand or not
If the poem is so difficult to understand
why do we look at each other with an understanding smile after reading
it? (Luo Fu, 1981, 163–64)
來來請坐, 我要與你共飲 / 這歷史中最黑的一夜 / 你我顯非等閑人物

/ 豈能因不入唐詩三百首而相對發愁 . . . . . . / 今晚的月, 大概不會為我
們 / 這千古一聚而亮了 / 我要趁黑為你寫一首晦澀的詩 / 不懂就讓他
們去不懂 / 不懂 / 為何我們讀後相視大笑
Li He was born in 790 and Luo Fu was born in 1928. These two poets
can come together only in imagination. The passage cited above is the
last part of a long poem about the poets’ meeting. In the rest of the
poem, Luo tells us that Li comes through the ages to visit him. The poem
is set in modern times. When Luo tries to comfort Li about not being
included in the Three Hundred Tang Poems anthology, he uses the pro-
nouns ‘you and I’ instead of ‘you.’ It is easy to understand why Li He, as
a Tang poet, is sad about not being included in the anthology, whereas
Luo, as a modern poet, would logically not be included. In actual fact,
the anthology was compiled in the Qing Dynasty (1764); therefore, Li
He would not know if he was or was not included in it.12
12
Although numerous anthologies of Tang poetry were compiled before the Qing
dynasty, the first edition of An Anthology of Tang Poetry (or Three Hundred Poems of
the Tang Dynasty) was compiled in 1764 by Sun Zhu. A detailed account of the history
of the anthology can be found in the introductory chapter entitled “A Survey of Tang
Poetry and 300 Tang Poems” of Xu Yuanzhong’s 300 Tang Poems: A New Translation.
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170 chapter five
In addition to the reciprocal time concept, Luo also raises the issue
of the literary canon. Which poet and which works should be admit-
ted to the canon? Since Li He was not considered part of the canon, his
works were not included in the anthology. There may be many reasons
why Li’s works were not accepted by the anthology, but I think that Li’s
use of rare and strange images was an issue. Owen points out that “Li
He’s work is best known for its brilliant images, morbidity, and fascina-
tion with the supernatural, so much so that in later times he was known
as the ‘demonic talent’ (gui-cai)” (Owen, 1996, 489). As I mentioned
before, originality was not a weighty consideration in ancient Chinese
tradition. In this regard, Li’s talent was undermined.
It is interesting to note that Li is important in Luo Fu’s creation of
memory. Among so many great ancient poets, why does Luo Fu choose
Li He to reconstruct his memory? I believe that Luo sees himself in
Li He. Luo calls himself a ‘demonic poet,’ which is reminiscent of Li’s
‘demonic talent.’ While Li was an inscrutable poet of the ancient Chi-
nese tradition, Luo is a poet in the modern world. In fact, Luo Fu’s long
poem “Death in the Stone Chamber” is famous for its obscurity. Why
do Li and Luo choose to write obscure poetry? I think one reason is that
both poets did not feel at home with their everyday worlds. While Li did
not gain a prominent post in the Tang government, Luo was forced into
exile. Both poets were forced to look beyond the immediate world. As a
result, when Luo reconstructs the past, he includes Li in his memory.
Besides Li He, Luo also sees another Tang Dynasty poet—Wang
Wei—in himself. In his poem “Zhi Wang Wei” [To Wang Wei], Luo
seems to know both Wang’s poems and daily life by heart:
A flock of drowsy birds
are threatened by
your paper-cutting moon
[. . .]
The sounds of flapping
scare all the foliage away
The desolate mountains
are quiet and not a soul is to be seen
Only you, Sir
are stroking the mosses on the rocks laying by a brook
Oh . . . everything is getting old
the spring flowers in the valley
fade according to the time
[. . .]
Sometime ago, someone asked:
Which word of your poems has the most Buddhist allegory?
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You answered idly:

It is the egret which
flies away in
the third line of “Written at the Rural Retreat at Wangchuan During a
Prolonged Rain.” (Luo Fu, 1990a, 133–35)
一群瞌睡的山鳥 / 被你 / 紙剪的月亮 . . . . . . / 撲翅的聲音 / 嚇得所有的

樹葉一哄而散 / 空山 / 闃無人跡 / 只有先生你 / 手撫澗邊石頭上的青
苔 / 啊 . . . . . . 都這麼老了 / 滿谷的春花 / 依時而萎 . . . . . . / 前些日子, 有
人問起: / 你哪一首最具禪機? / 你閑閑答曰: / 不就是從 “積雨輞川莊
作” 第三句中 / 飛走的 / 那只白鷺
This poem obviously is inspired by Wang Wei’s poetry. Terms such as
‘desolate mountains,’ ‘brook,’ ‘mosses,’ ‘moon’ and so forth remind us
of “Lu Chai” [The Deer Enclosure], and the first stanza of “Shan Ju Qiu
Ming” [My Mountain Villa in an Autumn Evening]. In “The Deer Enclo-
sure,” Wang tells us that:
I see no one in mountains deep
But hear a voice in the ravine.
Through the dense wood the sunbeams peep
And are reflected on mosses green. (Xu, 1987, 87)
空山不見人, 但聞人語響。返影入深林, 復照青苔上。

In “The Deer Enclosure,” Wang is alone in the mountains, and this image
contributes to the development of the setting in Luo’s poem. Moreover,
Luo also utilizes the image of ‘mosses’ in his poem. Since moss is not a
common image in Tang poetry, people naturally associate it with Wang’s
poems.
Likewise, the images in Luo Fu’s poem also remind us of Wang Wei’s
“My Mountain Villa in an Autumn Evening”:
After the rain has bathed the desolate mountain,
The fresh evening air blows the breath of autumn.
Into the forest of pines the moon sheds her lights;
Over the glistening rocks the spring water glides. (Xu, 1987, 71)
空山新雨後, 天氣晚來秋。明月松間照, 清泉石上流。

In fact, the setting of Luo’s “To Wang Wei” is a combination of Wang’s
different poems. We find again the ‘desolate mountain’ in Wang’s “My
Mountain Villa in Autumn Evening.” In addition, the images of ‘the
moon,’ the ‘rocks’ and ‘the spring water,’ which always appeared in
Wang’s poems, are also incorporated in Luo’s poem.
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172 chapter five
Luo also wants to show us that he understands Wang very well. Th e

passage quoted above shows Wang strolling in the woods at night. It is
difficult to believe that Wang is the only one in the mountains. I think
Luo must be there, too; otherwise he would not know what Wang was
doing. In other words, Luo goes back to the Tang Dynasty to visit Wang
Wei.
In his poem, Luo tells us that “sometime ago, someone asked: / Which
word of your poems has the most Buddhist allegory?” What ‘sometime
ago’ refers to is not easy to clarify. However, since the setting of Luo’s
poem is similar to that of Wang’s poems, I will suggest that the time
period of Luo’s poem is during the Tang Dynasty. Physically speaking,
Luo seems to be very close to Wang Wei; he can hear the conversations
between Wang and other people. Furthermore, the egret mentioned in
Luo’s poem reminds us of Wang’s “Ji Yu Wang Chuan Zhuang Zuo” [Writ-
ten at the Rural Retreat at Wangchuan During a Prolonged Rain]. The
third line of the poem reads: “Over the broad watery fields the white-
feathered egrets fly” (Xu, 1987, 77).13
In brief, in “To Wang Wei,” Luo not only shows us that he is famil-
iar with Wang Wei’s works, and that he can freely go back to the Tang
Dynasty, but he also reminds us that he, like Wang, utilizes Buddhist
allegories. As a matter of fact, Luo frequently changed his poetic style. In
his fifth poetry album Mo Ge [Demonic Songs], Luo embodies a sense
of Zen in his poetry (Luo Fu, 1999a, 4). In other words, Luo discovers a
part of himself in Wang Wei.
Luo Fu’s poems “Li Bai Chuanqi” [The Legend of Li Bai] and “Shui Ji”
[The Worship of Water] are about Li Bai and Qu Yuan respectively. In
these poems, Luo goes back to the Tang Dynasty and the Warring States
Period. He again knows the exact activities of these poets. At the end of
“The Legend of Li Bai,” Luo Fu claims that he is at the place where Li is:
In the afternoon, I eventually see you
jumping to grasp the flying fall at the peak
You wash away by
a rolling river (Luo Fu, 1981, 189)
下午, 我終於看到 / 你躍起抓住峰頂的那條飛瀑 / 盪入了 / 滾滾而去

