Nan Shan

SOUTHERN HILL RECORD
 

A rough translation of chosen pages from
“RECUEIL DE LA COLLINE DU SUD”
first published by Les Deux Océans, Paris 1997

Pagination de l’original 7

INTRODUCTION



Having departed nobody knows where from, nobody knows when, in search of the Great Truth of Buddhism, disguised as a monk, boarding on a sampan, you are sailing up the Mekong to the north, smashing mosquitoes on your shaved head full of the usual troubles. Shivering with fever, you cross without noticing the Chinese border, somewhere in the Country of A Thousand Paddies. The river – from which one can sometimes glimpse in the far distance the roof of a Thai temple with corners bent skyward and furnished with mirrors and bells meant to frighten devils – then takes its Chinese name, Lancangjiang. You watch gold seekers working on the banks, women wearing colourful clothes washing their long black hair in the river with graceful and unknown gestures.
Walking across the mountain jungles of Xishuangbanna inhabited by tigers and fierce populations who grow poppy, Lahus, Hanis, Jinuos, Miaos, begging your food in villages where you are welcome by wild dogs, dreadfully emaciated, you reach the Simao tea groves. After being robbed in a dirty inn, you have at last arrived in South China.
Soon the Theravada monks wearing saffron gowns vanish, replaced by the brown and black gowns of the Chan sect. Reaching Yunnanfu, nowadays called Kunming, you head up toward the old capital of the Nanzhao kingdom, Dali, and you go on northbound, sometimes passing a lama clad in a prune gown, a Na or a Tibetan. No paddies anymore. The air is crisp, the light is clear. Discovering a snowed-up peak surrounded by a heap of clouds, you suddenly realise you’ve reached the first spurs of the Himalaya. A few days later, journeying toward Sichuan, after many setbacks caused by your faulty mandarin, you finally reach Nan Shan, the Southern Hill. Talking to a young monk in the village temple, you learn that a fierce master may have lived up there in the old days, growing squash and dwarf trees, wearing the very name of the mountain.
His shack, it seems, still stands, no far away from the ruins of an old monastery where he sometimes dispensed teachings, reportedly of little orthodoxy.
Entering the small valley on a mossy path, you climb up the endless stone stairs through a forest of giant bamboos on which the pilgrims engraved poems, a kôan, a lover’s name.
Later, reaching a rocky opening where lone knotty pine trees overlook a hazy waterfall, you discover a lonesome pavilion not far away from the track.
You call – nobody !
Now it’s getting cold, night is already here. After hesitating a while, you step inside the shack. A bed, a table, your gaze falls upon a book, a sort of old book of spells on which you make out these words: “South Hill Record.”
You notice that your heart has started to beat imperceptibly to a duller beat. Without any reason to think so, you know that you are getting close to something that will carry a lot of weight.
Do not hurry, light a fire in the hearth, light the lamp, pay attention.
Have a good reading: Go slowly!

9
???

NANSHAN LU

South hill record




Old now, white beard, here I am retired on Southern Hill, living poorly from growing dwarf trees. Wife and child gone, solitude. Acres of land, more than needed, the woods cover the hill slopes, bramble and nettle grow by my door. Old pine tree bent over the house, grove where the squirrel comes and eats hazelnuts.
Up before dawn, cold room, painful body. A few embers in the fireplace, dry twigs, piled logs. Bending down, I blow and the flame rises.
Bread crusts from the shed. Sitting in front of the teacup, memories of long-gone days, solitude. Tears running down my wrinkled face, I laugh. Who cares about wisdom ? Ignorant now, old wood whitened by the years.

Mouse droppings, straw broom on the worn stone, eyes damaged from writing, seeing the dust no more. Dead leaves swirl in the doorway, clear sun.
During the night the fields covered with frost, I split my wood. Noise of an axe in the forest suddenly breaking the silence, who can ear it ?
Afternoon, clouds coming in from the west, springing from the cliff top. Clouds in a hurry, flying east, flying east.

***


In the past fear like a poison, inexhaustible spring of vain thought. Roaming the dusty world, carrying a thousand impossible loads. Offices and dignities, self-achievement like a bundle of thorns carried on the back. Today on Southern Hill, deep spring, mute, mysterious and clear. I go and draw water at the foot of the cliff. On the path, trampled grass slowly straightens up again. Sitting by the pond, spider hanging on its thread. Unaware of the nature of things, afflictions forgotten.

Late in the night, sitting on the cushion, folded legs, red dot at the incense tip. Heart focused, nightingale song, nothing but itself. No moon tonight. In the attic the mice nibble the sutras, read them, wander in the three worlds.
Invisible, unseizable and mute, dark, dark and deep is this understanding, who can understand ?


