The Problem of the Liezi's Originality

To begin with, as we know, the Liezi is a collection of texts loosely grouped under several broad themes such as cosmology, dreams, and fate. It is attributed to the legendary figure Lie Yükou 列御寇, who seems to have lived around the fifth century b.c.e., and who appears in other early Chinese texts such as the Zhuangzi 莊子 and the Lüshi chunqiu 呂氏春秋. But later scholarship has generally agreed that the Liezi was written by various authors and includes writings from both Warring States and late Han or Six Dynasties periods. Most notably, the Liezi includes many passages that also appear, almost identically, in the Zhuangzi.Footnote ¹ According to Angus Graham, one of the first major translators and critics of the Liezi in Western scholarship, these passages are copied from the Zhuangzi, albeit an earlier and more complete version of the Zhuangzi, which has been lost.Footnote ² Moreover, Ji Xianlin 季羡林 has shown in his essay “Liezi yu fodian” 列子與佛典 that the story about the machine man who could dance and even express emotions in the Liezi (5.13) is derived from a similar story about a wooden robot in the Chinese translation of the Jātaka nidāna, i.e. the Sheng jing生經.Footnote ³ As the translation of the Sheng jing dates to as late as 285 c.e., this section of the Liezi therefore cannot be written before this date. This provides strong evidence to support the claim that the authors of the Liezi have copied and imitated earlier texts, and that at least certain parts of the Liezi were written during the Six Dynasties. Ji even argues boldly that the Liezi is a forgery by its main compiler and commentator, Zhang Zhan 張湛 (c. 370 c.e.), who was the de facto main author.Footnote ⁴

Because of these arguments against the Liezi's antiquity and genuineness, although it was canonized in the late Tang (c. 740 c.e.) as one of the four core Daoist classics, alongside the Daode jing 道德經, Zhuangzi and Wenzi 文子, it has received relatively little attention from both critics and translators. Critical studies, especially outside China, only increased more recently, as evidenced by the collection of essays Riding the Wind with Liezi (2011) edited by Littlejohn and Dippmann. This lack of scholarly attention and exegeses is mainly due to the perception of the Liezi as a ragbag of miscellaneous writings that are not authentic or “original,” and which lack the philosophical depth and linguistic complexity of earlier literature. Graham writes that “in general Lieh-tzu is one of the easiest of ancient texts,”Footnote ⁵ and Muriel Détrie, writing not so long ago, states that the Liezi “definitely does not have the literary quality of the Zhuangzi and offers nothing new when compared to the Zhuangzi.”Footnote ⁶ These established views that predominantly valorize textual authenticity and antiquity have discouraged scholars from engaging with the Liezi on a deeper level, for its intellectual depth and textual complexity are in fact far from superficial and many of its sections merit detailed examination, as recent studies increasingly show.Footnote ⁷ Nevertheless, critical and commentatorial depreciation became the biggest reason why translators also slighted the Liezi, since translators would rather translate a more important and recognized text. Unlike the Daode jing and Zhuangzi, which have attracted numerous translators since the nineteenth century, for a long time the Liezi has not been the source of serious and full-length translations. Lionel Giles's 1912 translation Taoist Teachings from the Book of Lieh Tzu cuts out chapter 7 on Yang Zhu 楊朱 because Giles thought that the chapter “deals exclusively” with Yang Zhu's egoistic doctrine and has nothing to do with the rest of the Liezi.Footnote ⁸ Anton Forke only translated chapter 7, and as an independent book on Yang Zhu, which is Yang Chu's Garden of Pleasure (1912). Before 1950, therefore, there was no full-length translation of the Liezi in English, despite the two pioneering full translations in French and German: Léon Wieger's Les Pères du système taoïste (1913) and Richard Wilhelm's Liä Dsi, das wahre Buch vom quellenden Urgrund (1921). It was not until the 1960s that full-length translations began to appear, most prominently: Angus Graham's The Book of Lieh-tzu (1960); Benedykt Grynpas's Lie tseu: le vrai classique du vide parfait (1961); and translations in modern Chinese, such as Yan Beiming 嚴北溟 and Yan Jie's 嚴捷 Liezi yizhu 列子譯註 (1986). I focus on these translations in this article, together with another translation that presents an interesting case: Eva Wong's 1995 Lieh-tzu: A Taoist Guide to Practical Living.

