Essays

“Maman, il nous faut du Chocapic.”— a sentence heard in passing, a window into the life of another, and a Portal to my own. I’m overcome with memories: the delicate fragrance emanating from a beignet, the flops of shoes on graveled roads, and my grandmother’s smile radiating through the—*SKRRR*. The shopping cart stops, the Portal shuts, and suddenly I’m back in the cereal aisle of Trader Joe’s, worlds away from my francophone memories. This seemingly mundane connection ends as quickly as it began, and yet, I’m left smiling—treasuring the experience.

The German, Spanish, French, English and Chinese languages that permeate throughout my house, my classrooms, and my communities are not just means of communication but Portals to other worlds. These Portals—triggered by a shared language and culture—afford me a sense of understanding that transforms strangers into kindred spirits and the mundane into the treasured.

However, these Portals became an addiction when I realized my ability to force them open. By intentionally playing a familiar French song, cooking crispy “croquetas,” or opening a sacred Haribo packet, I learned to pry open the doorways, forcing access to my internal worlds. With my Portals at my fingertips, my passion for cultural connections became an overconsumption, and the familiar immersive Portals weakened and dulled through constant use. The little cultural reminders I had grown so attached to owed their value to their scarcity and spontaneity—qualities I had violated through my pursuit of cheap thrills.

In time, I came to understand the perils of overusing simple Portal triggers and began to focus instead on the complexity and depth of each visit. In place of munching on “croquetas” for instant gratification, I turned to the study of Chinese. Through this foreign medium, so different from my native tongues, I focused on the foundations of language and carefully rebuilt my damaged Portals. 

My life since has been a refinement of Portals: refining my ability to enter them, my ease in switching between them and my conception of them. I have swung back and forth from expanding my repertoire to deepening those which are already a part of me. I know that a deep focus on Portals and the worlds they lead to has and will always be part of me and my life, because ultimately, the Portals own you far more than you own them.

Мала Пи Бадахшӯн 

Пи баландии 3000 метр тир аз баҳр, Бадахшӯн ҷойгир. Мардумиди йи ҙулик дарёяки в̌еф  ҷудо ца чуд. Икди мардуманд фук в̌eф зиндаги аз руи в̌eф саннат ца-асосан в̌eф Хух̌нони  чид. 

Нав̌ аз диви ца дет̌и тар Да̄лӣҙ в̌ох̌и. Ид мала дароз. Азаманд тар ига мала донд бофт дедов̌.  В̌и нӯм “Чӣд”. Ид сар муҳим мала. Ид ҷойидӣ Бадахшӯн кина дин, Зороастризм- ата  шичинҷ- Ислӯм, якҷо ца ких̌т. Ид мала фук аз т̌органд. Тарамен пинҙ ситанет. Д̌уёнен соф  пироянд, буҷких̌иҷ қатиен чуст пи якдигар. Аз в̌eф дусга т̌арди, в̌eф барост йига ситан. Аз  в̌еф т̌у ситан ца нах̌ҷиси, мала мобайнанд в̌охи. Аз ту пиро, ам аз чапат ам аз хез мис ситанен. 

Ху кал ца сени рӯҙ в̌ини. В̌и рӯҙ гаргинух̌аен тилу гулдузи чуҷи. Ю ягона ҷой фук малаярд  рухи ямва ца дед̌д.  

Ситанен мани дав̌раи Зороастризмандат икшиянд (дав̌раи Ислӯманд): 

Асоси ситан ид Х̌аситан. Зороастризманден дам Суруш (фарих̌та) гумӯн чуд. Икши мардум  аз дам ситани Ҳазрати Муҳаммад (сав) ловд. Ҙуликента икдам ситан биранд ар ғӯк аг̌ӗзен.  Вох̌ҙнехситанен доим “Меҳр” ситан лод. Ид ситани дилсузи ё ишқ. Нуррузанд дам ситани  Имӯми Алӣ (ас) ҳисобен. Сеюм ситан нӯм-Кицорситан. Дамен ситани Анаҳита,  Зороастристен худ̌ойи ҳосилхези лод. Шич ид ситани Биби Фотимаи Заҳро (ас), Ҳазрати  Муҳаммад (сав) ризинат Имӯми Алӣ (ас) г̌ин. Икид ситан рамзи тозаги. Аздамен доим г̌иник  ҷой мис лод-донҷат ид ситан хубат̌ кахоянд. Ата в̌ат̌ т̌у ситаненен пи якдигаранд буҷких̌иҷ  қати чуст ца, в̌ат̌ен ситанени Ҳазрати Ҳасанат Ҳусейн (ас). Зороастризманден дев Замёдат  Озар лод. Дат̌ен рамзи заминат ёц вад.  

Хух̌нони чид ид ростов̌мала нист. Ҳар як наққошият ҳар як ситананд динӣ мани аз дав̌раи  қадимад̌вуд. 

This essay examines the depiction of tea drinking in the poems of the Longjing jianwen lu (Record of What was Seen and Heard in Longjing). In the collection’s Song dynasty poems, tea is associated with transcendent religious experiences and the bond of friendship. These Buddhist associations continue throughout the collection’s Ming dynasty poems. However, the rise of the famous Longjing tea variety in the Ming leads to an additional poetic association with the urban pleasure-seeking environment of West Lake.

Longjing– the temple and the tea

Starting in the Northern Song dynasty, Longjing Monastery “served as a prominent Buddhist center in Hangzhou,” housing the famous abbot Biancai and attracting many literati visitors. The name Longjing, which translates to “Dragon Well,” is derived from a famous spring near the monastery that was rumored to have a dragon living in it. 

Longjing is also a renowned site of tea production. Although tea was produced and drunk in Longjing much earlier, it was only in the Ming dynasty that “Longjing tea” emerged as a specific variety. Since then, it has become the most famous variety of Chinese green tea in the world. Because of its rarity and cost, Longjing tea has long been subject to frequent counterfeiting. Today it enjoys an international reputation; one can find detailed information about Longjing tea fields in Brooklyn food magazines and Chinese state media alike. 

Cultural Images of West Lake

Longjing Monastery is located in the mountains next to one of China’s most famous cultural landmarks: West Lake. In The Rise of West Lake, Xiaolin Duan records the site’s reputation: “Since the thirteenth century, the lake has served as a destination for tourist and cultural pilgrimage. Its fame also spread to Japan and Korea, consequently shaping landscape painting and garden design in those countries. Ever since the dissemination of Marco Polo’s writings about China, Europeans have also viewed West Lake as a symbol of Chinese urban culture.” 

For the literati, West Lake and the Buddhist monasteries in the mountains above it had conflicting reputations; West Lake was a site of urban leisure, the monasteries were sites of religious seclusion. This dynamic is exemplified by Su Shi’s poem “A Journey From Puzhao to Two Cloisters.” Here is a segment of that poem, translated by Ron Egan:

The resident monk laughs at me

for being so enamored of pure scenes.

He dislikes the remoteness of mountains,

but he cannot leave.

Though I love the mountains,

I, too, laugh at myself.

Solitary withdrawal harms the spirit,

it would be hard to carry on.

How much nicer, on West Lake,

to drink fine wine,

The scents of red apricots and green peaches

covering coiffured hair.

