Bertolt Brecht
The Legend of the Genesis of the Book Tao Te Chingon Lao-Tse’s Journey Into Exile
Translated by the Dunyazad Librarian
Maybe Brecht’s most famous poem, which he wrote in 1938 in exile in Denmark, though it is based on a short story which he had already written in 1925.
My line-by-line translation does not fully preserve the original’s predominantly trochaic meter nor the number of syllables in the lines, and it fully ignores the original’s A-B-A-B-B rhyme scheme. Punctuation of the original varies between different editions.
Audio recording (4:09)
Here you can find the German original (with a few minor errors) and a different English translation:
www.tao-te-king.org/Brecht!.htm
The Legend of the Genesis of the Book Tao Te Chingon Lao-Tse’s Journey Into Exile
(Legende von der Entstehung des Buches Taotekingauf dem Weg des Laotse in die Emigration)
When he was seventy and was becoming frail
finally the teacher longed for rest
for goodness in the land again was in decline
and evil once again was gaining strength.
And he put on his boots.
And he packed the things he needed:
Not much. But there was this and that.
As the pipe he always smoked in the evening
and the book in which he always read.
White bread by the eye.
He once again enjoyed the valley and forgot it
as he took the path towards the mountain range.
And his ox enjoyed the fresh green grasses
chewing, as he carried the old man.
For they went fast enough for him.
But on the fourth day on the rocky road
a tollman stood and blocked their way:
“Any valuables to declare?” — “No, none.”
And the boy who led the ox joined in, “He taught.”
So this was explained.
But the man, moved by a cheerful whim,
questioned, “Has he found something out?”
Said the boy, “That the soft water as it flows
come time defeats the mighty rock.
You understand, what’s hard is what succumbs.”
Not to lose the final light of day
the boy now hurried on the ox
and the three were vanishing behind a pine
when suddenly our man jumped up
and screamed, “Hey, you! Stay put!
What, old man, is this about the water?”
Said the old man, “Do you want to know?”
Said the man, “I only am a tax collector
but who defeats whom, does concern me too.
If you know it, then explain!
Write it down! Dictate it to this child here!
Something like this one doesn’t let get lost.
There is paper here and ink
and a supper for you too: there is my house.
What do you say to this?”
Over his shoulder looked the old man
upon the man: the jacket mended, and no shoes
and the forehead one large crease.
Alas, no victor was accosting him
and underneath his breath he said, “You, too?”
To decline someone’s polite request
the old man was, it seemed, too old
for loud he said, “Those who ask questions
deserve an answer.” Said the boy, “And it is getting cold.”
“Well then, we can stay a while.”
And from his ox dismounted the wise man
and seven days they wrote, the two of them
the tollman bringing food (and only softly
swearing at the smugglers in that time).
And then it was done.
And into the tollman’s hands one morning
eighty-one chapters laid the boy
and thanking for a parting gift of viands
they took the path that bent behind that pine.
Tell me, could anyone be more polite?
But let us praise not only the wise man
whose name is written on the cover of that book!
For wisdom must be wrested from the wise
and therefore let the tollman too be praised:
He has requested it from him.