的溪流
13
This line in Chinese reads “ 漠漠水田飛白鷺”.
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In “To Wang Wei,” Luo Fu is not explicit about being in the same place
and time as Wang Wei. In the above extract of “The Legend of Li Bai,”
however, it is clear that Luo Fu is ‘there’ and meets Li Bai in person.
In addition to their poetic talents, Li and Qu have one more thing in
common: neither of them obtained Imperial favor. As a result, Qu was
sent into exile, and Li wandered through the East and Southeast (Owen,
1996, 397). That Luo remembers these poets suggests his similarity to
them: Luo is also a poet in exile.
In “Bian Chui Ren de Du Bai” [The Monologue of Someone from the
Frontier], the theme of exile becomes explicit. Luo Fu embeds Du Fu’s
poem in his work, using the lines of Du Fu’s “Chun Wang” [A Spring
View] as subtitles to compose a long poem. The subtitle of the first part
is “As ever are hills and rills while my country crumbles”14 (Xu, 1987,
151). When Du Fu writes ‘my country crumbles,’ he is referring to the
Tang Dynasty. Owen remarks that:
In 755, the northeastern frontier command under An Lu-shan rebelled
against the central government and moved into the interior, fi rst taking
the Eastern capital, Luoyang, and then, after crushing the imperial army
sent against them, occupying Chang-an itself. Du Fu found himself behind
enemy lines in the capital, commenting on the battles that loyalist troops
were losing to An Lu-shan’s armies and reminiscing about the splendors
of the capital during Xuan-zong’s reign—splendors that seem to have van-
ished so quickly. (Owen, 1996, 420)
In fact, Luo Fu’s interpretation of the poem is misleading. When Du
Fu wrote “A Spring View,” he was detained in the capital. However, Luo
describes in his poem a scene of sending people into exile, which only
happened to Du Fu later:
Is the Yangtze River still thousand li long?
Wind and snow whiz past
The answer may be in the
rolling waves; after having a thousand sails pass by
The waters of the Three Gorges flow rapidly
It is not only the roars of the apes on both sides that touch people
but also the dangerous shoal
Exiled footprints are everywhere on the dangerous shoal
They walk in solitude crying
when they go out of Sichuan (Luo Fu, 1990b, 136–37)
14
This line in Chinese is “國破山河在”.
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174 chapter five
長江至今還有萬里嗎? / 風雪呼嘯而過 / 答案或在 / 千帆過盡後的滾

滾濁浪中 / 三峽水流洶湧 / 兩岸動人心魄的豈只是猿嘯 / 還有險灘 /
險灘上一雙雙被放逐的腳印 / 踽踽涼涼地 / 一路哭著出川
In the first few lines of this passage, the descriptions such as ‘the roars of
the apes’ reminds us of the third line of Li Bai’s “Zao Fa Bai Di Cheng”
[Leaving the White Emperor Town for Jiangling]: “With the monkeys’
adieus the riverbanks are loud” (Xu, 1987, 92).15 However, ‘both sides,’
or in Xu’s translation ‘Riverbanks’ and ‘exiled footprints,’ suggest that
Luo is talking about the contemporary political situation of China.
‘Both sides’ refers to Mainland China and Taiwan, and ‘exiled footprints’
to the exiled Mainlanders in Taiwan. The misreading of Du’s poem dem-
onstrates that Luo is talking about his own exile experience rather than
Du’s. The poet finds that what happened to Du Fu also happened to him
one thousand years later.
In short, Luo Fu embodies references to ancient Chinese poets in his
works because their experiences and thoughts help to construct his own
identity and memory. Luo resembles Yu in that all the poets he depicted
eventually lost favor in court. Though both Luo and Yu depict Li Bai in
their poems, Yu puts emphasis on Li’s carefree attitude, and Luo stresses
Li’s patriotism. Du Fu is famous for his concern about his country
and his people, and the poet often includes this theme in his poems.
Although Luo Fu does not make this theme explicit in his “The Mono-
logue of someone from the frontier,” the association with Du Fu clearly
reminds his readers of the patriotic theme. Of course, in addition to the
theme of patriotism, Luo also expresses his interest in Zen and Taoism
by using the image of Wang Wei. If the thoughts and poetic styles of Li
Bai, Du Fu and Wang Wei share similarities with those of Luo Fu’s later
works, Qu Yuan’s and Li He’s works remind us of Luo Fu’s early poems,
particularly “Death in the Stone Chamber.” Luo is similar to Li He in
that he included images such as death, blood, ghosts and so forth in his
“Stone Chamber” series. In fact, Li He was influenced by Qu Yuan.16
On the one hand, Yu Guangzhong and Luo Fu fabricate their indi-
vidual memories based on the ancient Chinese intellectuals’ concep-
tion of time. Yu and Luo show us that they travel to and fro in time
and develop intimate relationships with prominent ancient poets. The
15
The original of this line is “兩岸猿聲啼不住”.
16
Li He’s poetic style and his comparison with Qu Yuan can be found in Wu Qiming’s
Li He ji qi Zuopinxuan [Li He and His Works]. Du Fu’s ideals and stylistic are discussed
in detail in Ye Jiaying’s Lectures on Classical Shi and Ci Poetry (Ye, 1997, 57–62).
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Taiwanese poets reconstruct their identities through these self-created

memories. On the other hand, these poets’ memories can also be con-
sidered, to some extent, as a kind of cultural memory. This is because
the Chinese tradition of remembering always refers to poets such as Li
Bai, Du Fu, Wang Wei and Su Shi, who are depicted by the Taiwanese
modernist poets in their poems. Judging from the ancient poets that Yu
and Luo depicted, I will suggest that both poets returned to Confucian-
ism, though they (especially Luo Fu) occasionally turn to Taoism and
Buddhism. Since Yu and Luo create personal relationships with ancient
poets, to what extent do they return to tradition?
Return to Nature
Not every Taiwanese modernist poet finds that fabricating memory can
help him or her develop an imagined literary community. Lomen and
Rong Zi, for instance, choose to include nature in their poetry to con-
struct their cultural roots. Among all the poets I have chosen for my
study, the imagined literary community created by Rong Zi and Lomen
is most implicit. In fact, it is easy to ignore the relationship between
these poets’ poetry and the Chinese tradition. There are at least three
reasons for this. First, both poets have their own imagined homes. While
Rong Zi considers nature her home, Lomen finds his home in ‘Third
Nature.’ Second, Rong Zi and Lomen have a comparatively Westernized
background. For example, Rong Zi came from a Christian family and
received her education in missionary schools. Similarly, when Lomen
was a teenager, he studied at the Air Force Pilot’s Academy. Lomen
loves Beethoven and claims that the composer is the housekeeper of his
soul. Furthermore, since Lomen and Rong Zi are considered modernist
poets, the sense of anti-urbanism embodied in their poetry is often con-
sidered a modernity issue. Nevertheless, the following discussion on the
relationship between Lomen, Rong Zi and the ancient Chinese tradition
will suggest that these poets’ critique of urbanism may also be inherited
from ancient Chinese tradition.
As I pointed out in Chapter Three, Rong Zi’s ‘nature’ embodies two
meanings; namely nature as the countryside and as the poetess’s home-
land of the past. Nature as a rural area can be subdivided into two mean-
ings: the real countryside which can be found outside the city, and the
ideal or imaginary countryside which cannot be found in reality. In
fact, the anti-urbanism motif depicted in Rong Zi’s poems echoes tra-
ditional Chinese culture which “consistently emphasized the rural over
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176 chapter five
the urban” (Zhang, 1996, 12). I believe this tradition is best manifested
in the work of Tao Qian (Tao Yuanming) 陶潛 (陶淵明).
Rong Zi’s imaginary world of nature resembles Tao’s ideal world. In
“Huigui Tianyuan” [Going Back to Gardens and Fields], the poetess’s
ideal imaginary countryside reminds us of Tao Qian’s poetry:
Blue sky and white clouds
rice fields and green mountains
including the nearby bamboo rafter and cottage
whose shadows overlap in the water
An ox cart is heading out of the village slowly
A small boat is sailing back with colors of sky and water
Smoke from village hearths is going up like clouds
The meanings of home are determined! (Rong Zi, 1995c, 263–64)
藍天白雲 / 田壟和翠嶺 / 加上近邊的竹筏茅棚 / 它們的影子都在水中

交融 / 牛車緩緩地向村外駛去 / 小舟載天光水色歸來 / 炊煙雲一樣
升起 / 家的意義就確定了!
The title of this poem “Going Back to Gardens and Fields” clearly reminds
us of Tao Qian’s “Guitian Yuan Ju” [Returning to Dwell in Gardens and
Fields]. Three Chinese characters out of four in these poems’ titles are
identical. Moreover, phrases such as ‘smoke from village hearths’ and
‘rice fields and green mountains’ found in Rong Zi’s poem can also be
found in Tao’s work. Furthermore, the meanings of these two poems
are similar. Both poems are about the poets’ ideal home, the world of
nature. The only difference is that Tao lived in his ideal home, while
Rong Zi is dreaming of hers.
In addition to describing his ideal home, Tao also tells us how he hates
life in the city in “Returning to Dwell in Gardens and Fields I”:
My youth felt no comfort in common things,
by my nature I clung to the mountains and hills.
I erred and fell in the snares of dust
and was away thirteen years in all.
The caged bird yearns for its former woods,
fish in a pool yearns for long-ago deeps.
Clearing scrub at the edge of the southern moors,
I stay plain by returning to gardens and fields.
My holdings are just more than ten acres,
a thatched cottage of eight or nine rooms.
Elms and willows shade eaves at the back,
peach and plum spread in front of the hall.
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The far towns of men are hidden from sight,

a faint blur of smoke comes from village hearths.
[. . .]
For long time I was kept inside a coop,
now again I return to the natural way. (Owen, 1996, 316)
少無適俗韻, 性本愛丘山。誤落塵網中, 一去三十年。羈鳥戀舊林,