Before turning to compare these translations, however, I would like to further enquire into the question of what kind of “originality” a modern translator may expect an ancient text to have. If we look at the Oxford English Dictionary, we have these definitions of “originality”:

1. 1. The fact or quality of being primary, or produced at first hand; authenticity, genuineness.

2. 2. As an attribute of persons: original thought or action; independent exercise of one's creative faculties; the power of originating new or fresh ideas or methods; inventiveness.

3. 3. The quality of being independent of and different from anything that has gone before; novelty or freshness of style or character, esp. in a work of art or literature.

The concept of “originality” therefore includes two main aspects: unprecedentedness and non-derivation. There is also an emphasis on the individuality of the creator of a work or action that is considered “original,” namely, that she and nobody else has produced something new that breaks with convention. If we look at the Liezi from these perspectives, it certainly cannot be regarded as “original.” My contention is, however, that we should not judge the Liezi, and indeed any ancient Chinese text, from these viewpoints. Although originality is a commonly understood and accepted notion now, it did not appear in use in Europe until the early modern times, namely, the eighteenth century. This can be seen in the vast majority of the example sentences for the use of “originality” in the Oxford English Dictionary, which do not date earlier than the mid-eighteenth century. In fact, as contemporary literary and art critics have shown repeatedly, the perception that works of aesthetic and intellectual value should be “original” is rooted in the Romanticist belief in the individual genius and the twentieth-century obsession with signature-style and author copyright.Footnote ⁹ Therefore, applying this modern Western notion of originality to ancient Chinese texts is very problematic and misleading, for many texts are syncretist and formulated over centuries by authors and commentators who were not concerned about maintaining the individual mark of single authorship. Of course, twentieth-century sinologists, in contrast to earlier sinologists who often sought eurocentrically for Chinese parallels and similarities that match European cultural models, realized this problem and emphasized the difference of Chinese culture and the need to use non-eurocentric methods and perspectives to study it. Nevertheless, certain deep-rooted European ways of thinking still lingered (even unconsciously), for instance, the correlation between a text's significance and its authenticity, and in my case, scholars' depreciation of the Liezi on the grounds of its dubious originality and textual antiquity. The scarcity of Liezi translations shows that translators' expectation that the source text should be valuable in terms of “originality” influences how often the text is translated and retranslated.Footnote ¹⁰

If we now turn to translation, however, we find another problem concerning the notion of originality, but which is of a different nature compared to the originality of being unprecedented and novel. One of the biggest problems in translation is the long-debated question of the translated text's fidelity to the source text. The source text therefore appears in this case as the original text, the one version that is often understood as the measure for judging its multiple versions of translations. Once a text becomes the source text of translation, no matter how many spurious writings it includes, and no matter how fragmented or illogical its language may be, it becomes irreproachable, whereas its translations are always challengeable. The very act of translation thus emerges from positing a text as the source text, which is a perception of the text that does not support any textual changes and insists that the text must exist in exactly the form that it has been given to exist in by the time the translation is initiated. The text that becomes a source text by entering into the realm of translation is therefore petrified, not because it could not have been written in other ways at the time of its production or put together differently by posthumous editors and commentators, but because the context of translation demands that the text be singular rather plural, fixed rather than fluid. This idea of the “original text” in translation thus emerges from the translational demand and processes themselves. In other words, a text begins to be considered in terms of translational originality only when it starts to be translated and interpreted as a source text. It is thus understood that “originality” in the aesthetic sense discussed above is not “originality” in the translational sense. Aesthetic originality is about authenticity and primordiality in the creation of a text, it denotes a quality of style that defines a text as having a certain literary and artistic value. In other words, aesthetic originality is implicitly axiological. Translational originality is, however, not an aesthetic value but a linguistic fact, i.e. the linguistic form in which the source text exists, for which there is no identical equivalent in another language, not even in the very language in which the source text is written (we would call that paraphrase). Translation is therefore a deliberate formalization of the source text, and makes formal rather than aesthetic demands on the text's “originality.” Whether the linguistic form of the source text is of high aesthetic or literary value does not affect the translational originality of the text in the least. While the aesthetic originality of a text has everything to do with interpretation and varies widely, the translational originality of a text is exclusively concerned with medium and form and always remains the same. This is not to say, however, that these two kinds of originalities are completely unrelated. As we see in the Liezi's case, the negative perception of the text's aesthetic originality hinders the text from becoming a source text for translation, which means the condition for its being treated as a translationally original text is to some extent decided by its aesthetic originality.