The poet draws a strong contrast between the remote natural beauty of the mountain “pure scenes,” and the wine and finely dressed women of West Lake. There is a dichotomy and tension between the two. West Lake is used as an emblem for the phenomenal world, replete with earthly pleasures, whereas the mountain monastery represents a transcendent world of eremitic retreat. 

However, this dichotomy is complicated by the fact that West Lake sightseers frequently incorporated pilgrimages to the surrounding religious sites into their tourist agendas. The natural beauty and religious atmosphere at such temples became part of West Lake’s reputation as well, blurring the opposition between “pure scenes” and the mundane world. Duan writes, “The interdependence between pilgrimage and sightseeing redefined sightseers’ appreciation of nature and provided temples with new strategies to attract visitors. During this process, religion and nature were interpreted paradoxically, and the complicated interaction between religious atmosphere and urban desire allowed West Lake to function as a “middle landscape” in which religious and urban space mingled.” 

Cultural Images of Tea

In both the Song and Ming dynasties tea had a strong cultural association with Buddhism. In Tea in China, James Benn records a variety of connections between the two. Starting in the Tang dynasty, Buddhists actively promoted the spread of tea-drinking as an alternative to alcoholic intoxication. Alcohol was strictly forbidden to both monks and laypeople under Buddhist precepts, and so tea often took the social place of alcohol in Buddhist contexts. Monasteries often cultivated and sold signature varieties of tea as a source of revenue. Tea was also valued by Buddhists for its effects. Drinking tea could keep one awake for long periods of meditation, and was often associated with a pure and transcendent state of mind. The famous example of such effects is a poem by Lu Tong, describing how drinking seven successive bowls of tea relieves his worries, purifies his body, and then causes a mystical and rarified experience. These various connections strongly linked Buddhism and tea in the literati cultural imagination.

Thesis

In 1752, the Qing dynasty emperor Qianlong visited Longjing Monastery on his Southern inspection tour. To commemorate this event, the Hanlin Academy scholar-official Wang Mengjuan compiled a gazetteer of historical materials from Longjing: the Longjing jianwen lu (Record of What was Seen and Heard in Longjing). This essay delves into seven poems translated in the Longjing jianwen lu, focusing on how poetic depictions of tea differ over time. 

In the collection’s Song dynasty poems, tea drinking carries the same religious connotations described above; it is depicted as a catalyst of Buddhist realization and a site for Buddhist friendships. In the dichotomy described above, tea was unreservedly associated with “pure scenes”, what Duan calls “the religious landscape as a transcending experience.” However, the Ming dynasty saw the rise of “Longjing tea” as a specific and renowned variety, the reputation of which remains intimately associated with the image of West Lake. Asking for tea at Longjing became one of the “stops” on West Lake tourist itineraries, growing the tea’s fame. Accordingly, in the collection’s Ming dynasty poems, tea in Longjing acquires an additional connotation of aesthetic enjoyment, one tied up in the overall image of West Lake. Longjing tea thus becomes part of the paradoxical West Lake “middle landscape” which Duan describes, where “pure scenes” and sensory pleasures exist simultaneously. 

Northern Song Poems

With Gongze, traveling to the Shousheng Cloister, swilling tea and inscribing our names

This poem is by Guo Xiangzheng (1035～1113). It is about visiting a temple with his friend Li Chang, courtesy name Li Gongze (1027-1090). Both were successful jinshi candidates, imperial officials and well-known poets in the Northern Song. In the poem they drink tea and read Buddhist scripture together. 

和公擇，遊壽聖院， With Gongze, traveling to the Shousheng Cloister, swilling tea 

啜茶題名 and inscribing our names

使君尚清淨 You prefer the still and pure, 1

攜客無杯肴 Bringing guests, but serving no wine or meat. 2

茗酌披佛經 Pouring tea, we peer through the sutras, 3

塵緣頓沈抛 Earthly bonds suddenly sink and release. 4

疎雲墮簷際 Thinning clouds fall past the eaves, 5

微風泛林梢 A light breeze floats through forest branch-tips. 6

吾心已皎皎 My mind is already so bright 7

吾學豈譊譊 How can my studies be so tangled? 8

濡毫題名姓 I dip the brush to sign my name 9

識此逍遙交 Recognizing this, our free and easy friendship. 10

In this poem, the experience of drinking tea is portrayed as a catalyst for reaching a rarefied state of mind. Line 3 pairs drinking tea with reading sutras, suggesting an association between the two activities. The word 塵緣 chényuán, translated above as “earthly bonds”, is a Buddhist doctrinal term referring to one’s karmic connections with the the secular world, or the world of dust. The poet describes how these earthly bonds are cast away in a sudden moment. The second couplet’s structure matches the activity of tea-drinking in Line 3 with this process of karmic release in Line 4, creating a link between the two. The poet also uses the word 沈 chén “to submerge” to characterize this process of release. This expands the parallel– the poet’s earthly bonds metaphorically sink into the tea and disappear. 

In this poem, tea is also associated with the bond of spiritual friendship. In Line 10, the poet uses the phrase 逍遙 xiāoyáo “free and easy” to describe his relationship or discourse with Gongze. This is a clear reference to the first chapter of the Zhuangzi, which is titled 逍遙遊 xiāoyáoyoǔ, or “Free and Easy Wandering”, and evokes the Zhuangzian ideal of friends who share spiritual values and perspectives. The first couplet amplifies this sentiment; the poet details how his friend does not serve alcohol or meat, which are substances forbidden under Buddhist precepts. Lines 1 and 2 thus express appreciation for Gongze’s Buddhist leanings. Mentioning sobriety in a poem about tea also calls up the previously-discussed contrast between alcohol and tea in China. If the poet views abstaining from alcohol as a sign of spiritual fellowship with his friend, then drinking tea together carries some of the same implication of devotion. 

Remembering Biancai

This set of two poems was written by Zhou Wenpu, a Song dynasty poet. Zhou mourns the loss of his teacher Biancai (1011−1091), the abbot of Longjing Temple. 

憶辯才 Remembering Biancai

讀了碑文讀祭詩 After reading his epitaph we read memorial verse 1

冷看遺像立多時 Cold, I gaze on the departed portrait standing so long. 2

郎當嶺上生雲處 Where clouds form above Langdang Ridge, 3

山鳥山花憶老師 Mountain birds, mountain flowers remind me of my teacher. 4

坡使參寥滴奠茶 Just as Su Dongpo had Canliao siphon the spring for libations of tea, 1

定將老淚濕雲霞 Surely will my old tears wet the sunset clouds. 2

誰知走入靈山隊 Who knew you would enter the ranks of mountain spirits? 3

又對閒人說法華 Who now will explain the Lotus Sutra to the laypeople? 4

“Remembering Biancai” further illustrates the depiction of tea in the Song dynasty. Here, an allusion frames tea as the vehicle for a Buddhist lesson. In Line 1 of the second poem, Zhou references a poem by Su Shi, also known as Su Dongpo, titled “Inscription for Canliao’s Spring”. Su’s friend Daoqian, also called Canliao, was a monk who also lived in the West Lake area. Su’s poem describes drinking tea made from water that Canliao drew from a fresh spring, ​​then vividly experiencing a fusion between his dreams and reality. Zhou’s reference to Canliao’s tea is then paired with the poet’s own tears in Line 2 of the second poem. This parallel imbues Zhou’s tears – and through synecdoche his grief – with allegorical meaning, and so is worth further examination. What does this reference tell the reader about Zhou’s own sorrow? In Su’s poem, his friend and religious teacher Canliao gives him tea, which induces a mystical experience. Taking the metaphor literally, this implies that Zhou’s religious teacher Biancai is “giving” him tears, which then induce a Buddhist experience. This image is strengthened by the use of the word “libations'', which classifies the tea that Canliao gave Su Shi as a kind of religious offering. What Buddhist lesson is Biancai imparting by “giving” Zhou the experience of grieving him? The next line in the poem provides an answer.

