| 中文摘要 |
Let's say the imagined reader is a Norwegian—and so, immediately a lot of things that I might write go out the window. I think, I can't make local references to things in London that would be incomprehensible to the guy in Norway; I can't make too many puns or use that line I was so proud of just because the words are so neat and come out so beautifully and appropriately—I can't quite be so proud of that, because by the time it's translated into Norwegian, it's not going to have that surface gloss to it. Kazuo Ishiguro, in Brian W. Shaffer and Cynthia F. Wong, eds., Conversations with Kazuo Ishiguro [A]lthough English literature has become the most obvious sign of transnationalism, it is continuously haunted by its historical—and disciplinary—location in a particular national ethos and ethnos. Simon Gikandi, “Globalization and the Claims of Postcoloniality” He remembered a senior wise in phrenology asserting that [his wife's] ancestors must've come from Quanzhou: “It was the fourteenth-century precursor of New York City. The very centre of the world. Your wife is surely of Arab descent. Her (greenish hazel) eyes, complexion, and roman nose look uncanny on a Han-Chinese face.” Luo Yijun, Tangut Inn (my translation) |
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