My discussion so far shows that there are different ways of understanding “originality,” for originality is a multi-faceted concept, ironically, since “originality” itself denotes singularity rather than plurality. In fact, most conceptual terms, upon close examination, will show themselves to hold multiple meanings that offer different perspectives. I believe that this is also the case with the notion of faithfulness in translation, which directly relates to translational originality, for all discussion of translational fidelity will have to follow upon the prior positing of a text as the original text. In the following, translational fidelity will be considered through a comparison of the Liezi's translations.

The Notion of Fidelity to the Source Language in Translation

As mentioned above, there are four notable post-1950s translations of the Liezi, each of which represents a different type of translation: firstly, Yan Beiming and Yan Jie's version is typical of modern Chinese translations that preserve more of the classical Chinese syntax, vocabulary, and idiomatic expressions than the non-Chinese translations; secondly, Angus Graham's translation exemplifies the language-sensitive approach to translation that is grammatically closer to classical Chinese; thirdly, Benedykt Grynpas's French translation represents the reader-friendly translation that makes the text read smoothly in the target language; and lastly, Eva Wong's 1995 rendering of the Liezi presents the readers with a type of translation that is deliberately unfaithful, or “free” in form, but which tries to reproduce the “voice” of the text in a contemporary way by endeavoring to translate “in the spirit of” the original text and the thought it embodies.Footnote ¹¹ I will now examine these translations' renderings of a specific passage in the Liezi that particularly demands more interpretation, so that these translations' different characteristics, approaches, and degrees of faithfulness can be shown.

In the beginning of chapter 5 “Tang wen” 湯問, or “Questions of Tang,” the Liezi presents us with one of the most sophisticated and intriguing discussions of cosmic infinity in ancient Chinese literature, as quoted here:Footnote ¹²

This passage discusses some fundamental cosmological questions such as the beginning of the existence of things (wu 物), the limits and exhaustibility of the world or space, and what could be beyond the limits. This kind of cosmological discussion appears frequently as an important theme in the Liezi and ties in with the concern for speculating about the distant and unknown in time and space found in other early Chinese texts such as the Shizi 尸子, Zhuangzi, and Huainanzi 淮南子. The meaning of this Liezi passage is, however, far from clear and there are also some uncertainties about whether there is textual corruption. For instance, Tao Hongqing 陶洪慶 argued that “有則有盡 ” should be “有則無盡”;Footnote ¹³ other commentators have puzzled over the legitimacy of the double negative in “無極之外復無無極,” literarily translated as “outside that which has no limit, again there is no limitlessness,” which seems self-contradictory and absurd. Moreover, part of the dialogue also appears in the Zhuangzi (1.2), with a slight variation:Footnote ¹⁴

The single negative fu wu ji 復無極 in the Zhuangzi's version seems to be much more comprehensible, namely, affirming that “outside the limitless there is again the limitless.” The Liezi's version therefore seems to explicitly complicate the question (since the repetition of fu wu wu ji, fu wu wu jin “復無無極,” “復無無盡” makes it unlikely that the double negative is a textual corruption) by introducing not only the double negative but also the problem of wu jin 無盡 (the inexhaustible) into the discussion. To translate this passage, therefore, requires an interpretation of philosophical cosmology from the translator. Let us now see how translators have dealt with it.

Yan Beiming and Yan Jie's translation goes thus:Footnote ¹⁵

I give a more or less literal translation of Yan's translation here:

