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Book Review:

The Shard Box, by Liz Niven

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A bitter, comic, worker's monologue in Scots harangues on the subjects of the mass saturation of society with modern toys (shades, ipods, Nokias, mobile phones, cars) while the lassies are all 'aff tae the Jing' (Beijing): 'A havenae had a damsel in distress fir years.' And the 'lahdedah citie wummen' are 'mincin aboot': 'No even worth poppin oan a cocktail stick.' The humour is remorseless: 'A need a fag. At least ye can still hiv a fag inside ower here.' And in 'Let's hear whit the dragon hud tae sey aboot the Olympics' we have a hard judgement:

Communist? Communist ye sey?
Ye huv tae pey fir scuils,
Ye huv tae pey fur doactors
Ye huv tae pey fur hoaspitals
There's nae pension
Nae nuthin fur nuthin

The Scots-language characters voice their opinions in such a way it prompts the thought that there would be a good short play here. As poems, I think one of the most effective is 'Mao's mangoes'. In chilly, unemphatic English, Niven tells us how the Chairman gave some workers a gift of mangoes in 1968. They were transformed overnight into a sacred relic. The facts as stated deliver the stark irony of the hard recognition of materialism confronted by the human gesture of a gift and the human need to make special or sacred, to revere, something so rare. Underneath this is a pitiful sense of the failure of reason to supply the great communist ideal: in some form or other, the human irrational always cuts across the epic effort. And the poem's closing picture is terrible, evocative of the pathos of that effort and the cruelty that forecloses on it:

Now, in Mao's mausoleum,
his corpse shines like wax fruit.

Some say rot has set in.
A slice of ear has detached itself,

like an Autonomous region.

That would do as a poem in itself. The queues still forming in Tian'anmen Square to view the corpse continue to demonstrate how 'The fruits of his labours / linger on.' Above the entrance to the Forbidden City, I'm reliably informed, the portrait of Mao looks out, and every year it is replaced by a new copy, by a new young artist, with the one imposing rule that the new portrait should be exactly identical to the last one. In such a culture, art is truly prized.

The Shard Box elaborates these themes and introduces a selection of poems by Bei Dao, translated into Scots. Bei Dao (b.1949) is a remarkable figure, formerly a Red Guard champion of Mao, he was 're-educated' as a construction worker during the cultural revolution and was prominent among the group known as the Misty Poets, editing the magazine Jintian (Today) and protesting in Tian'anmen Square in 1976 and 1989, after which he was not allowed to return to China. Niven's versions of 'Comet', 'Boat ticket' and 'Stretch oot yer hauns tae me' are moving and effective, both defamiliarised and objectivised in Scots and at the same time made more intimately affecting, without emotional overload. These are fine poems in themselves, and Niven's translations are unpretentious, memorable and strong.

The title poem describes a present to Niven from her son, in which small slip of paper explains that during the cultural revolutrion, the keeping of treasures was deemed bourgeois and illegal, so that porcelain was smashed and discarded, kept only in shards. At that time, the poet recalls, she and her family were busy becoming themselves, as now they are fragmented, shards in different parts of the world. Her children are

... gone to that State which keeps its glue-like grip

on every corner of its empire
the way a mother can't, shouldn't.

If only a family too could be reconstructed,
dovetailed into what we once were.

But of course, she knows that the wish is as futile and would be as cruel as the cultural revolution itself. Under its wistful gesture, that 'If only' conceals a political understanding of hopeless desire and paranoid authority, recognised in the predeceding 'can't, shouldn't.' We are left with the shard box, the collection of fragments retaining the ghosts of connection, or more realistically, in dialogue. The book ends literally with mother and daughter corresponding by email, talking about the meaning of the title of the book: small pieces of something that once was complete, that might be repaired, says the mother; no, says the daughter, life was never perfect, humans are a bumpy lot, and 'that's where the diversity and mystery and opportunities and creativity all come from.'

There is more than enough in this book to justify the daughter's opinion, but the pathos of the epic effort haunts the mother's understanding too. The most personal, familial instance thereby embodies the social, political, national tensions and strengths the current and historical character of China—and for that matter, Scotland—so evidently show. You have to get as close as this to understand it, to read it deeply. The understanding depends on careful proximity. What most people think of as the Great Wall is only one among many, a sixteenth-century construction north of Beijing, but it cannot be seen from the moon. Neil Armstrong thought it could, but the Geographical Magazine indicated that was just cloud formation. No. You have to be a lot closer to the thing to see it really. The virtue of these poems shows that proximity.

Alan Riach
Professor of Scottish Literature
University of Glasgow
a.riach[@]scotlit.arts.gla.ac.uk

The Shard Box is published by Luath Press (2010).