Once had a wife, a woman of the world. Sitting in the house, already old, feeding and keeping watch over the child. Day after day, watching him grow, teaching him how to walk. House burned, wife went to town like a butterfly attracted to the light. No family anymore, Nanshan is back on Southern Hill, old gardener. Potted trees on the wooden shelves, pines and junipers, elms, maples. Clipping and pruning like the old master, old fool speaking to trees. Abrupt trunks, bare bark, age-old patina, powerful roots, twisted branches, fresh leaves. Green cedar needles, blue sky. Landscapes on stone trays, one square inch, the whole universe. Venerable trees, sun, wind and storm engraved in their whitened wood like Buddha’s relics. Pulling up the ever returning weeds, no worry.

Early morning, gone to the mountain, walking up the torrent bed, climbing up the boulders. Mist over the valley, peaks breaking through the clouds, floating world. Higher in the mountain, bare rocks, pure sky, powerful earth and sky. At the cliff’s edge, bushy shrubs exposed to the sun and cold, tormented by the winds, dwarfish already. Old Nanshan is digging. Old jute bags, heavy bundles swiftly loaded on his back. Dwarf cherry tree, tormented beech, here is the day’s harvest. Rules of the silent transmission, countless and difficult, seasons and moon times, this is what the gesture forgets. In the singular and absent gesture, the three bodies actualize.



Old Nanshan, no Way. Settled on the hill, clear days, cold and silent nights. Autumn buds, silky catkins, here’s the promise. Powers retired into the earth, silent ripening. Red cornel tree trunk, winter flowering, joyful. Spring birds, speedwells on the blue path. Chicories on the slopes, closed, lazy in the morning. In the very heart of summer the fall already lies, here is the secret.

Cabbages, pumpkins, bending down, working the soil, tired, leaning on my stick, raising my nose. Two geese up in the sky, travelling.

Old rascal in the market place, doe-eyed and silky-skinned woman. Small hands, round nails, black hair. Embroidered cloth scattered on the bed. Brown nipples, dark, dark, lithe body and faint moan, the dragon’s thirst is quenched in the soft cave. In one glance, all the river’s waters from the spring to the sea. Old Nanshan, gone off again on the hill’s lane, singing. Fording the river, passing the bamboo grove, a steep and rocky trail.

Monastery bell, on the track’s edge, raised rocks, venerable trees. Buildings, old stones, noble and useless, curved roofs, a courtyard where the incense burns. Kowtowing to the buddhas, paying a visit to old Wushi, fine, fat and noisy. Eating among bald heads. Vain monks searching for the spirit, salivating at the bell’s call, a thousand rules bring trouble. Back on the hill at nightfall, stars in the sky, pine tree smells, feet knowing the path. Past the spring, brooklet babbling, soon to be home. The fire is out, shaking the poker, a thousand curses. Solitude found again, boundless and still.


***


Old Wushi visiting, friendly tea, sitting on the wooden stoop. Silence, monkish words, stories from the world down below. Water drawn from the wooden bucket, cast iron kettle, antique bowls, simplicity.
Late evening, wine bottle from the monastery, chestnuts roasted on the embers, laughing out loud sometimes. When the moon is up, a few rare snowflakes, farewell to the guest on the stoop, lifting high the lantern.
In the morning, old barefoot women, rough, highlanders walking down to the village, calling at my door. Old embroidered black clothes, poor and bending under their baskets. Carrying mountain herbs, giving three sweet pears, old Nanshan is laughing.

Rubbing the ink-stone, swift paintbrush emulating the motion and the words of elders, without thinking. Once upon a time, obsessed with writings, looking for the Way. Masters owning the seven samadhis, quick-tempered and deceitful. Master the three states of consciousness, disenchanted, sour angry face, acid stomach, what’s the use ? Seeing with one’s eyes, here is the difficulty. Lightly, heavily, old Nanshan is sleeping. Dreams of does on the mountainside, at the snows’ edge.
Knowledge, power, possessions – three evils haunting the dusty world. Dark and ignorant is the root, to return to it, here’s the way. One sutra, ten commentators, a hundred exegetes, ten thousand lost people. Clinging to concepts, like clinging to the production chain. Giving up the aim, giving up the cause, unknowing, old Nanshan eats his pears, joyful.

Flower fragrances scattered in the wind, golden powder collected in the calyx, from which bees make their honey.

***


Southern Hill, old Nanshan, last days.
Lying on his right side, muttering, old Nanshan is giving back his flesh, blood, sinew and bones, old Nanshan is dying.
Gone, gone, absolutely gone, Old Nanshan was never born.
Venerable pine tree bent over the house, a squirrel comes and eats hazelnuts, everything is quiet and silent.

The end page (4) .