Commissioned by the San Francisco Opera, the two-act opera in English (with Chinese subtitles) was written by MacArthur Fellow composer Bright Sheng and Tony Award-winning playwright David Henry Hwang.

The creative team said they were all big fans of the novel, which is considered one of the four greatest novels in the history of Chinese literature. Also known as The Story of the Stone, it's an autobiographical work by 18th century Qing Dynasty writer Cao Xueqin.

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The opera focuses on the illustrious Jia clan and the love triangle between Jia's young heir Bao Yu and two very different women - his beautiful cousin and soul mate Dai Yu, and his future wife, another beautiful cousin named Bao Chai.

"I aim to blend Chinese aesthetics and Asian philosophies within a contemporary sensibility to create a play between visual lushness and sparseness befitting the score and the novel's themes of impermanence," said Lai.

The qin, which has a sound even softer than a guitar, appears twice in the opera - once in a scene when Daiyu plays it and again at the end when the same leitmotif returns but with a different meaning, he said.

Calling the new opera "an incredibly sweeping work", San Francisco Opera general director Matthew Shilvock said the piece tells an emotional and universal love story and works particularly well for the stage.

"So when we do deal with big issues between Washington and Beijing, people would have a better understanding of how human relationships work in China," said San Francisco Opera board member Doreen Woo Ho. "I think it is a way of being able to translate that understanding and help build that bridge."

Dream of the Red Chamber, with a cast of established and Asian singers, features Chinese tenor Yijie Shi as Bao Yu, South Korean soprano Pureum Jo as Dai Yu and Japanese American mezzo-soprano Irene Roberts as Bao Chai.

As has been repeatedly noticed, Leigh Hunt's reputation as a writer is inextricably bound up with the great poets of his time. This is not the place to recall all those occasions on which, as a result, he has been unfairly used. For his patience, hospitality, kindness, generosity of spirit, love of genius, and unstinting advocacy of creative merit, he has paid a high price: in some cases cruel exposure of his failure to achieve major poetic stature, in other cases condescension, more generally disregard. Starting in his own age, he has been repeatedly accused of, in Keats's words, artistic "self delusion"1 -- a vice of which he was never guilty. Hunt was, in fact, uncommonly humble and candid about his talents and accomplishments. He took pride, not in his many achievements, but in his gift for appreciation, in the good fortune of his time and place, and in his friendships. He was, among other things, a perceptive critic; as surely as he recognized talent where others denied or ignored it, so he knew his own limitations and freely acknowledged them. "I do not believe," he said wryly, "that other generations will take the trouble to rake for jewels in much nobler dust than mine."2

Yet dislike it as much as we may, the company of great men which has inevitably brought with it invidious comparisons and ungenerous attention has undoubtedly helped keep his memory alive -- however much it may also have led to its abuse. To be remembered along with Shelley and Keats, even at the expense of his own real virtues, would have satisfied Hunt and it will simply have to satisfy those of us who admire him.

But the question of Leigh Hunt's reputation as a poet is also linked to that of his great peers in yet another, more general way. Our relationship with the Romantic poets has changed regarding our actual poetic taste and reading habits, even as it has changed again regarding our evaluation of their contribution to English literature. When earlier in this century the great task of reassessment began -- the "rescue" of the Romantic generation from the hostile assessments of such worthies as T. S. Eliot and other neoclassicists -- Romantic poetry was still deeply rooted in popular taste and, consequently, in the curriculum of our public schools. Now, when scholars need no longer apologize for their preoccupation with Romantic literature, public taste has changed and the larger audience is virtually gone. It was that audience that cherished and perpetuated Hunt's poetry.

What, then, can we now say of Hunt's contribution to English poetry? We can of course continue earlier critical habits and locate its usefulness in the illumination of Hunt as an important literary personality. We can study its significance in the evolution of English poetical and metrical form. More importantly, we can examine the uses to which it can be put as an index of the Romantic sensibility. Obviously only the first of these approaches is of questionable value; for instance he clearly played a major role in the opening up of the couplet, and many of his poems offer us more accessible examples of Romantic thought and practice. But none of these approaches responds directly to the intrinsic value in, say, "The Story of Rimini" or "The Choice," or to the question of whatever enduring literary satisfactions may remain in reading the Hampstead sonnets or "Rondeau."