 In Line 3, by asking a rhetorical question, Zhou expresses seeming disbelief that his master has died. Asking “Who knew you would die and I would find myself grieving you?” frames Biancai’s death as an impossible event; it expresses the sentiment that nobody could have known he would die. However, Zhou is not actually saying that Biancai’s actual death was impossible, because the death of one’s friends is inevitable. Instead, he is expressing how impossible it was for him to predict the depths of his grief. He is saying that nobody could have known how Biancai’s death would make him feel.

This sentiment—that Zhou needed to actually experience Biancai’s death to comprehend the feeling of loss it would give him—is in line with the metaphor that Zhou’s tears are “given” to him by Biancai. Zhou is interpreting Biancai’s death as the final Buddhist lesson given to him by his teacher, that even the person explaining impermanence to him is impermanent. 

The final line of the poem, however, complicates this understanding. Zhou asks: now that Biancai has passed, who will teach him and others? This last line returns to the raw feeling of loss. The rhetorical question here expresses that nobody can replace Biancai as a teacher. Even as Biancai’s death teaches him a lesson about impermanence, Zhou still feels lost in a world where Biancai is absent.

As in “With Gongze, traveling to the Shousheng Cloister, swilling tea and inscribing our names”, tea functions as a vessel of spiritual significance. Here, however, tea’s ability to invoke a Buddhist state of realization is employed as a vivid metaphor, describing how the poet’s tears invoke realization as well. 

Ming Poems

Bamboo Branch Poem (Yan Shengsun)

This poem is by Yan Shengsun, a Ming dynasty poet and imperial examiner. It is the first of two “Bamboo Branch Poems” translated in this paper, a poetic format based on a particular folk song meter. The “Bamboo Branch” format was commonly used to describe the subject of West Lake.

竹枝詞 Bamboo Branch Poem (Yan Shengsun)

龍井新茶貯滿壺 Fresh Longjing tea fills the pot, 1

赤闌干外是西湖 West Lake past the red railing. 2

年時還有當壚女 The years pass by, but the bargirls stay 3

青斾紅燈唱鷓鴣 Green winehouse flags, red lights, a partridge’s song. 4

This poem’s depiction of tea is dramatically different from the Song dynasty poems above. Rather than swilling tea in “the still and pure” environment of Longjing monastery, Yan drinks Longjing tea for sensory enjoyment in the mundane world. In this poem Longjing tea clearly has a different reputation, one tied up in the larger cultural phenomenon of West Lake tourism. Emblematic of this shift is the poem’s portrayal of the relationship between tea and alcohol. Defying the typical association of tea with Buddhist sobriety, this poem actively pairs the enjoyment of Longjing tea with the enjoyment of alcohol. Line 3 references the courtesans commonly employed in winehouses around West Lake, and Line 4 is simply a list of images associated with alcohol in the Chinese literary imagination: the green flag refers to winehouses, and the partridge’s song refers to the “blind drunk” song of a partridge in a Tang dynasty poem by Bai Juyi. Other elements of the poem, such as the aforementioned Bamboo Branch format and the classic West Lake imagery of red railings, also decidedly place the poem in the context of West Lake itself, rather than the “pure scenes” of its surrounding monasteries. Here, Longjing tea is clearly not meant to call up associations of Buddhist realization in the poem’s reader, but instead acts as one of the sensory delights of West Lake.

Testing Tea at Yanqing Temple

This poem is by Fang Jiuxu, a Ming dynasty poet and official. It is about visiting a temple in Longjing, making tea from the leaves and well there, and drinking it in solitude. 

衍慶院試茶 Testing Tea at Yanqing Temple

南山新雨後 On South Mountain after fresh rain, 1

隨興入泉林 Following instinct, I enter the forest spring. 2

春茗搴初秀 Young spring leaves I’ve picked at first bloom, 3

寒泉汲靜深 From the cold spring, I draw water still and deep. 4

悠然憩孤石 At ease, I rest on a lone rock, 5

端以滌煩襟 Straightening my body, I drink the “worry-cleanser”. 6

何事文園令 What’s the matter, Wen Yuan? 7

經年渴病侵 Year after year, the illness of thirst returns. 8

Several details in this poem will reappear as tropes for describing Longjing tea in nearly all the Ming poems that follow. Mentioning the time of picking and the freshness of the spring water both emphasize the quality of the material product of Longjing tea. Benn describes how the increased popularity of Longjing tea led to counterfeits: “Ming connoisseurs highly esteemed this rare product, and when some became frustrated by the fake Dragon Well teas flooding the market, they made personal visits to witness firsthand this tea being picked and processed.” Although here the poet does not mention “Longjing tea” or “West Lake Longjing tea” by name, these details of what Benn calls “the materiality of tea production and preparation” indicate an increased concern with connoisseurship and authenticity. Focusing on these connoisseurial qualities of Longjing tea implicitly centers its value in aesthetic pleasure, rather than an ability to induce spiritual clarity.

The presentation of tea in this poem is once again different than in the three Song dynasty poems above, although the difference is more subtle. Fang still associates tea-drinking with the contemplative atmosphere of visiting a Buddhist temple, rather than with West Lake pleasure-seeking. Line 6 also extolls the ability of tea to clear one’s mind, referencing a Tang dynasty saying from the poet Shi Jianwu: “茶為滌煩子，酒為忘憂君” or roughly, “Tea is the noble cleanser of worries, wine is the noble causer of forgetting sorrows.” In the context of a temple tea poem, this allusion contrasts the Buddhist-friendly effect of tea with the forbidden intoxication of alcohol. 

However, in the final couplet Fang frames tea as an earthly pleasure subject to impermanence. The final couplet references a Tang dynasty poem by Du Mu, where a character Wen Yuan dies of an illness that makes him constantly thirsty. This imbues a Buddhist sense of suffering and impermanence into the poet’s tea drinking, implying that no matter how much tea he drinks, he will never be satisfied. Such ambivalence about tea is absent in the Song dynasty poems. This suggests a changing attitude towards Longjing tea as it becomes associated with the aesthetic enjoyment of West Lake, not just among pleasure-seeking literati like Yan Shengsun, but also among Buddhist practitioners like Fang Jiuxu. The Buddhist depiction of Longjing tea in the Ming dynasty shifts from only being an unambiguous aid to practice to also being one of the temptations of samsara. In a way, this poem is even more indicative of the shift in cultural associations around Longjing tea than the open hedonism of Yan Shengsun’s Bamboo Branch Poem. Perhaps the surest sign that Longjing tea acquires a new connotation of luxury consumption in the Ming dynasty is that this Buddhist practitioner feels conflicted about drinking it.