Firstly, Yan has preserved some of the original vocabulary and syntax, for instance in keeping 物 (wu) in the first few sentences, in using tian di ba fang “天地八方” for shang xia ba fang 上下八方, and keeping the syntax in sentences A and B. Nevertheless, this preservation does not make the translation much clearer in meaning. Yan does not attempt to explain or qualify 物 (wu), literarily “things,” in its first three appearances, then at the fourth and fifth instances translates it as shi wu 事物, literarily “phenomena/events and things” in modern Chinese; and at the sixth instance further changes to wu zhi 物質, i.e. “matter, substance” in modern Chinese. These changes of terms are not only imprecise but also misleading. The question of what is a “thing” (wu) in classical Chinese is of great philosophical importance and demands extensive investigation. For instance, in the Zhuangzi (chapter 17), the “myriad things,” wan wu 萬物, denote all the different kinds of existences in the world, without distinguishing between the inanimate and animate, human or non-human. Only the dao is not a wu because it is both inherent in and beyond everything. This view on wu is similar to the Liezi's views, as we see in “天地含精，萬物化生” (Liezi 1.2), i.e. “heaven and earth hold the essence, and the myriad things (wan wu) are transformed and born”; and more explicitly stated as “凡有貌像聲色者，皆物也” (Liezi 2.4), “all that have appearance, likeness, sound and colour are things (wu).” Thus wu denotes, more precisely, existences rather than inanimate objects. In modern Chinese, however, wu predominantly means inanimate objects, therefore Yan's preservation of the term wu in the first three instances is in fact confusing. As for Yan's translation wu zhi 物質 “matter, substance,” for the sixth wu, it completely misses the point. The wu in the Liezi passage has not changed whereas wu zhi no longer denotes existences or things but the matter they are constituted of. Yan's introduction of wu zhi thus diverts the topic of discussion to the question of what exists besides matter, whereas the Liezi passage is in fact pressing on with the question of what exists beyond different existences. If we read further and consider the most difficult part of the dialogue, which is about the question of limits and exhaustibility, the translation is clearly an endeavor to interpret the original text, for “limits,” ji xian 極限, are correlated with space, whereas “exhaustibility,” qiong jin 窮盡, is correlated with shi wu 事物, phenomena/events and things. This does make the text slightly more comprehensible. The problem is that the original classical Chinese does not indicate that limits and exhaustibility (極, 盡) are qualifying different things. The translation does preserve the self-contradiction of the double negative in wu wu ji 無無極, but overall the translated dialogue about cosmological limits does not make much sense to the modern reader, for no clear or coherent explanation of cosmic limits is given. Although Yan tries, as he states in the introduction, to “translate literarily” and “convey the original meaning” (but he does not elaborate on the difficulties of knowing what “the original meaning” is before even trying to convey it),Footnote ¹⁶ he does not succeed in conveying much meaning—even in his modern Chinese interpretation—in this instance. Does Yan fail as a translator here or as an interpreter? Clearly, to translate such a text into a passage expressing a coherent view on cosmology, the translator has to be simultaneously a good interpreter, and one who does not avoid making changes and supplementing information to the fragments of meaning that can be gleaned from the Liezi itself. The fidelity to the original in Yan's translation is formal rather than semantic, and lacks the philosophical awareness that the Liezi requires its readers to have.

Angus Graham's translation, however, contrasts strongly with Yan's translation, especially in that it is extremely philosophically sensitive and self-consciously interpretational. Unlike Yan, who cut down on footnotes, Graham includes extensive footnotes and explanations of background and textual complexities. The fact that this Liezi passage about cosmic limits is obscure and hard to interpret is acknowledged by Graham, and he clearly states that his translation is both limited and not really “literal”: “[this] obscure passage my treatment of which has left me with an uneasy conscience.”Footnote ¹⁷ When we read Graham's translation, therefore, we understand well that the original text is itself unclear and perhaps corrupted:Footnote ¹⁸

When T'ang pressed the question, Chi continued:

We notice that Graham tries to retain some of the classical Chinese style, as evidenced in his switch from prose to verse at “The ending and starting of things/Have no limit from which they began,” which reflects the more lyrical chant of the original text. He also translates wu and shang xia ba fang quite literarily as “things” and “above and below and in the eight directions.” For the question of limits, Graham introduces the contrast between “something” and “nothing” to correspond to you wu 有無, which makes the italicized sentences clearer in terms of what you wu is referring to. But “something” and “nothing” in English have much stronger metaphysical connotations than you wu in Chinese, which is why they sound like ontological entities or categories in this translation. Of course, an interpretational decision has to be made, and we cannot expect there to be a translation that exactly matches the original or reproduces all its nuances, not to mention that the original meaning here is very uncertain. Graham recognizes this problem and states in lengthy footnotes that he thinks part of the text is missing between sentences (2) and (3), but can only guess by comparing with similar arguments from the Zhuangzi that the passage is mainly about “empty space [being] limitless, bodies [being] inexhaustible.”Footnote ¹⁹ Therefore, on both formal and semantic levels, Graham attempts to keep close to the original text, but also points out the problems with the original text that make a fully comprehensible translation impossible. In my view, the making visible of the lack of transparency in translation is also a kind of translational fidelity, for it reveals the deeper issue that translation itself is not an action of fidelity but rather, of transformation, retelling, and replacement.