池魚思故淵。開荒南野際, 守拙歸田園。方宅十餘畝, 草屋八九間。
榆柳陰後簷, 桃李羅堂前。曖曖遠人村, 依依墟裡煙。. . . . . . 久在樊籠
裡, 復得返自然。
Tao’s poem is divided into three parts. In the fi rst part, the poet tells us
that he does not like life in the city at all. He wants to live in the coun-
tryside, in nature. In the second part, Tao indicates that he has already
moved to the countryside. The descriptions in Rong Zi’s poem parallel
this part of Tao’s poem. The depictions in Tao’s poem of ‘gardens and
fields,’ ‘a thatched cottage,’ ‘elms and willows’ and ‘a faint blur of smoke
comes from village hearths’ suggest Tao’s influence on Rong Zi. The
last part of the poem shows us the poet’s determination to live in the
countryside.
Tao Qian’s decision to give up public life and return to nature set an
example for other Confucian scholars. Tao was a Confucian scholar,
who at first wanted to serve the Imperial Court. He decided to return to
his gardens and fields, however, because of the corruption of the Eastern
Jin government. After Tao Qian returned to nature, he enjoyed his life
whole-heartedly. Tao was different from other Confucian scholars who
waited for opportunities to serve the court once again. The reason why
Tao was so determined to live a life of seclusion was the influence of
Taoism. The opposition of the city and countryside presented in Tao’s
poetry is reduced to ‘The-Rural-Over-The-Urban’ model. Since Taoism
advocates a natural state, everything artificial (for example, the city) is
considered inferior.
Why does the countryside become a place for which the ancient
Chinese intellectuals yearn? There are at least two reasons. First, most
Confucian scholars could not fulfill their wishes of serving the Impe-
rial Court or winning court favor. As a result, they turned to Taoism
and yearned to return to the gardens and fields. Second, Zhang Yingjin’s
study on modern Chinese literature points out that most modern
Chinese writers were born in the countryside. They went to the city
(either in China or in foreign countries) to receive higher education,
and eventually settled in the major cities to pursue their careers (Zhang,
1996, 16).
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178 chapter five
Zhang’s analysis helps us to reconsider the situation of the ancient

poets. Similarly, most of the ancient poets that the Taiwanese modernist
poets alluded to came from the countryside. Tao Qian’s native place was
Jiangxi’s Chai Sang; Chen Ziang was from Sichuan’s She Hong; Wang
Wei’s hometown was Shanxi’s Qi; Li He was from Henan’s Yi Yang; Du
Fu was born in Henan’s Gong; and Li Bai’s birthplace was Anxi’s Sui Ye.
In short, none of these poets came from big cities. They were born in
the countryside but became famous in the cities. As such, they might
feel nostalgic for their rural birthplaces. Anti-urbanism is a tradition of
Classical Chinese poetry continuing from Tao Qian onwards.
The similarities between the poetry of Tao Qian and Rong Zi are
notable. In addition to the theme of ‘returning to the gardens and fields,’
Rong Zi also expresses her hatred of city life in many of her poems. As
I mentioned before, Rong Zi tells the reader in her “July in the South”
and “Nymph’s Wishes” that she is tired of city life and claims that she
belongs to the world of nature. In “Chaotic Dreams,” the poetess com-
pares her living in the city to being in ‘a stranded boat.’ This comparison
echoes Tao’s images of the ‘caged bird’ and ‘fish in a pool’ in “Returning
to Dwell in Gardens and Fields I.” Why does Rong Zi embody Tao Qian’s
philosophy in her works?
Rong Zi’s experiences contribute to the development of her passion
for nature. Rong Zi was born in Jiangsu’s Yang Zhou. Although Yang
Zhou is a famous city in history, it is not a modern one. For instance,
in her poem “Yin de Lianxiang” [Associations With Drinking], Rong Zi
tells us that an image emerges in her mind when she recalls her child-
hood; namely, a well (Rong Zi, 1995c, 32). This information indicates
that Rong Zi did not live in a modern city, for she drank from a well. Her
family moved from one big city to another in order to escape from the
civil war and the Sino-Japanese war. As a result, Rong Zi received her
education in different missionary schools in Shanghai, Nanjing and so
forth. In other words, the pattern of Rong Zi’s early life resembles that of
the ancient poets and of the other modern writers chosen for analysis.
Rong Zi’s birthplace was rather rural but she was educated and pursued
a career as a civil servant in modern cities. She was then sent by the
KMT government to Taipei.
On the one hand, the poetess is similar to the poets and writers who
always felt nostalgic for their rural past. On the other hand, Rong Zi
is different from her predecessors in that she does not turn to nature
because of a failure in public life. In fact, the poetess had no ambition
to become a senior government official. The unhappiness embodied in
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Rong Zi’s poetry is caused by at least three factors: namely, her exile
experiences, the urbanization of Taipei and the personal identity crisis
resulting from her marriage to Lomen.
Following her marriage, Rong Zi felt tied to the home. The poetess was
different from other women, in that she discovered her talent for writing
poetry before her marriage, and thus considered herself an individual of
independent working capabilities. But marriage challenged her identity
as a poetess, and she ceased to write for a few years, due to the pres-
sures of trivial housework. Rong Zi says ‘home’ is an extremely trivial
but real living space to a housewife. Besides going to her offi ce everyday,
she also has had to deal with the many household chores. Since she was
never trained as a housewife, the household duties have become a heavy
burden on her. Her time is fragmented in a way she finds impossible to
transcend (Rong Zi, 1995a, 3). As Yu Guangzhong says, Rong Zi hesi-
tated after getting married between being ‘Mrs. Lomen’ and ‘Wang Rong
Zi’ (Xiao Xiao, 1995, 6). In addition, going to work intensified Rong Zi’s
already busy life. All these complicated feelings can be found in Rong
Zi’s poems that were written after her marriage. “Han Xia Zhi Ge” [The
Song of Dry Summer] is one example:
I walk across the alley every day
With time’s monotonous footsteps I walk out of the alley every day
To the street for my living lingering between my offi ce and dwelling
place
Is not a lovely musical pendulum which can remind me of
The songs of morning birds the fantasies of life or
The happiness of dreams (Rong Zi, 1995c, 116)
我每日走過小巷 / 流光的跫音單調我每日裡走出小巷 / 往生活的大

街在辦公室與住屋之間徘徊 / 卻不是一具可愛的音樂鐘擺可以為
我喚起 / 晨鳥的清唱生之遐想或 / 夢底歡暢
The first three lines of this passage show us the physical space or the
places in which the poetess spends most of her time. Expressions such as
‘monotonous footsteps’ and ‘not a lovely musical pendulum’ reflect Rong
Zi’s dislike for her life in the city. The poetess’s ideal is depicted in the last
two lines; she wishes to return to nature. This poem clearly shows us that
Rong Zi longs to return to the gardens and the fields because she does
not like her work or her home.
Rong Zi elaborates on the reason why she does not like her home in
“Chaotic Dreams.” As I discussed in Chapter Two, the ‘House of Light’
is a realization of Lomen’s poetic theory of ‘Third Nature.’ Since Rong
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180 chapter five
Zi’s imaginary homeland is nature, the ‘House of Light’ is Lomen’s ideal

home, not hers. In her poem “Chaotic Dreams,” Rong Zi describes her
unstable and disappointing living environment:
Our yurt can be carried away by wind
[. . .]
Time is packing
Us into a windowless small house (Rong Zi, 1995c, 40)
我們的蒙古包也會為風捲走 / . . . . . . 時間侷迫著 / 擠我們于無窗的小屋

These lines indicate that Rong Zi and Lomen do not have a permanent
home. Their home is like a yurt, which is the temporary home of the
Mongolians. Their apartment is small and windowless. One thing Rong
Zi does not mention in this poem is that the ‘House of Light’ is located
in the city. If we compare Rong Zi’s ideal home pictured in “Going Back
to Gardens and Fields” with the above passage, we can see that the poet-
ess had no choice but to turn to her imaginary world of nature. In short,
Rong Zi returns to the ancient Chinese pastoral tradition for reasons
different from the poets discussed previously.
Lomen’s ‘Third Nature’ theory and the ‘House of Light’ are so unique
that it is difficult to discern traditional Chinese elements in the poet’s
work. Nevertheless, if we examine the theory and the ‘House’ carefully,
we will find that Lomen based his ‘Third Nature’ on the ancient Chinese
pastoral tradition. The poet used three famous ancient pastoral poets—
Liu Zongyuan 柳宗元, Wang Wei and Tao Qian—to explain his poetic
ideal. As I pointed out in Chapter Two, Lomen’s ‘Third Nature Spiral
Structure’ consists of three elements: the circle, triangle and the pinnacle
of a spiral structure. The circle symbolizes the space of the countryside
or ‘First Nature,’ the triangle the space of the city or ‘Second Nature.’
The pinnacle of the spiral structure or ‘Third Nature’ is the most impor-
tant space in Lomen’s theory. According to Lomen, poets or artists must
transcend ‘First Nature’ and ‘Second Nature,’ because neither the coun-
try nor the city can satisfy their spiritual needs. In order to enrich their
spiritual lives, poets and artists must enter ‘Third Nature;’ which is a
home or a studio for all poets and artists (Lomen, 1995c, 5–6).
Lomen points out that ‘Third Nature’ or the poetic space is the home
for both Chinese and Western poets; however, he uses more Chinese
than Western poets to demonstrate his ‘Third Nature theory.’ Although
Lomen mentions T.S. Eliot, the poet does not use Eliot’s work to elabo-
rate on his theory. On the contrary, Lomen uses Wang Wei’s and Liu
Zongyuan’s poems to explain his theory in detail. Lomen highly praises
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the last line of Liu’s “Jiang Xue” [River Snow]: “Fishing for snow in icy
river alone”.17 According to Lomen, the best part of this line is that it
does not depict nature directly. When Liu writes this line, he transcends
the real world (‘First Nature’ and ‘Second Nature’) and reaches the poetic
space (‘Third Nature’) (Lomen, 1995c, 7).
In addition to using Classical Chinese poetry to demonstrate his
‘Third Nature’ theory, Lomen also embodies ancient poets’ works in
his poems. In “Da Xiagu Zoumingqu” [Grand Canyon Sonata], lines are
borrowed from Liu Zongyuan’s:
Millions of abysms sink from here
Numberless ↓ ↓ ↓ are running
downward after death
Stone houses disintegrate on the cliff
and their original blueprint cannot be found
Millions of paths have no human in sight
[. . .]
Was Whitman here
with his Western wagon?
Was Liu Zongyuan here
to fish the snow-capped river?
The silent barbaric fields and loneliness
never find out (Au, 2006, 93)
千萬座深淵在這裡沉落 / 無數向下的 ↓ ↓ ↓ / 追著死亡 / 所有的石屋