Bamboo Branch Poem (Wang Guangbei)

This poem is by Wang Guangbei, a Ming dynasty poet. It is in the same Bamboo Branch Poem format as the previous poem by Yan Shengsun. The poem describes a serene landscape in the mountains near Longjing.

竹枝詞Bamboo Branch Poem (Wang Guangbei)

山為城郭水為家 Mountains act as my city, waters as my home 1

風景清和蝶戀花 Clear and peaceful scenery— a butterfly infatuated with flowers. 2

昨暮老僧龍井出 Yesterday at sunset, an old monk emerged from Longjing, 3

竹籃分得雨前茶 Bamboo basket carrying tea picked carefully before the rains. 4

The focus of this short poem is the “clear and peaceful” qualities of the scenery. Line 1 pairs mountains and waters, alluding to the genre of Chinese landscape painting, and implying that the poet’s current location is as beautiful as a painting. The image in Line 2 of a butterfly infatuated with flowers is a reference to another yuefu folk song format. However, it also provides a vivid metaphor for Wang’s own infatuation with the natural world around him. The images of the monk and tea in the second couplet invoke associations between “pure scenes”, Buddhist monastic life, and tea. These all combine to create a shared and idealized aesthetic. Duan records how monasteries near West Lake were closely linked with scenic appreciation: “The Tianzhu Monasteries, therefore, constituted another model for religious landscape: they offered an isolated natural setting for urban visitors, and their fame was sanctioned and preserved through literary works that depicted the surrounding landscape as an idealized nature.” In this poem, tea does not induce any religious experience, like in the Song poems. Instead it acts as one element of a tranquil and contemplative atmosphere. 

Shengji gave me a single serving of Longjing Tea’s fresh leaves

This poem is by Ming dynasty poet and scholar Li E. The poet brews Longjing tea and thinks of his friend, the monk Shengji.

聖幾餉龍井新茗一器 Shengji gave me a single serving of Longjing’s fresh tea leaves

松風出竹爐 The wind blows through the pines, stoking the bamboo in my stove. 1

夢成水火戰 My dreams morph between water and fire. 2

新芽適開封 New leaves, only just unfurled, 3

昏睡不待遣 Instantly drive away my drowsiness. 4

為子手瀹嘗 In your honor, I brew and taste it myself, 5

三嗅復三嚥 Repeating three sniffs, three sips. 6

中有參寥禪 Therein is Canliao’s Chan; 7

風味得正見 The flavor lets me see clearly. 8

The role of tea in this poem is similar to “With Gongze”; it frames tea as a catalyst for realization and as a medium for religious friendship. Line 7 contains a reference to Canliao, the same monk referenced in “Remembering Biancai.” This reference calls back to the history of tea in the area, creating a sense of continuity with the past. The phrase “Canliao’s Chan” makes it especially clear; the poet is praising the ability of tea to induce a religious experience. If we assume that this alludes to the same anecdote before, where Canliao gave Su Shi tea, it is also a compliment to the poet’s friend Shengji. The poet compares his friend, who gave him this tea, to the great monk Canliao. Line 6 describes a specific method of drinking the tea: sniffing three times, then sipping three times. This may describe a type of contemplative tea-drinking practice, where close attention to the experience of drinking tea brings insight, rather than simply the effects of the actual beverage. Alternatively, one could interpret this drinking method, along with the concern for flavor expressed in Line 8 and the repeated mention of new or fresh leaves, could be evidence of a highly connoisseurial engagement with the tea.

Crossing the Wind-Bamboo Ridge to Longjing

This poem is by Ming poet Xia Xizuo. It describes venturing into a village hidden in a deep forest, drinking tea with a monk there, and then returning home.

度風篁嶺至龍井 Crossing the Wind-Bamboo Ridge to Longjing

不知何年代 I cannot tell what era it is here, 1

人家猶太古 The houses are still as if from ancient times. 2

叢篁高百尺 A bamboo grove, one hundred chǐ tall, 3

深密掩村塢 Densely obscures the village wall. 4

寂寥絕人聲 Empty silence, all voices cut off, 5

濃綠滴環堵 Deep green drips around the wall. 6

徑轉下坡陀 A path winds down the steep bank, 7

丁丁響樵斧 “Zhēng, zhēng” sounds a hatchet splitting wood. 8

道旁萬松樹 Along the path are myriad pine trees, 9

落落清可數 Sparse and distinctly countable. 10

叩門墮山翠 A knock at the door– I delve into the mountain foliage 11

竹裏開僧戶 Within the bamboo, a monk opens the door. 12

呼童汲新泉 Calling a boy to draw water from the fresh spring, 13

泉自石穴吐 It sputters from a crevice in the rock. 14

烹以瀹茗芽 Boiling, we steep budding leaves of tea, 15

炒焙初出釜 Roasted just out of the pan. 16

客言香色絕 Guests comment on the peerless fragrance and hue, 17

僧意不自詡 The monk takes no pride in himself. 18

乍與佳勝辭 For now, I bid farewell among this beautiful scenery, 19

迴顧失維宇 Looking back, I lose sight of the roofs behind. 20

樹密天常陰 The foliage is thick, often shading the sky, 21

泉吼聲帶雨 A roaring spring sounds like rain. 22

忽聞遠村雞 Suddenly, a distant rooster crows, 23

有路出漁浦 A path emerges leading to the riverbank. 24

The repeated motif of dense greenery serves as a metaphor for isolation from the mundane world. Pine and bamboo carry connotations of propriety and knowledge, so hiding oneself within them carries symbolic meaning. A particularly clear example of this can be found in the poem “Writing of my Feelings from within the Nunnery” by a nun named Wanxian, translated by Beata Grant. Here is the relevant couplet: “Chan gates shut all day against all traces of [worldly] dust. / In front, groves of fine bamboo, and in back, grow trees of pine.” The rooster crow in Line 23 is a clear reference to the Chan experience of sudden awakening; the poet follows with the phrase “a road emerges.” Taking this, the overall arc of the poem – a journey into deep seclusion, then at the end a sudden realization – follows the pattern of the Chan path to enlightenment.

The depiction of tea on Lines 13 through 18 is particularly interesting. Seen in the larger context of the poem, tea is associated with monastic seclusion in deep mountain woods. However, there is an extended description of the young fresh leaves, the clear spring water, and even the roasting process of Longjing tea. This focus on the connoisseurial quality of the tea seems to foreground the aesthetic experience of drinking it, rather than any spiritual effects it might cause. And indeed, Xia writes that the guests are taken with the tea’s quality. However, Line 18 —”The monk takes no pride in himself” — devalues the aesthetic experience that the guests take from the tea. In contrast to his guests, the monk is not concerned with the tea’s connoisseurial value. This dialogue within the poem reveals knowledge of the aesthetic reputation of Longjing tea, yet also an awareness that valuing the tea for its “peerless fragrance and hue” may conflict with the values of the monks associated with it.