Now, if we compare Graham's translation with Yan's, we see that despite the preservation of Chinese terms and syntax in Yan's translation, and despite the relative proximity between modern Chinese and classical Chinese when compared to the distance between English and classical Chinese, Graham's translation does much better in clarifying obscurities and making the reader aware of the complexities of the original text. This is an important point for consideration, for it shows that translating in a language that is closer to the original text's language is not necessarily more precise or faithful than translating in a language that is radically different from the original language. In fact, modern Chinese's continued use of certain classical Chinese terms and expressions, albeit with changed meanings, such as wu, qi 氣, hun dun 渾沌, jing shen 精神, often makes the task harder for the modern Chinese translator of classical Chinese, for she needs to further clarify the semantic differences between terms that are formally exactly the same. This also explains why sometimes classical Chinese terms are not translated in modern Chinese translations, for leaving them as they are is indeed less interpretationally dangerous as well as less linguistically awkward. The downside of this is that the modern Chinese translation does not clarify readers' understanding of these terms but misleads the readers into thinking with reference to these terms' modern Chinese connotations rather than their ancient connotations or how these terms' meanings were shifting across time. In the case of a translation in a language radically different from classical Chinese, English for example, the translator is obliged to make a decision on the meaning of every word he translates, and therefore steers clearly away from the confusion between archaic and modern uses of Chinese terms. From this aspect, therefore, the greater the difference between the source and target languages, the bigger potential and demand there is for clarification of meaning and interpretation. This shows, in fact, that a huge difference between the source and target language can be an advantage rather than a disadvantage sometimes.

The translator's attempts at better clarification and interpretation are also evident in Grynpas's French translation of the Liezi. It offers us this version of the cosmological passage:Footnote ²⁰

Grynpas's rendition reads smoothly, is quite reader-friendly with very few disruptions made by footnotes, and shows clear signs of added explanation and interpretation in the text itself. We notice first that wu at (1) is translated as “êtres séparés,” i.e. “separated beings,” which shows Grynpas's background knowledge of cosmological views in Daoist literature. In particular, Grynpas's translation seems to recall the Zhuangzi's views on wu. For example, we find in the Zhuangzi expressions about the boundaries between wu:

The existence of myriad things in the world is already a state that has left the primordial indifferentiation, the shapeless hun dun, which as the Liezi (1.2) affirms is the state when “the myriad things are confounded with each other and not yet separated” (渾淪者，言萬物相渾淪而未相離也). Grynpas's translation “êtres séparés” is thus a well-grounded interpretational translation. But as we read on we realize that Grynpas goes well over the minimum interpretation required for the sentences to make sense, as we see in (2) “Le commencement et la fin ne sont pas des concepts absolus” (“The beginning and the end are not absolute concepts”), which obviously emphasizes relativist views, whereas the original text is not explicitly relativist but talks of the continuity between beginning and end. In (4), the question of limits and exhaustibility (ji jin 極盡) becomes the contrast between “limite extérieure” and “ultimes parties simples,” i.e. exterior limit and indivisible particles, which is just one step away from saying “atoms,” a concept very foreign to ancient Chinese thinkers. In (5), Grynpas's translation does away with the double negative in wu wu ji 無無極 and wu wu jin 無無盡, and presents the question as that of quantity and infinitesimals, or infinite multiplication and infinite division. With this extensive interpretation, the translated version reads well and makes a lot of sense, in fact it makes so much sense that the self-contradiction and uncertainty of the original text disappears. By comparing Graham's translation with Yan's translation, we recognized the need for some extensive interpretation of the original text to produce a more comprehensible translation. But Grynpas does this to the extent that the reader is no longer aware of the interpretational problems posed by the original text. Is this good or bad? Can we talk about translational fidelity here without bringing into consideration interpretational fidelity? But interpretation has much less obligation to faithfulness to the original than translation, or at least we would like to think so. In fact, the notion of “faithfulness in translation” itself requires interpretation and qualification, it is plural just as “originality” is plural.