解體在石壁上 / 都找不到原來的建築圖 / 萬徑人蹤滅 . . . . . . / 至于 / 惠
特曼有沒有 / 駕著西部的蓬車來過 / 柳宗元有沒有 / 把寒江釣到這裡
來 / 從不說話的蠻荒與孤寂 / 都不知道
The sixth line of this quotation actually comes from Liu Zongyuan’s
“River Snow.” The second line of this poem reads: “Millions of paths
have no human in sight.” Although the lines “Was Liu Zongyuan here /
to fish the snow-capped river?” are not exact quotations of Liu’s poem,
they are, nevertheless, reminiscent of Liu’s “River Snow.”
In the last two lines of “River Snow,” a lone man is fishing for snow in
an icy river. Lomen asks in his poem if Liu went to the Grand Canyon to
go fishing in the ‘snow-capped river’? The similarities between Liu’s and
Lomen’s lines immediately indicate Liu’s influence on Lomen’s poetry.
Although Lomen also mentions Whitman in his poem, his poetry is not
embedded in Lomen’s works. It is interesting to note that Lomen seldom
mentions ancient Chinese poets in his poetry. Nevertheless, the poet
17
The original of this line is “獨釣寒江雪”.
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182 chapter five
not only mentions Liu’s name in this poem, but also uses Liu’s poems
to explain his ‘Third Nature’ Theory. Like all Confucian scholars who
wished to serve the government and did not win the favor of the court,
Liu turned to Taoism and Buddhism. In addition to Liu Zongyuan,
Lomen also uses two lines of Wang Wei’s “Han Jiang Lin Tiao” [Gaz-
ing Afar by the Han River] to demonstrate the importance of ‘Third
Nature’:
The grand river flows beyond heaven and earth,
Distant hills float and fade out by turns, it seems. (Xu, 1987, 76)
江流天地外, 山色有無中
According to Lomen, when Wang Wei wrote these lines he tried to bring
the inner world into harmony with ‘First Nature.’ As a result, both ‘First
Nature’ and the inner world transcend and enter ‘Third Nature,’ which is
an infinite space (Lomen, 1995c, 5–6). In fact, Wang’s lines indicate that
‘First Nature,’ or the world of nature, ‘fades out’ or dissolves. This only
happens in a poem or in ‘Third Nature.’ As was mentioned earlier, Wang
Wei was a Confucian scholar, and the poet turned to Taoism and Bud-
dhism after he lost court favor. Why does Lomen choose Liu Zongyuan
and Wang Wei to explain his poetic ideals? Does Lomen share similar
sentiments with Liu and Wang?
I believe that Lomen does, indeed, share some poetic ideals with Liu
and Wang. The reason why Lomen turns to ‘Third Nature,’ however, is
different from those of the ancient poets. Lomen was also a civil servant;
after he went to Taiwan, he served in the Civil Aviation Bureau. Even-
tually, at forty-nine, the poet quit his job. According to Lomen, life is
too short, and he wanted to concentrate on his writing (Zhou, 1995, 6).
Lomen, then, is different from Liu Zongyuan and Wang Wei who both
wished to serve the government. Lomen is also dissimilar from Tao Qian
who decided to leave public life due to corruption in the government.
Lomen’s interest is in creative writing; he devotes his life to poetry. His
works written in the past thirty years exemplify his devotion to poetry.
Changes in the political situation did not shake the poet’s mind. In other
words, Lomen’s decision to leave public life had nothing to do with the
government. I would like to suggest here that Lomen’s attitude toward
poetry and art is reminiscent of Taoism. Lao Siguang 勞思光 points out
that Taoism, among all traditional Chinese philosophies, best exempli-
fies the spirit of art. For example, the Taoist poets in the Weiji period
were thorough artists (Lao, 1998, 233). As a matter of fact, among all the
poets of the Weiji period, Lomen identifies himself with Tao Qian.
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In “Youran Jian Nanshan” [Gazing on South Mountain off in the Dis-

tance], Lomen uses a line from Tao Qian’s “Yin Jiu—Qi Wu” [Drinking
Wine V] as the title of his poem. Although Tao’s lines are not embedded
in Lomen’s poem, Lomen adopts the atmosphere or the mood of Tao’s
poem. In “Drinking Wine V,” Tao tells us of his life after he retired to the
countryside:
I built a cottage right in the realm of men,
yet there was no noise from wagon and horse.
I ask you, how can that be so?—
when mind is far, its place becomes remote.
I picked a chrysanthemum by the eastern hedge,
off in the distance gazed on south mountain.
Mountain vapors glow lovely in twilight sun,
where birds in flight join in return.
There is some true significance here:
I want to expound it but have lost the words. (Owen, 1996, 316)
結廬在人境, 而無車馬喧。問君何能爾, 心遠地自偏。採菊東籬下,

悠然見南山。山氣日夕佳, 飛鳥相與還。此中有真意, 欲辯已忘言。
Tao tells us in the poem that a person’s unsatisfactory living environ-
ment need not be a hindrance. As long as one's mind is in a far away
place, one is free and unrestrained to enjoy oneself. The kind of freedom
that Tao is referring to is a philosophical one. According to Tao, to have
leisure of mind is similar to having an empty mind. In other words, ide-
ally we have nothing in our minds, neither negative such as noises, nor
positive such as mountains. The lines “I picked a chrysanthemum by
the eastern hedge, / off in the distance gazed on south mountain” best
exemplify this state of mind. In fact, the south mountain is always there.
Tao implies, however, that he is not aware of the existence of the south
mountain. He seems to see the south mountain only by chance. After he
picks the chrysanthemum and looks up leisurely into the distance, the
mountain comes into his sight. Tao’s mind seems to be empty since the
mountain is not in his mind.
In “Gazing on South Mountain off in the Distance,” Lomen is prob-
ably comparing Tao’s carefree state of mind demonstrated in “Drinking
Wine V” to the state of mind achieved in ‘Third Nature’:
Morning is built of glass
lying on the visible transparent space
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184 chapter five
I am also the bottomless transparent space

which receives light’s visit
Only windows are looking at me
Sky is looking at me
My eyes are looking at me
My eyes are a road which come from far away
They come from the paper boats which transport fairy tales
from the warships which transport gunfire
from the clouds which transport the sky
Is there anything not changed into tasteless tobacco in my mouth?
I discharged urine everywhere when I was a child
When I grew up I shot legally
Until my eyes and windows and sky
look into morning
Is there anything not changed into the weak tea in my mouth?
When a bird hurls vastness and freedom
onto my roof
I pick it up with both hands What I embrace tightly is
myself
When I release the distant place replaces myself
everyone can go to south mountain
(Lomen, 1995c, 108–09)
清晨是玻璃蓋的 / 躺在那可見的透明裡 / 我也是那無底的透明 / 接受