We can start by quickly saying what kind of attractions Hunts poetry does not, for the most part, provide. It is not intellectual; it does not engage us conceptually as do, in their different ways, the works of Shelley and Byron. It offers us no overwhelming vision, as does the poetry of Blake. It provides no brilliant formal or imagistic possibilities, as does Keats's work. And there is nothing haunting or evocative about his creations, as one expects from Coleridge. Yet having said this we must immediately remind ourselves that few minor Romantic poets do match any of these qualities and that when they do -- as in the case of Thomas Lovell Beddoes for instance -- there are corresponding liabilities not found in Hunt.

Poetry in the "highest sense," Hunt argued, "belongs exclusively to such men as Shakespeare, Spenser, and others, who possessed the deepest insights into the spirit and sympathies of all things." But if such is the case, he remained confident that poetry, "in the most comprehensive application of the term," is "the flower of any kind of experience, rooted in truth, and issuing forth into beauty." He insisted that "poetry, like the trees and flowers, is not of one class only," and that even the "humblest poetry stands a chance of surviving" if it is true to itself. Hence "all that the critic has a right to demand of it, according to its degree, is, that it should spring out of a real impulse, be consistent in its parts, and shaped into some characteristic harmony of verse" (p. xviii). This reasonable argument provides a justification for our continuing admiration of any good minor poet. Does Hunt's own work meet the test?

Statistically speaking, much of his work does not meet these demands.3 He loved poetic composition above all other literary endeavors, but he was first of all a prose man -- the professional writer and editor whose bread and butter was earned in the continual production of attractive essays, reviews, editorials, critiques, introductions. He wrote poetry, even his satires, as a kind of therapy; the poem's primary significance lay in the act of creation itself. But if that motive frequently led to slackness and to various forms of self-indulgence and escapism which ignored the need for "consistency in its parts," it is equally true that his first requirement -- that poetry "should spring out of a real impulse" -- is nearly always met in his work.

Hunt's usual fidelity to the genuine poetic impulse results in a number of characteristics and attractive qualities for which we may still admire his poetry. He is capable, for instance, of considerable metrical fluidity and stylistic grace, both of which he usually provides. He excels at vivid description, ranging from the humble and domestic world all around him to the exotic landscape of his imagination. He offers a vigorously sensuous and mythologized nature -- half-real, half-imagined -- a sort of Huntian version of Keats's world of "Flora, and old Pan." Similarly, he is the master of mood and atmosphere: from the then-rural Hampstead to the woods of Arcady, from contemporary London to Renaissance Italy.

These qualities are brought to bear on a variety of experiences in much the same manner as in his personal essays. In fact, a major charm of Hunt's poetry is the play of an engaging mind over those experiences which happen to come his way or which his taste causes him to seek out. The subtitle of one poem4 --"An 'Indicator' in Verse," which of course refers to the title of his best journal -- perfectly captures this aspect of his poetry; our pleasure comes not from an integrated analysis of experience but from sharing the authorial perspective. The organizational logic in such poems is associational. Our delight comes from sharing the pleasure of one "whom love and no unloving need / Have taught the treasures found in daily things" (p. 258). Such treasures are, perhaps, inherently valuable; in poetry as in the essay Hunt often captures moments which in our nostalgia we would preserve. But typically the value is intrinsic; it is located in the intensity of his perception and the grace with which he communicates it. We come to value what he values through the force of his affection and genuine sentiment. This characteristic of the poet as familiar essayist also frequently marks those poems whose subjects fall in other categories. Hunt's mind is not compartmentalized; he can move between orders of experience with ease.

More generally, the reader of Hunt's poetry finds himself in the company of a writer whose own nature and whose persona are characterized by gentleness, good humor, warmth, and generosity of spirit -- a friendly mind through which the world is kindly observed. Keats's description of Hunt as "he... of the social smile" in his sonnet "Great Spirits Now on the Earth Are Sojourning" is very apt; Hunt's poetry always projects not the private and egoistic experience but rather the human relationship of which he feels himself a part. Such openness naturally extracts its price; he is often left vulnerable to readers whose own joy in such a community of pleasure is severely restricted. Like other Romantic writers as different as Wordsworth and D. H. Lawrence, he is unprotected by irony. But by the same token, when Hunt is at his best he draws out the reader's own most kindly and tolerant response and, on those occasions, the reader, by the "treasures found in daily things," is momentarily liberated from the grimmer preoccupation’s with life; this is especially true for the twentieth-century reader. 152ee80cbc

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