The question of how far translational fidelity can extend into interpretation is posed even more prominently in Eva Wong's version of the Liezi. This is an interesting case because it is not really a translation but an adaptation interspersed with many translated passages, combining certain parts of the original text while eliminating others. Wong's intention is to contemporize the Liezi's thought and treat it as wisdom that can be applied to concrete life, as is clearly shown in the subtitle: “A taoist guide to practical living.” Wong is explicitly not treating the text as a historical object of study, as she professes: “Instead of a straight translation of the semantics of the text, I have decided to present the ‘voice’ of Lieh-tzu,” so that he can “speak to us as if he were here.”Footnote ²² The translational enterprise here is therefore more a figurative carrying-across of meaning rather than a linguistic one. Certainly, to re-present the Liezi as a contemporary voice in English is a translational process, but it is not precisely translational on the level of the linguistic form of the original text. Wong's endeavor sounds as naïve and idealistic as the belief in “direct” translation, but it does offer something: an alternative approach to translation that requires the translator to empty her mind of “linguistic constraints” and abandon “the analytical mentality,” thus trying to engage with the ancient text more intimately, without the layers of commentatorial and translational history cluttering the translator's perception.Footnote ²³ This approach is in fact increasingly entering translators' and commentators' discourse recently, as evidenced in Jean-François Billeter's readings of the Zhuangzi, since Billeter explicitly states that he prefers to let the Zhuangzi talk to his own experiences and thoughts rather than work through layers of commentaries to excavate meaning in the text.Footnote ²⁴ Likewise, Roger Ames and David Hall's translation and interpretation of the Daode jing (2003), which has the subtitles: “A philosophical translation,” and “Making this life significant,” also echoes this more personal approach to understanding ancient texts, an approach that is often motivated by the endeavor to see these texts as not obsolete but still valuable for our thought and experience.Footnote ²⁵ To translate in the spirit of the original is much harder, if not impossible, than conventional linguistic translation. Although Wong does not, in my view, do very well in this attempt, for instance her adaptation of this cosmological passage is much too simplified and misses out on the gist of the original text:Footnote ²⁶

The problematic double negatives are eliminated and the idea of a universe beyond the known universe is introduced instead. This idea comes from the Liezi itself, in fact, for if we read further on from this passage in chapter 5, we find Xia Ji saying: “How do I know whether outside heaven and earth there is not something bigger than heaven and earth?” (“朕亦焉知天地之表不有大天地者乎？”) This shows that Wong has rearranged the text by paraphrases that show important ideas in the text that offer a clearer picture to the reader. Despite her reduction of the complexity of the original passage, the fact that Wong makes such an attempt still offers much food for thought on the nature of translation and how we treat texts from antiquity.

In the above discussion about faithfulness in translation, I have demonstrated that although it is idealistic to believe there is a translational fidelity that could produce a text equivalent to the original, we cannot abandon altogether the attempt to convey the meaning of the original/source text—meaning as seen from no matter what perspective—in more precise and comprehensible translations. In fact, faithfulness can still be qualified in degrees of more or less, and from different perspectives of what is understood as “faithful.” For example, faithfulness in form—such as preserving words' grammatical functions, sentence patterns, prosodic features—may not be faithfulness in meaning—meaning in terms of the overall gist, the philosophical implications, or understatements depending on context. And vice versa, faithfulness in meaning may not be faithfulness in form. Moreover, to translate “faithfully,” no matter according to what understanding of fidelity, always involves different degrees of clarification and interpretation. To visualize this on a spectrum (see below), the most extreme degree of faithfulness to the original text would be an identical text, which is both the ideal of transparent translation and not a translation at all. As exemplified in Borges's Pierre Menard, a fictional twentieth-century French writer who attempts to translate the Don Quixote completely faithfully, Menard ends up producing an identical copy of Cervantes's text.Footnote ²⁷ Nevertheless, an identical text is also the least clear in explanation and least interpretative. On the other end of the spectrum, the freer the translation, the more adapted and interpretive it tends to be. Thus the extreme end of unfaithfulness to the original would be a creative interpretation, which is again not a translation any more. What we usually understand to be translations are, therefore, situated somewhere in-between the two extremes of original text and interpretation.