Conclusion

This study focuses on the symbolic role of tea in the poems of the Longjing jianwen lu.

In the collection’s Song dynasty poems, tea is a vessel of religious significance, facilitating both transcendent experiences and religious friendships. These connections do not disappear in the Ming dynasty poems. However, as Longjing tea became popularized and fused with the overall phenomenon of West Lake tourism, it took on overlapping and paradoxical roles, associated with both aesthetic worldly pleasure and contemplative retreat into sublime nature. This mirrors the overall reputation of West Lake religious sites as described by Duan; images of natural beauty, an eremitic lifestyle, urban indulgence, and tea-drinking intertwine.

Works Cited

Alexis Elder. n.d. “Zhuangzi on Friendship and Death.” https://conservancy.umn.edu/bitstream/handle/11299/208581/Accepted%20Version%20-%20Zhuangzi%20on%20Friendship%20and%20Death.pdf?sequence=1.

James Benn. 2015. Tea in China: A Religious and Cultural History. University of Hawaii Press.

Jason Protass. 2023. “Buddhist Fund-Raising Poems and Other Lost Verses from Venerable Miaozhan’s Gāthā.” History of Religions 63 (1).

Max Falkowitz. 2018. “The Tea Cup and the Dragon: Secrets of China’s Favorite Green Tea.” Serious Eats, August 10, 2018. https://www.seriouseats.com/dragon-well-longjing-tea.

Mengxuan Wang. n.d. Longjing Jianwen Lu (Record of What Was Seen and Heard in Longjing). 10 vols. Hangzhou: Jiahuitang.

Su Shi. n.d. Complete Collection of 80 Tea Poems (茶诗词80首全集), Canliao Spring《参廖泉铭》.

Tianyu Lei. 2024. “Biancai (1011–1091) and His Friends in the Outside Secular World: Longjing Monastery in the Northern Song (960–1127).” Humanities and Social Sciences Communications Volume. https://www.nature.com/articles/s41599-023-02540-x#Fn1.

Xiaolin Duan. 2020. The Rise of West Lake: A Cultural Landmark in the Song Dynasty. University of Washington Press. https://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctv10qqzq2.8.

新华网. 2024. “‘看得见’‘摸得着’：首个龙井茶国家标准样品在杭州发布,” April 18, 2024. http://csj.news.cn/20240418/d192a18178644a6f8bac38e31a5d2e43/c.html.

“青旗qīng Qí.” n.d. In Hanyu Da Cidian. Vol. 21.

“Mi rimangono le case in cui sono stato felice, dove ho assistito alla bellezza, alla bontà, dove ho vissuto pienamente.

Guardo la fisionomia delle abitazioni come se fossero volti, torno a esse con l’immaginazione,

salgo scale, apro porte e contemplo quadri. Non so se gli uomini siano troppo ingrati con le

case, o se la mia gratitudine nei loro confronti sia una forma di nevrosi. Il fatto è che amo i

luoghi dove ho incontrato un minuto di pace, non li dimentico mai, li porto con me e conosco la

loro essenza intima, il mistero ansioso di rivelarsi che abita in ogni parete. Sono certo che le

case cerchino di parlare, di farsi amare, e a volte mi spiego i fantasmi: come non ritornare dalla

morte, a visitare le case amate? Io sarò un fantasma infaticabile.”

(J.Cortázar)

C’era un bel sole quella mattina.

Era quasi beffardo, quel sole. Un cielo così limpido, una luce forte e nitida. Invece dentro di me c’era un grigiore e la minaccia di un temporale che sembrava imminente. Avevo la sensazione che avrei pianto da un momento all’altro.

Non percorrevo quel tratto di strada che collega Roma ad Ostia da tempo.

Guidare nell’ultimo periodo era diventato impossibile, un po’ come se perdere il centro del tuo mondo interiore, facesse perdere anche la capacità di mantenere il controllo di una attività meccanica come la guida. Ma quel giorno era diverso. Sapevo di doverlo fare senza qualcuno che guidasse per me. Avevo passato la notte a sognare incidenti.

Avrò percorso quella strada centinaia di volte, in 26 anni, eppure in quel momento mi era sembrato un infinito dedalo di strade sconosciute.

Emilio, l’amico fotografo che mi avrebbe aiutata con quell’ultimo sopralluogo fotografico, mi guardava un po’ perplesso. Avevo quasi sbagliato strada due volte, e cercavo di mascherare il nervosismo. Parlavamo, mi raccontava storie, era rilassato. Aveva sdraiato il sedile e si godeva il vento che entrava dal finestrino del passeggero.

Avevo provato a spiegargli dell’ansia, del luogo verso il quale eravamo diretti e della sua importanza per me, che non essere più tornata dalla sua morte, sembrava una cosa assurda dopo aver passato lì una vita intera, come se il tempo si fosse fermato e sospeso da quell’ultima volta. Erano mesi che una parte di me si ripeteva “non è accaduto davvero, se non apro la porta di casa, lei è ancora lì, seduta sulla sua poltrona preferita in cucina, nella sua vestaglia a fiori, aspettando una telefonata o l’arrivo di mia mamma.”

Ma Emilio sembrava pensare che infine era solo una casa, cosa potrà mai significare di così sconvolgente? Un po’ lo invidiavo, quasi avrei voluto fosse anche per me solo qualche stanza da fotografare, senza tutto quell’immenso dolore, che a pensarlo attentamente avrei voluto si aprisse la terra e mi inghiottisse.

Invece eravamo in viaggio proprio per aprire ogni porta, fotografare ogni angolo, rubare un frammento al tempo ed imprimerlo in foto, prima che la casa venisse venduta. Spezzare proprio quell’incantesimo che ai miei occhi la vedeva ancora seduta lì ad attendere.

Quel perentorio ed enorme “Non Aprire” che mia madre aveva attaccato anni fa alla porta per ricordare a nonna di non far entrare nessuno in casa, dovrebbe trovarsi all’esterno, ormai solo un ultimo suggerimento per me, avevo pensato girando la chiave per entrare.

Il suo era uno dei giardini più belli mai visti. Non aveva l’erba, ma un balcone di mattonelle che correva tutto intorno il perimetro dell’appartamento, che lei aveva riempito di centinaia di piante di ogni colore, forma e tipologia. Adorava le piante, ed era così brava! Ogni cosa cresceva e fioriva sotto le sue cure.

La parte più bella per me, era avere il mio annaffiatoio personale, e ogni due sere le annaffiavamo tutte, noi due insieme.

E lei le accarezzava, descrivendomi con cura ed orgoglio com’erano quando le aveva comprate.

“Non è cresciuta rispetto a qualche settimana fa? E guarda i fiori! Non te lo aspettavi potessero essere così belli, vero?” mi chiedeva felice di tanto successo.

Avere tutto quello spazio per me era la parte che preferivo di ogni pomeriggio. Dopo essere tornate dal mare, pranzavamo tutte insieme sul terrazzo. C’erano delle enormi tende da sole verdi che con il vento si spiegavano, gonfiavano e muovevano che si aveva quasi l’impressione di essere su una grande nave che solcava il mare. Il sole che si rifletteva nel mare in lontananza, il brusio ovattato di tante persone in spiaggia, il cibo che cuoceva in cucina e mia mamma e nonna che dialogavano entrando ed uscendo sulla terrazza.

