I’m now translating appears in the Second Reader .”
“Stop talking rubbish. I suppose this is your idea of a last minute squaring of accounts for the peacocks’ tongues?”
“I’m not a braggart like you,” says my master and twists his mustache. He is perfectly composed.
“Once when someone asked Sanyo whether he’d lately seen any fine pieces of prose, that celebrated scholar of the Chinese classics produced a dunning letter from a packhorse man and said,‘This is easily the finest piece of prose that has recently come to my attention.’ Which implies that your eye for the beautiful might, contrary to one’s expectations, actually be accurate. Read your piece aloud. I’ll review it for you,” says Waverhouse as if he were the originator of all aesthetic theories and practice. My master starts to read in the voice of a Zen priest, reading that injunction left by the Most Reverend Priest Daitō. “‘Giant Gravitation,’” he intoned.
“What on earth is giant gravitation?”
“‘Giant Gravitation’ is the title.”
“An odd title. I don’t quite understand.”
“The idea is that there’s a giant whose name is Gravitation.”
“A somewhat unreasonable idea but, since it’s a title, I’ll let that pass.
All right, carry on with the text. You have a good voice. Which makes it rather interesting.”
“Right, but no more interruptions.” My master, having laid down his prior conditions, begins to read again.
Kate looks out of the window. Children are playing ball. They throw the ball high up in the sky. The ball rises up and up. After a while the ball comes down. They throw it high again: twice, three times. Every time they throw it up, the ball comes down. Kate asks why it comes down instead of rising up and up. “It is because a giant lives in the earth,” replies her mother. “He is the Giant Gravitation. He is strong. He pulls everything toward him. He pulls the houses to the earth. If he didn’t they would fly away. Children, too, would fly away. You’ve seen the leaves fall, haven’t you? That’s because the Giant called them. Sometimes you drop a book. It’s because the Giant Gravitation asks for it. A ball goes up in the sky. The giant calls for it. Down it falls.
“Is that all?”
“Yes, isn’t it good?”
“All right, you win. I wasn’t expecting such a present in return for the moat-bells.”
“It wasn’t meant as a return present, or anything like that. I translated it because I thought it was good. Don’t you think it’s good?” My master stares deep into the gold-rimmed spectacles.
“What a surprise! To think that you of all people had this talent. . .
Well, well! I’ve certainly been taken in right and proper this time. I take my hat off to you.” He is alone in his understanding. He’s talking to himself. The situation is quite beyond my master’s grasp.
“I’ve no intention of making you doff your cap. I translated this text simply because I thought it was an interesting piece of writing.”
“Indeed, yes! Most interesting! Quite as it should be! Smashing! I feel small.”
“You don’t have to feel small. Since I recently gave up painting in watercolors, I’ve been thinking of trying my hand at writing.”
“And compared with your watercolors, which showed no sense of perspective, no appreciation of differences in tone, your writings are superb. I am lost in admiration.”
“Such encouraging words from you are making me positively enthusiastic about it,” says my master, speaking from under his continuing mis-apprehension.
Just then Mr. Coldmoon enters with the usual greeting.
“Why, hello,” responds Waverhouse, “I’ve just been listening to a terrifically fine article and the curtain has been rung down upon my moat-bells.” He speaks obliquely about something incomprehensible.
“Have you really?” The reply is equally incomprehensible. It is only my master who seems not to be in any particularly light
“Stop talking rubbish. I suppose this is your idea of a last minute squaring of accounts for the peacocks’ tongues?”
“I’m not a braggart like you,” says my master and twists his mustache. He is perfectly composed.
“Once when someone asked Sanyo whether he’d lately seen any fine pieces of prose, that celebrated scholar of the Chinese classics produced a dunning letter from a packhorse man and said,‘This is easily the finest piece of prose that has recently come to my attention.’ Which implies that your eye for the beautiful might, contrary to one’s expectations, actually be accurate. Read your piece aloud. I’ll review it for you,” says Waverhouse as if he were the originator of all aesthetic theories and practice. My master starts to read in the voice of a Zen priest, reading that injunction left by the Most Reverend Priest Daitō. “‘Giant Gravitation,’” he intoned.
“What on earth is giant gravitation?”
“‘Giant Gravitation’ is the title.”
“An odd title. I don’t quite understand.”
“The idea is that there’s a giant whose name is Gravitation.”
“A somewhat unreasonable idea but, since it’s a title, I’ll let that pass.
All right, carry on with the text. You have a good voice. Which makes it rather interesting.”
“Right, but no more interruptions.” My master, having laid down his prior conditions, begins to read again.
Kate looks out of the window. Children are playing ball. They throw the ball high up in the sky. The ball rises up and up. After a while the ball comes down. They throw it high again: twice, three times. Every time they throw it up, the ball comes down. Kate asks why it comes down instead of rising up and up. “It is because a giant lives in the earth,” replies her mother. “He is the Giant Gravitation. He is strong. He pulls everything toward him. He pulls the houses to the earth. If he didn’t they would fly away. Children, too, would fly away. You’ve seen the leaves fall, haven’t you? That’s because the Giant called them. Sometimes you drop a book. It’s because the Giant Gravitation asks for it. A ball goes up in the sky. The giant calls for it. Down it falls.
“Is that all?”
“Yes, isn’t it good?”
“All right, you win. I wasn’t expecting such a present in return for the moat-bells.”
“It wasn’t meant as a return present, or anything like that. I translated it because I thought it was good. Don’t you think it’s good?” My master stares deep into the gold-rimmed spectacles.
“What a surprise! To think that you of all people had this talent. . .
Well, well! I’ve certainly been taken in right and proper this time. I take my hat off to you.” He is alone in his understanding. He’s talking to himself. The situation is quite beyond my master’s grasp.
“I’ve no intention of making you doff your cap. I translated this text simply because I thought it was an interesting piece of writing.”
“Indeed, yes! Most interesting! Quite as it should be! Smashing! I feel small.”
“You don’t have to feel small. Since I recently gave up painting in watercolors, I’ve been thinking of trying my hand at writing.”
“And compared with your watercolors, which showed no sense of perspective, no appreciation of differences in tone, your writings are superb. I am lost in admiration.”
“Such encouraging words from you are making me positively enthusiastic about it,” says my master, speaking from under his continuing mis-apprehension.
Just then Mr. Coldmoon enters with the usual greeting.
“Why, hello,” responds Waverhouse, “I’ve just been listening to a terrifically fine article and the curtain has been rung down upon my moat-bells.” He speaks obliquely about something incomprehensible.
“Have you really?” The reply is equally incomprehensible. It is only my master who seems not to be in any particularly light
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