光的訪問 / 只有窗在看我 / 天空在看我 / 我的眼睛在看我 / 我的眼
睛是從很遠走來的一條路 / 從運童話的紙船 / 到運炮火的艦艇 / 到運
天空的雲 / 還有什麼不成為那口煙中的淡遠 / 從小時隨便屙尿 / 到大
了依法放槍 / 到雙目與窗與天空 / 都望入了清晨 / 還有什麼不成為那
口茶中的淡泊 / 當一只鳥把空闊與自由 / 拋在我的樓頂上 / 我雙手撿
起緊緊抱住的 / 竟是我自己 / 一放開遠方便換了進來 / 任誰都去
成南山
This poem is divided into three parts. In the first stanza, Lomen implies
that he is in ‘Third Nature’ because transparent space and light are the
characteristics of the ‘Third Nature.’ The ‘warships’ and ‘gunfire’ of the
second stanza obviously remind us of ‘Second Nature.’ Lomen also
depicts different stages of his life: being a child, an adult and an old
man. The poet uses ‘paper boats,’ ‘warships’ and ‘clouds’ to represent
these various stages. ‘Paper boats’ refers to his childhood, ‘warships’
his adulthood, and ‘clouds’ his old age. When the poet was a child, he
played with paper boats. He became a soldier when he grew up. After
he retired, Lomen concentrated on his creative writing, sky and clouds
being important images in his poems. In fact, this life cycle implies one
more stage: death. War and death are two major threats in Lomen’s ‘Sec-
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ond Nature.’ It seems that we can never escape at least one of them—
death—unless we enter ‘Third Nature.’
In the last stanza, Lomen tells us how to reach ‘Third Nature.’ If we
want to be as free as a bird, we must release or empty our minds. When
our minds are emptied, we will reach the carefree state Tao Qian depicted.
Lomen’s ‘Third Nature,’ then resembles Tao Qian’s ‘south mountain’ in
his “Gazing on South Mountain off in the Distance.”
Why does Lomen consider his ‘Third Nature’ as Tao’s ‘south moun-
tain’? I think one reason is that both poets share similar poetic ideals. As
Ye Jiaying 葉嘉瑩 points out, the images depicted in Tao Qian’s poems
do not refer to actual things. These images undergo transformations,
reflecting Tao’s subjective ideas or mentality (Ye, 1997, 56). Likewise,
Lomen stresses that a poet should not directly depict what he sees. He
should transform the images with his mind’s eye. The ‘nature’ the poet
depicts is no longer the ‘nature’ of the real world. It is the poet’s subjec-
tive ‘nature.’
Tao Qian and Lomen not only share similar poetic ideals but also
similar imagery. For example, one of Tao’s favorite images is the bird.
Ye remarks that the birds Tao portrayed in his poems are not birds of
the real world but birds of Tao’s imagination. These birds combine vari-
ous characteristics of birds in the real world (Ye, 1997, 52). For instance,
‘the caged bird’ in “Returning to Dwell in Gardens and Fields I” sym-
bolizes the condition of Tao’s early period of life. When Tao worked for
the government, he was like ‘the caged bird’ who lost his freedom (Ye,
1997, 52).
In “Drinking Wine V,” Tao Qian writes that the ‘birds in fl ight join in
return.’ When Tao wrote this poem he had already returned to nature.
As such, the poet was free and the birds he depicted were free as well. It
is noteworthy that the birds return to their home. I think Tao’s descrip-
tion of the birds parallels his own experience. When the poet returned
to his home—nature—the birds in his poem returned to their homes,
too. In short, the birds in Tao’s poetry represent different states of the
poet's mind, rather than birds of the real world.
Similarly, the bird is Lomen’s favorite image, and the birds depicted
in his poems also have symbolic meanings. However, Lomen’s handling
of the image of the bird is rather different from Tao Qian’s treatment.
Tao used the characteristics, or the concept, of the birds to delineate a
state of mind which was always associated with his experience. Lomen
uses the birds’ characteristics to represent abstract ideas which are often
associated with his theory of ‘Third Nature.’ For example, the fact that
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186 chapter five
birds can fly is a significant characteristic to Lomen. The poet associates

the flight of birds with windows. Lomen writes in “Chaung de Shijie”
[The World of Windows]:
A window is the frame of nature
It is also the bird flying amid the scenery. (Au, 2006, 140)
窗是大自然的畫框 / 也是飛在風景中的鳥
Lomen describes a paradoxical relationship between bird and nature
in this poem. The first line reminds us that nature is restrained by the
window. In the second line, the bird is flying amid the scenery, which
means the bird, or the window, seems to be free in nature. Th e word
‘amid’ implies that the bird is not totally free because it is restrained, or
framed by, the landscape, or ‘First Nature.’ Tao Qian also portrays ‘the
caged bird’ in his poem. This is because Tao was trapped by the cor-
rupted world. After Tao returned to nature, the birds he depicted were
flying in the sky. It is noteworthy that when Lomen wrote “The World
of Windows,” he had long since resigned from his job. The poet quit his
post in 1977 and this poem was written in 1991. For these reasons, the
kind of freedom Lomen pursues is different from Tao’s.
I believe that Lomen wants to be emancipated from all materialistic
or physical forms or boundaries and to reach a purely spiritual state.
According to Lomen, the bird is not free until it reaches this state, and
this realm is in a remote place. In the last part of “Tao” [Escape], Lomen
clearly shows us how to be free:
Actually escape is the bird
When the scenery is naked in the mountains and rivers
the sky is naked above the clouds
the sea is naked under the stormy waves
the river is naked between the shores
you are naked inside the body
Eyes are naked when they look afar
Smoke is naked in mist
The bird when it flaps its wings
will be a thousand miles away (Au, 2006, 132)
其實逃就是那只鳥 / 當風景不穿衣服在山水中 / 天空不穿衣服在雲

上 / 海不穿衣服在風浪裡 / 河不穿衣服在兩岸間 / 你不穿衣服在身體
裡 / 眼睛不穿衣服在瞭望中 / 煙不穿衣服在飄渺裡 / 那只鳥一振翅 /
便是千里迢遙
Here Lomen associates the bird with an abstract concept—escape. The
bird is the concept itself. When everything such as the sky, the sea,
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the river and so forth return to their natural, simple and unadorned
state, the bird will be free; it will no longer be trapped in the scenery.
When the bird ‘flaps its wings,’ it travels a thousand miles. According
to Lomen, people return to their natural state when they take off their
clothes. Clothes are associated with material things. Lomen implies that
we should emancipate ourselves from material things in order to obtain
freedom.
In “Chen Qi” [Rising at Dawn], the physical form or the entity of the
bird disappears and turns into an idea:
I stand on the roof of dawn
taking a breath
flowers redden, foliage becomes verdant
the sky turns blue, mountains change to green
looking further
my feet have already trodden on the clouds
opening my arms
the sky and my chest meet
it turns out they are lighter than wings
If I do not fly at this moment
what makes a bird a bird?
how can my hands touch the distance? (Au, 2006, 89)
站在清晨的樓頂上 / 一呼吸 / 花紅葉綠 / 天藍山青 / 一遠看 / 腳已踩

在雲上 / 一張開雙手 / 天空與胸便疊在一起 / 反而較翅膀輕了 / 此刻
要是不飛 / 鳥那裡來的樣子 / 遠方怎能用手去摸
Lomen compares himself to a bird in this poem. He does not, however,
transform into the bird but instead shares the characteristics of the bird.
For example, he can fly; his arms are lighter than wings. The poet asks
‘what makes a bird a bird?’ According to Lomen, it is their flight that
makes them birds. Since the poet can fly, he is like the bird who can fly
into the distance. As I pointed out in “Gazing on South Mountain off in
the Distance,” the ‘distance’ refers to ‘Third Nature’ or Tao Qian’s ‘south
mountain.’ In short, the birds in Lomen’s poetry refer to certain qualities.
The poet implies that when we escape from materialistic things such as
clothes, our arms become as light as birds’ wings. As a result, we can fly
or reach far distances, which is the spiritual realm or ‘Third Nature.’
Lomen’s poetry and theory embody Chinese elements, but so does
his ‘House of Light.’ In fact, two of the lights in his home are made
of old rattan chairs (see Fig. 5.1) and one is made out of food steamers
(see Fig. 5.2 and Fig. 5.3). Lomen uses these traditional Chinese raw
materials to create his lights. These lights become the symbols of his
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188 chapter five
Fig. 5.1. This work of installation art is made of old rattan chairs.
Chung-to Au - 978-90-47-44299-8
Fig. 5.2. This lamp is made of different-sized food steamers.
Fig. 5.3. Another view of the food-steamer lamp.
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190 chapter five
‘Third Nature,’ which means their Chinese origins cannot be traced eas-
ily. This phenomenon coincides with Lomen’s poetry and theory. When
we read Lomen’s works, we cannot immediately discern the Chinese ele-
ments, because the poet uses traditional Chinese culture as raw materi-
als to create his new and original poetry and theory.
Homeland (Re)located
All the Taiwanese modernist poets I have chosen for my study tried to
develop a relationship with Chinese tradition through language, memo-
ries and the pastoral tradition. The relationship helps these poets con-
jure up an imagined literary community. In fact, the ancient Chinese
intellectuals always believed in a kind of invisible relationship. They
believed that they would be remembered through remembering their
predecessors. In an era in which nothing is certain, the Taiwanese mod-
ernist poets do not feel secure about their living space. As a result, these
poets return to their cultural roots and try to imagine a kind of invisible
relationship with the ancient Chinese poets.
On the surface, their decision seems to be a return to the traditional.
However, my analyses demonstrate that these poets do not directly
return to the tradition. As I pointed out in Chapter Four, every return is
a creation rather than a repetition. Therefore, the relationship between
the Taiwanese modernist poets and Chinese tradition becomes an inter-
active one. For instance, Zheng Chouyu rejuvenates the major themes of
Classical Chinese poetry. Yu Guangzhong and Luo Fu further develop
the tradition of remembering. These poets fabricate memories and turn
the process of remembering into an interactive activity. Rong Zi and
Lomen turn to the pastoral tradition for reasons different from their pre-
decessors. Lomen does not return to actual gardens and fields as other
ancient pastoral poets did, but goes to his dreamland—‘Third Nature’ or
a spiritual realm. In other words, the Taiwanese modernist poets have
developed a paradoxical relationship with the Chinese tradition. On the
one hand, these poets try to return to it, and on the other hand, they
want to escape from it.
This paradoxical relationship embodied in Taiwanese modernist
poetry implies that it is impossible for the cultural exiles to return to
their traditions. As I pointed out before, every returnee is also a traveler.
Before the Taiwanese modernist poets decided to return to the Chinese
tradition, they were all ‘cultural travelers.’ These poets have been under
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the influence of different literary and philosophical traditions. They are