Più tardi nel pomeriggio, mia mamma tornava a lavoro e nonna andava a fare un riposino, come amava chiamarlo lei. Così, tutt’a un tratto, mi ritrovavo ad avere il giardino e la casa, tutti per me. Ero una bambina piuttosto solitaria, perciò dedicavo il mio tempo alla lettura e alla cura della mia collezione di conchiglie. Avevo la sensazione che il tempo si fermasse e si allargasse mollemente in quelle ore, dove l’unica cosa che sentivo nella quiete, era il suono di mia nonna che russava attraverso la finestra della sua stanza, che affacciava sul balcone. Ad un certo punto entravo nella sua camera silenziosamente e mi sedevo per terra di fronte al suo letto. Mi piaceva osservarla per un po’ mentre dormiva, controllare che fosse tutto come sempre.

“Ti muovi per casa felpata come un gatto” mi avrebbe detto dopo lei, ridendo di non accorgersi

mai delle mie incursioni pomeridiane.

Era un fresco tardo pomeriggio di una domenica estiva. Sulla terrazza tirava un leggero vento e

la luce volgeva verso il tramonto.

Avevo circa otto anni, osservavo con sguardo curioso mia nonna che si preparava per andare in

chiesa. Il cigolio dell’anta del suo armadio che si apriva, le cinture che battevano sul lato destro,

appese. Un fruscio di stoffe colorate e leggere. Quel giorno era la volta di una gonna nera a

fiorellini, con una maglia bianca di lino che sapeva di fresco e di pulito. La vedevo seduta sul suo

letto, mentre si vestiva. Era una donna alta e robusta. Quella robustezza morbida, che quando ti

abbracciava era soffice e rassicurante. Ero alta e magra, perciò non importava quanto provassi,

non riuscivo mai ad abbracciarla per intero.

La seguivo silenziosamente di nuovo in terrazza. Si pettinava i capelli e osservava il paesaggio.

“C’è ancora tanta gente in spiaggia!” mi diceva guardando l’orizzonte.

Era una osservazione che le piaceva fare ogni volta che guardava il mare, la terrazza era il suo

sguardo e vedetta su quello spicchio di mondo. Sembrava essere felice all’idea della contentezza altrui. Immaginava persone che si godevano il mare? Ricordava lo stesso paesaggio in anni nei quali era più giovane? Ricordava quell’episodio di me da piccolina che amava raccontare, io che scappavo via e lei che mi correva dietro? Chissà.

La monumentale colonia situata davanti al nostro palazzo, oscurava quasi completamente la vista del mare, se non per due piccoli spazi ai lati dell’edificio. Dal lato sinistro si vedeva il pontile, le persone in acqua e il riverbero della luce faceva luccicare l’orizzonte. Scorgevo in lontananza tante piccole figure, era bello il mare prima del tramonto, mi ritrovavo a pensare.

Nonna si raccoglieva i capelli con una molletta marrone, mentre chiedeva “vuoi venire con me oggi?” “Facciamo una passeggiatina” aggiungeva prendendo la sua borsa.

L’idea di andare alla messa non mi attirava molto, non facevo nemmeno catechismo. Una cosa che lasciava sempre perplessi tutti gli adulti ai quali lo dicevo. Anche nonna in verità non ne era troppo felice, ma non era mai un giudizio. “L’importante è essere buoni con gli altri e fare del bene”, mi diceva sempre.

Adoravo passeggiare con lei. La osservavo mentre mi sorrideva. Nei suoi occhi scorgevo qualcosa che non avevo mai visto negli occhi di persone che a me erano legate dal sangue. Non sapevo cosa fosse di preciso, ma era bello. Sapevo che anche a lei piaceva passeggiare con me, e non si stancava mai di tutte le domande che avevo. Era curioso, la maggior parte degli adulti si stufavano presto della mia curiosità e delle mie storie. Ma lei non proferiva mai parola al riguardo. Ascoltava in silenzio, a volte ridendo lievemente dei miei quesiti, trovandoli buffi. Ma mai si era detta stanca di me.

“Va bene, vengo anche io!” le rispondevo, pensando a tutte le risposte che mi aspettavano. Anni dopo avrei capito che ciò che avevo osservato nel suo sguardo tutti quegli anni, era la sicurezza di sentirsi amati ed accettati per quello che si è, ricevendo sempre un insegnamento senza dubbio, ma mai sottoforma di giudizio inflessibile.

Non lo sapevo ancora, ma non avrei mai più ritrovato quella stessa accettazione da parte di

nessun altro.

Era quasi ora di andar via. Sembrava tutto così surreale.

Tutta la mattina che avevamo passato lì con Emilio, avevo avuto la sensazione di stare semplicemente aspettando. Avevo la constante percezione che lei sarebbe tornata da un momento all’altro. Avrei sentito la chiave scattare nella serratura cigolando lievemente, e lei sarebbe apparsa sulla soglia, un accaldata, con il suo carrellino blu, colmo di spesa. Sarebbe tornata sfoggiando i suoi occhiali tartarugati marroni da diva che amava indossare, un salto nel suo passato di gioventù degli anni Sessanta e la sua collana di pietre colorate, che tanto avevo desiderato da bambina.

La immaginavo salutare Emilio con curiosità ed amichevolezza, come tante volte la avevo vista fare con i miei amici ed amiche.

Si sarebbe subito adoperata nel preparare qualcosa, dicendo “siediti!” con un sorriso e quella voglia che hanno alcune persone di mettere a loro agio gli altri con delicatezza.

Sembrava impossibile, che invece non ci fosse nulla da aspettare.

Chiudendo gli occhi, la vedevo ancora camminare per casa, attraverso le vetrate ocra delle porte. Con la sua andatura dondolante e le sue vestaglie ampie piene di fiori e di colori accesi, che tanto aveva amato cucire negli anni, la sera, mentre guardavamo la televisione e ridevamo di programmi, passando tanto del nostro insieme in compagnia. La vedevo affacciarsi alla porta della mia camera dicendo “Ecco Martina, bella della nonna! Che fai?” ridendo contente di trovarci sempre lì insieme.

Emilio mi guardava accarezzare oggetti e fotografare piccole cose. Come mai, si domandava? Come spiegare che avere una fotografia delle sue forbici preferite, o del piatto colorato che era sempre stato il “mio” fin da bambina, o l’ombrellone blu che usavamo per andare al mare insieme, o la sua agendina, dove il primo numero di telefono era sempre quello di mia mamma. Come spiegare che fotografare tutti questi oggetti era l’unica cosa che ancora poteva mantenermi in quegli anni, se mai avessi perso i particolari della memoria nel futuro?

“Andiamo?” mi chiedeva ora Emilio.

Volevo rispondere che no, non volevo andare. Che avrei voluto restare lì per sempre. Dissolvermi nelle parenti e nel pavimento, senza pensare mai a cosa sarebbe diventato quell’appartamento una volta nelle mani di qualche altra persona, che avrebbe cancellato e stravolto il nostro passaggio, i nostri anni in quella casa e tutti i particolari che l’avevano resa speciale in modo che solo noi avremmo potuto capire.

“A volte si tocca il punto fermo e impensabile

Dove nulla da nulla è più diviso

Né morte da vita

Né innocenza da colpa

E dove anche il dolore è gioia piena

Sono cose, queste

Che si dicono per noi soltanto

Altri ne riderebbero

Ma dire si devono

Le annoto per te che le sai bene

E per testimonianza dell'amore eterno”

Mario Luzi (1914-2005), tratta dalla raccolta Su fondamenti invisibili (Rizzoli, Milano,1971)

It was my grandmother’s favorite place to watch the clouded sunset—the white porch leading to my mother’s family home, a steadfast relic standing at 115 years old. The wood, worn by decades of footfalls, still creaks beneath weight, whispering the stories of those who once sought solace there. It is a portal to the past, a foundation of my heritage that stretches four generations deep into the heart of the South, where history rages like an unbroken tide. Before I ever set foot on that wooden porch, my mother’s stories filled the gaps, painting pictures of summers spent gamboling across its waterlogged planks. Black children from all over the lowland rushed toward the house, their eager knocks on the main door punctuating the humid air, asking for food, for laughter, for a reprieve from the blistering sun. The silvered wind chimes carried their echoes—hopscotch cheers, rounds of Miss Mary Mack, the rustling symphony of the Carolina wind. 

Inside, my great-grandfather’s fingers danced along the piano keys, sending notes swirling into the thick air. The music would slip onto the crowded porch, weaving into the commotion, transforming laughter into a hymn, turning movement into rhythm. At ten years old, I began to understand the gravity of that porch—it was not just a gathering place; it was a symbol, a living memory of love, commitment, and resilience. The worn wood, the music, the laughter—all of it held together the story of survival, of endurance, of adaptation. 

That resilience has shaped me in ways I did not recognize until much later. Up until high school, I had often blanketed my identity as a nondescript African American male, not acknowledging my "composite identity" (Page 3) as a patchwork of histories—immigrants from the Caribbean, enslaved ancestors from the South, and Central American influences stitched into the very fabric of my name. The strength of my ancestors, whether those who found sanctuary on the wooden porch or those who crossed seas in search of better lives, became the foundation of my own endurance. On my father’s side, my grandfather and grandmother hail from Panama City and Florida, both carrying the weight of  Haitian immigration. My great-nana, whose Haitian accent never left her lips until the day she passed, is a ghost of linguistic loss. English became the legacy of survival, of adaptation—a currency for conformity and financial gain, traded at the cost of ancestral tongues. Without them, traditions feel hollower, echoes of a heritage softened by the passing of generations. 

This struggle to navigate identity mirrors the quiet battle within my own body. Outwardly, I am able-bodied, yet my bones tell a different story. Fractures—legs, ankle, toe, and now my finger—form the brittle tune of my existence. Surgery, no longer a toss-up of expectation for me, is on Wednesday, February 12th; another chance to have an intimate confrontation with fragility. The dreaded blue disability pass sits on cars in in front of me during traffic like a paradox, mocking me, branding me with an identity I do not claim. I see how others carry it—a weight of shame, an unwanted marker of difference—and I recognize that my own reluctance stems from a deeper tension. The system of accommodation and accessibility is poorly framed, and structured by the myopic gaze of those untouched by disability. To them, it is a simple matter of ramps and permits, but to those who live it, it is an agency struggle and a fight to be seen, to be understood, to move through the world without barriers both tangible and invisible.

Even my birth carried the weight of assumption. My parents, caught in the whirlwind of work and obligation, never imagined another child after me. They had to teach me how to navigate a world that would cast me as a nondescript Black male, and in their exhaustion, they assumed they would not endure the trial again. Yet my brother arrived two years later, and suddenly, I was not just navigating for myself—I was paving the way for him. The world settled on my shoulders in a new way. I had to teach him, to guide him, to become an anchor in the same unpredictable currents that I had been left to wade through alone. For so long, I believed my "essence [was] determined once and for all at birth" (Page 6). I moved through life convinced that identity was something inherited rather than shaped, something preordained rather than cultivated. I never truly felt comfortable sharing my perception of myself with others, especially those closest to me. Family trauma became a shelter, a barricade against vulnerability. At times, I felt shame for the rough upbringing my parents endured, the weight of their pasts pressing onto my present. Other times, gratitude swelled within me, knowing that despite everything, I stood where I did because of their sacrifices.

The culmination of my family’s struggles, their triumphs, and their burdens has molded me into an empathetic listener, and a compassionate observer. I no longer subscribe to stereotypes, even when the world tries to impose them upon me. I still struggle, but I am not confined. I carry histories within me, just as the porch carries the weight of generations before me. I stand between worlds, between languages lost and languages learned, between strength and fragility, between an old music and new dance.

Work Cited

Maalouf, Amin. In the Name of Identity: Violence and the Need to Belong. Translated by Barbara Bray, Penguin Books, 2003.

In his dialogue Cratylus, Plato systematically investigates how the mechanisms—the architecture—of a sentence mediate one’s understanding of reality, questioning whether language, as a rigid system of fixed signs, can adequately describe actualities characterized by perpetual flux. (If everything changes relentlessly, how can static words capture the essence of anything?) . Through his investigation he produced the first foundational text of what would later be defined as linguistic relativity, inaugurating the notion that language influences cognition. Today, questions like these tend to be associated with Benjamin Lee Whorf. In his essay The Relation of Habitual Thought and Behavior to Language, he analyzes, for example, how grammatical structures can shape a native speaker’s perception of the flow of time. While one would look into the future in English, implying its metaphysical location as being in front of the speaker, native speakers of Aymara, one of the largest South American indigenous languages, would refer to the past as a time in front of one, therefore implying the future would metaphysically be located behind the speaker, much like Benjamin believed Paul Klee to represent time in Angelus Novus. A more radical variant of Whorfianism, linguistic determinism, goes so far as to argue that one’s native language dictates the boundaries of the apprehensible; if one’s language had no word for the future, for example, it would be rendered inconceivable to its speakers. Although most linguistic anthropologists reject this extreme form of linguistic relativity for framing language as the sole and omnipotent determinant of experiencing reality, it is an integral asset to the understanding of how a language’s architecture steers its speakers’ perception of the world. 

In recent years, researchers have grown increasingly interested in divergent patterns of the grammatical encoding of causality and responsibility in language, resulting in climbing numbers of studies concerned with the analysis of crosslinguistic causality. In their 2019 study Crosslinguistic Differences in the Encoding of Causality, Akiko Okuno, Thea R. Cameron-Faulkner, and Anna L. Theakston explored how linguistic habits of emphasising grammatical agent and patient, as well as the frequency of transitive, intransitive, periphrastic, and causal conjunction sentences in a language alter not only perceptions of isolated events, but the role of causality as a whole. In essence, they examined how a language’s grammar can increase its speakers’ drive to attribute blame.