similar to travelers who are away from home (or their traditions) for a
long time. Even when they eventually return home, these returnees can
never return to their tradition or origin. All they can attain is an amal-
gamation of their cultural experiences. This phenomenon is not unique
among the Taiwanese modernist poets; modernist poets and writers
from all over the world also face this problem.
In addition to the vertical comradeship that was discussed earlier, an
imagined literary community can also be found among the modernist
writers and poets from around the world. I believe this imagined space
is the most secure, for it is developed out of insecurity. In the age in
which ‘all that is solid melts into air,’ nothing seems to be secure except
insecurity itself.
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Chung-to Au - 978-90-47-44299-8
CHAPTER SIX
CONCLUSION
At the beginning of the twenty-first century, when postmodern aesthet-

ics is in its heyday, what could be the significance of studying modernist
aesthetics in Taiwanese poetry of the last century? My study demon-
strates that concern with space in postmodern aesthetics helps us to
understand the paradoxical characteristics of modern aesthetics more
thoroughly. Moreover, examining the idea of space embodied in Tai-
wanese modernist poetry helps to differentiate its aesthetics from that
of modernist poetry in Mainland China. Finally, modern people have
been driven to dwell in a condition of placelessness due to wars, exile,
urbanization and so forth. Taiwanese modernist poetry shows us how
people responded to their new living spaces.
A study of Taiwanese modernist poetry helps to supplement Baude-
laire’s dual formulation. Baudelaire does not say clearly what ‘the eter-
nal and the immovable’ refers to in his writings. I have suggested that
apparently immutable spaces such as the house, the city and the home-
land embody mutability. This does not mean that the house is one
half homely and one half unhomely. Likewise, we cannot tell the per-
centage of uncanniness the city has. Nor can we tell to what extent a
homeland is stable. On the contrary, imagination always reminds us of
something insubstantial and changeable. However, the home, repre-
sented by the imagined literary community, turns out to be a compara-
tively stable one.
In other words, the concepts of stability and instability become ambiv-
alent. Every concept embodies its opposite to some extent. This conclu-
sion echoes Marx’s and Nietzsche’s understanding of the contradictory
forces in which each change embodies both constructive and destruc-
tive factors. Although Baudelaire’s formulation suggests a similar idea,
this study shows that it is no longer a dual formulation of the mutable
and the immutable. This is because we cannot distinguish the ephemeral
from the eternal or vice versa.
The aesthetics embodied in Taiwanese modernist poetry not only dis-
tinguishes it from its Western counterparts but also differentiates it from
the aesthetics of Mainland China. Although Taiwanese modernist poets
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194 chapter six
read Western modernist literature, my study demonstrates that their

poetry is neither an inferior translation of Western modernist poetry
nor a continuation of Chinese modernist poetry from the Mainland.
It is true that Lomen’s city poetry is a kind of fable of Taipei, because
the city was yet to be developed in the 1950s. However, as I pointed out
before, the unreal city that Lomen created in his early poetry represents
his indifference toward the real Taipei at that time. Likewise, Luo Fu’s
surrealist poems collected in Death in the Stone Chamber were inspired
by his dwelling place—the stone chamber during wartime. Although Luo
points out that he was influenced by Western surrealist poetry when he
wrote the poems, the poet wrote about his own feelings in his works.
In short, Taiwanese modernist poetry is not an inferior translation, as
Lu Zhengwei claims, and it is not a continuation of Chinese modernist
poetry before 1949, as assumed by Tang Zhengxu and other critics. As
I have shown, Chinese modernist poets embrace changes; by contrast,
Taiwanese modernist poets search for eternity or an imagined literary
community.
Taiwanese modernist poetry also shows us the ways in which mod-
ern Chinese people tackle the condition of placelessness. It is notewor-
thy that Taiwanese modernist poets did not return to the tradition of
remembering at once. These poets’ responses to the condition of place-
lessness vary. Although at first they tried to escape from placelessness,
these poets gradually accommodated to it. This does not mean, how-
ever, that they no longer attempted escape from placelessness. In fact,
the themes of escaping from, and accommodating to, placelessness
alternately appear in these poets’ works.
Leonard Lutwack remarks that Western modernist writers try to
escape from placelessness by being in motion and through hallucination
(Lutwack, 1984, 224–30). According to Lutwack, people either throw
themselves in motion by means of traveling, or distort their places in
their works. Taiwanese modernist poets are no exception. Except for
Lomen, the other four poets Luo Fu, Rong Zi, Yu Guangzhong and
Zheng Chouyu are enthusiastic travelers. Travel not only provides an
opportunity for people to escape from the living places they dislike, but
also gives them a chance to look for a place where they might want to
settle down. As I mentioned before, Luo and Zheng eventually choose
to live in Canada and the United States, respectively. Rong Zi and Yu
decide to stay in Taiwan. Lomen chooses another way to escape from
placelessness; the poet distorts his house and Taipei through hallu-
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conclusion 195
cination. His house becomes the ‘House of Light;’ Taipei turns into an
unreal city.
On the one hand, the Taiwanese modernist poets try to escape from
placelessness; on the other they reach an accommodation with the con-
dition. First of all, these poets have drawn their inspiration from the
uncanniness of their living environment. Lomen’s ‘House of Light’ and
Luo Fu’s stone chamber are examples of unhomely homes. Th ese uncanny
spaces and the urbanization of Taipei give rise to spatial diseases, such
as claustrophobia and agoraphobia, which become the leitmotifs of the
poets’ works. Images such as windows, a tunnel, an enclosed chamber,
monstrous buildings and so forth are embodied in Taiwanese mod-
ernist poems. Taiwan also acted as a confining space, preventing these
poets’ return to Mainland China before 1987. This fact contributes to
the development of the theme of nostalgia.
Second, the Taiwanese modernist poets also try to do without place.
Their belief in Chinese culture is so strong that these poets return to Chi-
nese tradition and locate, or relocate, an imagined literary community.
In spite of the spatial and temporal differences, these poets believe that
their poetry will help them to achieve the eternal. In brief, the condition
of placelessness is also paradoxical. It deprives the poets of a physical
space, while providing them with a poetic one.
This study has examined modern aesthetics in Taiwanese poetry by
exploring the issue of space. In fact, spatial issues have been receiving
more and more attention in contemporary scholarship. Scholars inter-
ested in space come from various disciplines, including philosophy, cul-
tural geography, anthropology, history, art, literary criticism, and others.
Although my study is basically a literary one, I have incorporated cer-
tain modern philosophies (Bachelard and Heidegger), as well as theo-
ries of cultural geography (Relph, Tuan, Massey and Harvey), which are
related to the concept of dwelling. My discussion is far from a compre-
hensive one, however. Further spatial studies of Taiwanese modernist
poetry can be pursued in the areas of colonialism and post-colonialism,
gender, institutional power, and so forth.
My project has not exhausted this particular topic. However, perhaps
this is the most appropriate conclusion for the study of modernist aes-
thetics, because it exemplifies the spirit of the subject itself: an ending
embodies a beginning.
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Chung-to Au - 978-90-47-44299-8
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INDEX
Abbas, Ackbar, 6n6 city dwellers, 10–11, 35, 41, 58, 61,
Adorno, Theodor, 3–5 66–69, 72, 75–77, 86, 95, 97
aesthetics, 2–6, 8, 12, 14, 20, 23, 28, 30, city fable, 61, 194
193 colonized cities, 63
aesthetics of modernist architecture, 28 metropolis, 4
autonomy of aesthetics, 2–3 unreal city, 25, 62, 64–66, 71, 79, 194
modern aesthetics, 9–11, 16, 18, 193, Confucianism, 32, 145, 160, 162–63, 168,
195 175
modernist aesthetics, 2, 8, 12, 14, Confucius, 143, 147, 163
23–24, 26, 144, 193, 195 crowd, the, 10, 67, 69, 70–75, 77, 99
postmodern aesthetics, 193 Cultural China, 142–43
Anderson, Benedict, 141–43
anti-communist literature, 5, 146–47, 161 Derrida, Jacques, 101–02, 122
anti-communist propaganda, 2, 5 double, the idea of the, 34
combat literature, 32 Du Fu, 134, 173–75, 178
architecture, modernist, 31, 55 Du Weiming, 142–43
dark Space, 24, 30–31, 40, 47, 55
glass buildings, 28, 42, 45, 56, 80–81 Eagleton, Terry, 2–3, 5, 7
light space, 24, 30–31, 40–42, 55, 58 Eder, Doris, 16, 18
modern architecture, 15, 58, 80 Enlightenment, the dream of, 28, 30–31
transparency, 30, 45–46, 81 estrangement, 25, 80, 86, 89, 95–97
transparent space, 24, 28, 30–31, 35, excessive stimulation, 65
40, 42–44, 47, 55–56, 93, 183–84 exile(s), 4, 8, 21, 64n2, 94, 96–97, 103,
115, 122, 126, 168
Bachelard, Gaston, 12–15, 195 cultural exile, 114, 190
Baudelaire, Charles, 9–12, 18–19, 22, 62, exile, the state of being in, 6, 15–16,
71–72, 77–78, 145, 148, 156, 193 20–24, 27, 32–33n5, 55, 59, 63–66,
Baudrillard, Jean, 8 94, 96, 100–01, 105–06, 109, 123,
Benjamin, Walter, 10–11n11, 45, 71–72, 132–34, 138, 141, 146, 154, 158, 170,
74 173–74, 179, 193
Berman, Marshall, 8–9, 11–12, 16, 77 exiled writers (poets), 2, 6, 21, 25, 32,
Bloch, Ernst, 28 64–65, 95, 101, 123, 140–41
Boullee, Etienne-Louis, 30 diaspora, 4–6, 8, 23, 58, 101, 103, 114,
Buddhism, 22, 145, 160, 163, 168, 175, 182 138
Buddhist allegories, 172 displacement, 8, 16, 23, 109, 111–12,
buried Alive, 24, 33–35, 38, 47 123, 127–129, 148
Burke, Edmund, 29 double-exile, 23
stranger, Simmel’s definition of, 53,
Calinescu, Matei, 20 94–96, 134
Casey, Edward S., 14n12 vagabond(s), 94–96
Chen Ziang, 164–66, 168, 178
Chiang Kai-shek, 32, 160–61 flaneur, 62, 71–72, 74
Chow, Rey, 102–03 invisible persona, 62, 71, 73
Chuang Shiji, 22, 145–47 Freud, Sigmund, 14–15, 29–31, 33–34, 46,
city, modern, 6, 9–10, 19, 21, 24–25, 49, 53, 58, 79, 81–84, 92, 96, 105–06
39–41, 46–47, 49–50, 54, 58–59, Fussell, Paul, 8, 129–30
61–100 passim, 140–41, 177–80,
193–94 Gross, David, 15, 160, 169
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204 index
Hall, Stuart, 103, 114–15, 121

Harvey, David, 9, 12, 14–16, 40, 195 Lacan, Jacques, 101–02
Heidegger, Martin, 12–15, 195 Lan Xing, 22, 145–47
home(s), as a homely dwelling place, 7, Lao Siguang, 145n2, 182
15, 24, 27–59 passim, 81–82, 86–87, Le Corbusier, 15, 30, 45, 81
89, 100, 152–53, 176, 179, 180, 185, Lee, Leo Ou-fan, 20, 96n9, 142–43
187, 193, 195. See also homely space, Lehan, Richard, 21n15, 62–65, 68–72, 74,
homeland(s), as a physical location 78n6
building(s), Heidegger’s definition of, Levin, Harry, 7
12–14 Li Bai, 119, 150, 155–56, 163–68, 172–75,
cultural home, 109, 138, 149, 154 178
dwelling(s), Heidegger’s definition of, Li He, 169–70, 174, 178
12–15, 45, 47, 72, 195 Liu Zongyuan, 180–82
home, as woman’s body, 83–84 localities, 14
house(s), Bachelard’s idea of, 12–15, Loewe, Michael, 161–62
17, 24, 27–28, 35, 100, 129, 140–41, Lomen, 8–9, 21–22, 24, 27–28, 33, 35–47,
193–94 55–58, 61–62, 64–87, 89, 92–96,
language, as home, 23, 25, 139, 140–41, 98–100, 123, 145, 148, 175, 179,
144, 148–49, 190 180–87, 190, 194–95
spiritual home (ideal and imagined Lu Xun, 131–32
home), 25, 32, 139, 149, 175–76. Luo Fu, 8–9, 21–22, 24, 27–28, 32–33,
See also homeland, as a dreamscape, 35, 47–58, 61, 65, 79, 100, 104, 123–29,
cultural home 131–34, 139, 145–46, 148–49, 154–56,
homeland(s), as a physical location, 8–9, 159, 161–62, 169–75, 190, 194–95
24–25, 53, 86, 89, 94, 97, 100–01, Lutwack, Leonard, 7, 16, 194
103–04, 106, 108–09, 112, 115
123–26, 128–29, 133–34, 137, 139–41, Macherey, Pierre, 61
168, 193 map, as an image, 105, 108–114, 121, 163
homecoming, 25, 103–04, 112, 122–24, Marx, Karl, 9–11, 193
126–31 Marxism, 32
homeland, as a dreamscape, 90–94, Massey, Doreen, 14, 195
105, 107, 132, 135–36, 148–49, 157, Melville, Herman, 33–34, 38
175, 180, 190 memory, 8, 13–15, 25, 44, 103, 107, 114,
Huang Chun-chieh, 161–62 121, 126, 128, 140–41, 144–45, 147,
160–61, 164, 166, 169–70, 174–75, 190
identity, 23, 50, 84, 103–05, 114, 118, collective memory, 160
129–30, 139–40, 153, 169, 174, 179 fabrication of memories, 25, 145, 148,
cultural identity, 103–04, 114–19, 121 156–57, 159–61, 164–66, 169–70,
imagined literary community, 21, 24–25, 174–75, 190
140–41, 143–45, 148, 154, 156, 159, individual memory, 160, 174
162, 164–66, 168, 175, 190–91, 193–95 loss of memory (amnesia), 161
horizontal comradeship, 25, 141, memory crisis, 160–61
143–47 modernism, as a literary movement,
imagined communities, 141–43 4–8, 12, 18, 20–21, 23, 32, 62, 65, 71,
vertical comradeship, 25, 143–44, 144
147–48, 191 Chinese modernist poetry, 1, 20, 140,
inferior translation, Taiwanese modernist 193–94
poetry as an, 2, 194 Taiwanese modernist poetry (poems),
inward turn, 65–66, 72 1–2, 4–6, 18, 22–24, 27, 33, 61, 79,
99–100, 136, 144, 193–95
James, William, 79–80 modernity, 7, 10–12, 15, 20–21, 27–28,
Ji Xian, 145–46, 148 45, 58, 175
Jing Ke, 154, 157–59 mutable, the, 8–10, 12–13, 15–16, 18–20,
22, 193
Kaplan, Alice Yaeger, 149 ephemeral, the, 10–11, 18, 20, 109, 193
Chung-to Au - 978-90-47-44299-8
index 205
eternal, the, 10–13, 109, 117, 193, Rong Zi, 8–9, 21–22, 35, 38, 42–43,
195 46–47, 55–58, 61–62, 65–66n3, 79,
immutability, 12, 22–23, 151. See also 85–92, 94, 97–98, 100, 104, 145, 148,
the immutable 175–80, 190, 194
immutable, the, 8–10, 12–13, 15–16,
18, 22, 193 Sarup, Madan, 103
mutability, 9, 12, 22–23, 151, 193. See also Schelling, F. W. J., 29, 31
the mutable shifting ground, 25, 100–102, 104, 124,
134, 139–40
Nietzsche, Friedrich, 9–11, 31, 193 Simmel, Georg, 65, 68, 89, 94–96
Nixon, Rob, 103, 122–23 space, as a concept, 6n6, 12–16, 39–40,
nostalgia, 6, 8, 62, 86, 97, 103–07, 110, 57–58, 117, 120–121, 161, 180, 193,
116, 124, 126, 129, 135, 137, 154, 195
195 claustrophobic space, 58
Nostalgic feelings, 2, 8, 11, 21, 25, 73, gender (space), 58, 82, 85, 195
91–93, 107–08, 123–24, 129, 138, imaginative space, 8, 16, 24–25, 43, 46,
178 57, 93, 140, 191
yearning, 25, 92, 101, 104, 107, 111, living space(s), 6, 8, 16, 41, 58–59, 62,
123, 177 86, 89, 93–94, 100, 141, 179, 190,
193
Owen, Stephen, 143, 147–48, 163, 165, poetic space(s), 16, 40–41, 46, 56–57,
168, 170, 173 62, 86, 100, 180–81, 195
space, as a geometrical locality, 13, 24,
pastoral tradition (return to nature), 25, 27, 34–35, 55, 57–58, 79–81, 85–86,
87, 140, 145, 148, 175, 177–79, 180, 88–89, 91, 93–94, 98, 100, 106, 179,
185, 190 195. See also homely, space, home
place(s), as a concept, 6–8, 12, 14, 18, and house
22–25, 43, 133, 140–41, 155, 177, 186 urban space, 67, 79–82, 85–86, 89, 92,
place, as a physical locality, 2, 8, 14, 94, 96, 97, 100
16–17, 28, 33, 43, 46, 49, 53, 55, Sphinx, 84–87
57–58, 64, 66, 70–71, 81, 83–85, 87, Su Dongbo (Su Shi), 134, 155–56,
89, 92, 105–06, 109, 111–12, 122, 164–65, 168, 175
124–25, 128, 133, 135–39, 141, sublime, 29–31, 40
153–54, 173, 178–79, 183, 194–95 Homeric sublime, 29, 31–32
placeless, 6, 25, 140–41
placelessness, 6–8, 16–18, 20–25, 140, Tan Zihao, 146–47n4
193–95 Tao Qian (Tao Yuanming), 176–78, 180,
poststructuralist theories, 25, 100–01, 182–83, 185–87
103, 134, 139–40 Taoism, 145, 160, 163, 168, 174–75, 177,
center, 101–02, 122, 133, 135–36 182
fixed origin, 100–04, 106, 122, 124, Terdiman, Richard, 160
134, 139–140 time, Chinese conceptions of, 155, 159,
lost origin, 25, 104–08, 110 161–62, 165, 167–68, 170, 174
mythic origin, 104, 110, 112, 114, 134 cyclical, 161–62
origin, 7, 25, 101–05, 109, 111–14, linear, 161–62
122, 124, 126–27, 134, 139–40, 191 reciprocal, 161–62, 164–65, 167–68,
structure, 101–02 170, 174
supplement, 102 time, spatialization of, 9, 12, 14–16
travel, 16, 25, 104, 112, 114, 129–31, 153,
Qu Yuan, 134, 159, 172–74 157–59, 164, 166–68, 174, 187, 194
explorer, 130
Relph, Edward, 6n6–7, 195 locals, 129–30, 132
remembering, the Chinese tradition of, non-tourist, 130
143, 147–48, 161, 163, 165, 175, 190, returnees, 103, 129–30, 150–51,
194 190–91
Chung-to Au - 978-90-47-44299-8
206 index
tourist(s), 88, 129–32, rural over urban model, 175–80