In their experiments, they showed computer-generated animations to English speakers and Japanese speakers, then letting them choose a descriptive sentence they felt most accurately apprehended the depicted scene from a selection of two sentences, one transitive and one intransitive. Between each video relevant to their analysis, they played two to three filler videos to mitigate repetitive pattern-building. They found that English speakers usually gravitate towards transitive sentences which place emphasis on the grammatical agent (e.g. He broke the blocks) while Japanese speakers are more likely to employ intransitive sentences, thereby placing emphasis on the grammatical patient (e.g. The blocks broke). Interestingly, they also found that Japanese speakers have a tendency to adjust their choice of words depending on whether the action depicted appears intentional or accidental, whereas English speakers invariably gravitate towards transitive structures. Both English and Japanese speakers, for example, majoritarily chose the sentence “He rang the doorbell” (or “彼はドアベルを鳴らした”) over their intransitive counterparts to describe a video of a man intentionally ringing a doorbell, while Japanese speakers mostly switched to the intransitive “鍵が落ちた” (or “The keys dropped”) when the same man accidentally lost hold of his keys, while English speakers stuck to the transitive option “He dropped the keys” (or “彼は鍵を落とした”) despite the inadvertent nature of the situation. 

If the grammatical structure of a language can encourage the attribution of blame in casual relationships between subject and object like in the examples above, the overarching question is in what modes this passive advocacy for inculpation manifests itself culturally in accordance with perceptions incentivized by the boundaries of what a language is able to describe and impels its speakers to express. Can the architecture of a language psychologically condition its speakers? And assuming that languages reinvent themselves eternally—assuming they have no final form—to what degree can they be claimed to mold a culture beyond the topical, the evanescent? Is their cultural impact temporally dislocated from their use?

If it is assumed that the speaker of a language grows accustomed to the patterns of thought—the strengthened drive to attribute blame in this case—encouraged by its grammatical architecture, an interesting potentiality can be discerned. The thought in its singularity, having this instinctive impulse, or what I refer to as ‘drive’, embedded in it from past linguistic permeance of its instances could potentially be radicalized in its repeated articulations. Very oversimplified; if an English speaker, for example, used the transitive sentence “He dropped the plate” once and encountered a situation that required a similar description on multiple occasions after this initial one, the description might be altered in its diction for every instance in response to the language’s perpetual molding to the different contexts that this same thought occurred in, ultimately leading to a more overtly accusatory causal conjunction such as “He dropped and broke the plate”. Should this, in a much less simplified context, represent the relationality between language and its substance, it begs the question whether the drive to accuse might continually approach a culminant apotheosis. 

No matter how unlikely, metaphysical manifestations of these patterns are alleged to be observable in dreams. A variety of studies suggest that native language, language of the country of residency, and the multiplicity of languages one is proficient in are distributed in relatively consistent patterns in dreams. The study The Language-Dream Relationship in Multilinguals by Brittany DiShaun Burkes found that a person’s native language is most likely to consistently appear in dreams referencing childhood or early adolescence, implying there is an intrinsic tendency to resort to languages following the sensations associated with the comfort they accompanied or continue to accompany, a linguistic simile to the primal urge to fetal position. According to the study, childhood memories are not only more frequently dreamt of in the languages which permeated that initial lived experience, but also richer in emotion when actively retrieved and vocally recalled in a speaker’s native language, raising the question if home is not only constituted by location, and social environment, but also linguistic conditions. This potentially constructs the concept of the home as impossible to translate, while also posing the question if it is logical to attempt its translation when the process and its associated outcome may erode the emotionality of the memories to be articulated themselves. 

The study also found a link between the language of a dream and the people appearing in it, who rarely appear outside of the linguistic context they would be encountered in while awake. If one’s friend from Germany, for example, was to dream of one, one would likely appear in their dream as a speaker of German, no matter their location while dreaming, while a friend from the United States would almost definitely dream of one as an English speaker. This constant also seems unaffected by the number of languages the dreamer speaks. This phenomenon reasserts a fundamental and inextricable relationship between language and lived experience that appears to function like muscle memory.

Dreams characterized by incoherence and surrealism were found to often be dreamt in a language foreign to the dreamer, even when the dreamer is not proficient in that foreign language. In REM sleep, the prefrontal cortex, and the parts of which process language and logic, become largely disengaged, inhibiting dreamers from cognizing the limits of what they are able to accurately express. Especially when one does not permanently reside in a country where one’s native language is widely spoken, dreams tend to be narrated in a foreign language; the factors most decisive for this being the language spoken and thought in, less the language one reads or hears when awake, according to the study Languages in dreams: A diary study by Dilay Dollnick and Michael Schredl. In it they suggest that proactive conscious articulation and retrieval of memories and their adjacent languages are most impactful in relation to the language of one’s dreams.

Although there are only a few studies interrogating the potential influence of crosslinguistic causality in dreams, evidence suggests that the interplay of emotional associations that dictate the reciprocal nature of language and content, grammatical architectures of transitivity and intransitivity, and neuropsychological processes they trigger might alter one’s waking mood. In other words, the language one dreams in may potentially influence one’s state of mind when awake. Although the brain less actively self-assesses the grammar of its narration in REM sleep and structures of transitivity might therefore not be very impactful in this context—following the results of the study Crosslinguistic Differences in the Encoding of Causality—someone who dreamt in Japanese can possibly wake up feeling more peaceful than another who might feel slightly restless and irascible as a consequence of having dreamt in English. 

Most multilinguals also report that their personality tends to adapt to the language they speak, these disparate personalities often being closely attached to the environments each language had been learned and utilized in. Research suggests that speakers of foreign languages who reached proficiency in school or professional settings are more likely to be analytical and emotionally distant when communicating in that foreign language, making them appear more rational, calm, and interestingly, less humorous, while the personality attached to their native language is characterized by heightened creativity, individuality, humor, and a decreased willingness to be direct, as the emotional value attached to these direct articulations is overwhelming and often more readily perceived to be uncomfortable. Consequently, it is not impossible that the language a dream is narrated in conditions a person to behave—at least in the morning—according to the personality attached specifically to the language they dreamt in. 

From these examinations, a common theme seems to emerge;: language does, to an extent, condition its speakers. Although one selects from its entirety the extracts necessary to vocalize or write the narration of a situation, its grammar and the range of the semantics guiding these expressions and—as soon as they are executed—their roots settle back into their place of origin to redefine it. It is also for this reason that bilingual or multilingual speakers with fluency in their languages occasionally struggle to translate a sentence from one into another; it is not for lack of vocabulary or grammatical understanding. Rather it is for the discomfort of transferring the content—and the linguistic structure that inherently and inextricably embeds it in, as a thought cannot exist outside of language and is structured by language, even if incompletely so—from the original into a recipient language. They agglutinate and spoil the thought itself in the process, not only because of a translation between languages, but a translation of an expression possibly common for one personality, but uncommon for another; both of them paradoxically residing in the same speaker. 

Languages move through their speakers at dissimilar speeds, along separate paths that illuminate opposite sides of the mind, and exit from different locations, in different vocalities; incongruent in meaning. Some lend themselves to accusations, some appear attached to specific locations and stages of life, some bring a sensation of exteriority to the interior, some narrate dreams, and all carry some degree of significance. While the full range of the multilingual’s personality will never descend into a singular language or sublate itself out of semiology and surpass a reduction to phonetics, each language learned opens a new channel enabling the exteriorization of self.