traveler(s), 129–30, 133, 190–91, 194 passim
Trinh T. Minh-ha, 130
Tuan Yi-fu, 6n6, 14n12, 195 Vidler, Anthony, 14–15, 28–29, 31n3,
33–35, 38, 45, 49, 79–81, 89, 94
uncanny (space), Freud’s definition of
the, 14–15, 27–31, 33–35, 40, 46, 49, Wang Gengwu, 143
58–59, 62, 65, 70–73, 81, 84, 96, 100, Wang Wei, 124–25, 167–68, 170–75, 178,
105–06, 124, 126–29, 195 180, 182
homely, space, home and house, 14–15, Weiss, Timothy F., 65–66
24, 27–29, 31, 33, 35, 40, 47, 49, 55, Williams, Raymond, 4–6, 89
58, 72–73, 141, 193 Wison, Elizabeth, 84–86
uncanniness, 15, 24, 27–28, 31, 33–35, Wood, Denis, 109–10
45–49, 55, 58, 70, 79, 81, 84, 98, 104, Wu Kuang-ming, 161–62
123–24, 127, 193, 195
unhomely, space, home and house, Xiandai Pai, 22, 145–47
14–15, 24, 27–29, 59, 89, 127, 193,
195 Ye Jiaying, 174n16, 185
urban uncanny, 25, 46, 72, 79–82 Yeh, Michelle, 2n2, 4–5, 19, 22n17, 146,
passim, 85, 87 148, 155
urban diseases, 79, 94, 97, 195 youxia, 158–59
agoraphobia, 58, 79, 80, 82, 97–98, 195 Yu Guangzhong, 8–9, 21–22, 61–62,
claustrophobia, 57–58, 195 65, 79, 89, 91–92, 94, 100, 103–121,
haptophobia, 89 123–24, 134, 140, 144–46, 148, 159–68,
neurasthenia, 94, 97 174–75, 179, 190, 194
urbanization, 4, 6, 17, 20–21, 23–24, 27,
31, 39, 41, 80, 89, 92, 179, 193, 195 Zheng Chouyu, 8–9, 21–22, 61–62, 65,
anti-urbanism, 9, 21, 24, 61–62, 79, 91, 79, 96–97, 100, 104, 134–40, 145,
99, 175, 178 148–54, 157–59, 190, 194
Chung-to Au - 978-90-47-44299-8

(9789004167070 - Modernist Aesthetics in Taiwanese Poetry Since The 1950s) Modernist Aesthetics in Taiwanese Poetry Since The 1950s

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(9789004167070 - Modernist Aesthetics in Taiwanese Poetry Since The 1950s) Modernist Aesthetics in Taiwanese Poetry Since The 1950s

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Modernist Aesthetics in Taiwanese Poetry

since the 1950s

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Copyright 2008 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated,

Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by

printed in the netherlands

Chapter One Introduction ............................................................ 1

Chapter Two Unhomely Houses .................................................. 27

Chapter Three Imagining Taipei .................................................. 61

Chapter Four Homelands as Shifting Ground ........................... 101

Chapter Five Imagined Literary Community: Language,

Chapter Six Conclusion ................................................................. 193

Bibliography ........................................................................................ 197

2.1 The location of Lomen’s ‘House of Light’ in Taipei.

The translation of a Chinese text is mine, if the source is in Chinese. I

I have found much of the discussion on Taiwanese modernist poetry

jugates, and so operating as a supremely effective mode of political hege-

Raymond Williams further elaborates on the relationship between

urbanization. Nevertheless, the modernist sentiment in the West, as

‘Place’ and ‘Placelessness’

The phenomenon of ‘placelessness’ is a problem of modernity that is

The Mutable and the Immutable

Harvey notices the emphasis of Berman and of those thinkers Ber-

concludes that building is really comparable to dwelling. (Heidegger,

According to Vidler, the unhomely home is a by-product of modernity.

Additionally, if the ‘spatialization of time’ merely means to put thoughts

The Poetic Space

Modernist writers’ attitudes toward ‘lost places’ are ambivalent. On the

everything rapidly. Since reality is ephemeral, Proust tries to accommo-

Taiwanese Modernist Aesthetics

The paradoxical relationship between the mutable and the immutable,

行到街頭乃有汽車馳過, / 乃有郵筒寂寞。/ 郵筒 PO / 乃記不起

to Malcolm Bradbury, modernism finds its home in cities (Bradbury,

Mengdie 周夢蝶 invented a world based on Buddhism in his work.

are derived from the opposition of ‘place’ and ‘placelessness,’ namely,

Can a study of modernist aesthetics in Taiwanese poetry have a con-

A house as a ‘home’ is always considered a secure and ‘homely’ space.

poetry. I will try to answer the questions mentioned above by examining

‘Homely’ and ‘Unhomely’

In The Architectural Uncanny, Anthony Vidler directly points out the

In his celebrated article “The Uncanny,” Freud thoroughly treats the

In other words, if there is no terror, the sublime will not be possible.

the above-mentioned factors made a ‘homely home’ impossible in Tai-

The difficulties of finding ‘homely homes’ in the Chinese context are

Fig. 2.4. The living room of Lomen’s ‘House of Light.’

to Lomen, the relationship between ‘First Nature’ and ‘Second Nature’

When the phono stylus draws a spiral tower

鑽石針劃出螺旋塔 / 所有的建築物都自目中離去 . . . . . . / 我的心境美

它不是只停在那裡 / 隔音擋灰的玻璃大廈 / 而是一不斷燃燒發光的 /

坐在凝眸中 / 你是自光中流出的透明 / 也是在透明中流動的 / 那面

門窗緊閉 示以堅然的拒絕 / 帘幕垂下 完成幽美的孤立 / 外面是消

It is noteworthy that, on the one hand, Lomen tells us that he always

猛力一推 雙手如流 / 總是千山萬水 / 總是回不來的眼睛 / 遙望裡 /

Eyes look out

眼睛從屋裡 / 方形的窗 / 看出去 / 立即被高樓一排排 / 方形的窗 /

innocent characters of the people of the country. As such, living in a

紫羅蘭色的圓燈罩下 光流著 / 藍玉的圓空下 光流著 / 邱吉爾的圓禮

The Dark Space

While the ‘House of Light’ may be an example of being figuratively bur-

那一陣子, 清明節, 我們在碑中醒著 . . . . . . / 我們仍住在死中

We will never find our seventh day from the fire

門窗緊閉示以堅然的拒絕 / 帘幕垂下完成幽美的孤立 / 外面是消

猛力一推雙手如流 / 總是千山萬水 / 總是回不來的眼睛 / 遙望裡 /

紫羅蘭色的圓燈罩下光流著 / 藍玉的圓空下光流著 / 邱吉爾的圓禮

建築物的層次托住人們的仰視 / 食物店的陳列紋刻人們的胃壁 / 櫥

禮拜日人們經過六天逃亡回來 / 心靈之屋經牧師打掃過後 / 次日又

都市白晝纏在你頭上黑夜披在你肩上 / 你是不生容貌的粗陋的腸胃

都市在終站的鐘鳴之前 . . . . . . / 你是等于死的張目的死 / 死在酒瓶裡

你便走上世界的頂點 / 抱著她滑下來 / 那終點 / 不就是你的家

我們的城不再飛花在三月 / 到處蹲踞著那龐然建築物的獸—— / 沙

意識的手便迅速推開此間 / 人雜市鬧的旺角和 / 維多利亞海峽不安

多雲彩多虹橋多夢的城 / 只是左搖右晃前顧後盼 / 都不是那江南岸 /

一把綠色小傘是一頂荷蓋 / 紅色朝暾黑色晚雲 /. . . . . . 而且能夠行