Essays from an Asian Theatre Class I took

Dear Readers,

Here are the essays I wrote for an Asian Theatre class I took in the Spring of 2007 at NAU.

Asian Elements in Wolf of Mount Zhong

Wolf of Mount Zhong by Wang Jiusi is a delightful Asian play with a strikingly different style than modern Western plays. When reading the play, one immediately recognizes how unusual it is. But just what is it that sets this play apart from the typical play likely to be seen in present-day America? What elements contribute to its foreignness? What are the tell-tale signs that this play is greatly removed from us by time and space? This essay answers these questions by identifying four of the play’s foreign elements. The elements discussed here are overt exposition, direct addresses to the audiences, unrealistic characters, and fable qualities.

First, Wolf of Mount Zhong contains overt exposition. In most modern Western plays, we learn about characters gradually through costumes, movements, vocal tones, but mostly through dialogue among characters. In Zhong, however, we learn about characters directly from the characters, telling us about themselves. For example, King Jianzi, Master Dongguo, the Local Deity and others establish background information by talking directly to the audience. It’s as if the characters act as mini-narrators for themselves. The first line of Wolf of Mount Zhong demonstrates this overt exposition: “I am King Jianzi of Zhao.” This line informs the audience quickly and clearly who the man on the stage is representing.

Second, Zhong employs a great deal of direct addresses, that is, lines delivered straight to the audience. For instance, Dongguo’s first line is, “I am Master Dongguo, and I’m from the land of Yan.” It wouldn’t make sense for him to be saying that line to himself or to his donkey, and there’s nobody else in that scene with him. So, Dongguo must be saying this line straight to the audience. This technique is very different from most modern Western plays, where events are portrayed as realistically as possible. The act of talking straight to an audience breaks the fourth wall, so to speak. It reminds the audience that they are in a theatre, watching a play. Some would consider breaking the fourth wall a flaw in playwriting, but for this ancient Asian style, direct addresses are fitting.

Third, the play contains unrealistic, two-dimensional characters. (How much more unrealistic can you get than a talking apricot-tree?) The characters do not seem to have real emotions and backgrounds. Rather, they are representing certain types of people. I would think that the actors acting in this play would not subscribe to the Stanislavsky system, look for inner motivation, or write a character analysis identifying their grandfather’s livelihood. Probably the actors wouldn’t really feel the parts; they would outwardly manifest those particular body positions, facial expressions and vocal intonations which correspond to the moments in the story they were representing.

Fourth, the play has the feel of a fairy tale, with a moral at the end. The moral comes at the point where the Local Deity says to Master Dongguo, “You are on the wrong track, scholar! You would do better to follow Confucius’s and Mencius’s doctrines of kindliness applied to moral rightness.” Thus the play ends with a pretty clear moral: while it’s good to be nice to animals, you can’t let them eat you. This clear moral at the end of the play starkly contrasts so-called good drama nowadays. I’ve heard several times that a good play, just like a good novel, is open to many different interpretations. I have also heard that a good play contains many different three-dimensional characters who are put into perplexing moral dilemmas, for which there is no easy answer. In contrast to most modern Western plays, Zhong relies more on storyline and themes to carry it forward, rather than on realistic characters.

Wolf of Mount Zhong does many things that modern audiences would consider wrong, sloppy, or unbecoming of a good play. It contains overt exposition, direct addresses, unrealistic characters, and a moral at the end of the story. Yet despite these unusual elements, Zhong remains a complete and delightful piece of art.

The Source Story for Hegemon King says farewell to his Queen

Many of William Shakespeare’s plays were based on historical events. Particularly, many of his histories and tragedies were not born in the Bard’s imagination; rather, he took a documented piece of history, studied it, and absorbed it. Then, he put the historical information into a poetic form, and resulted with a play. Similarly, Hegemon King says farewell to his Queen, whose popular Peking Opera version was written in the twentieth century, has its roots in the 232-202 BC. The main character, the Hegemon King, Xiang Yu, was based off of a real Chinese general named Xiang Yu. But the similarities don’t end there. When researching the source story for Hegemon King, I was surprised to find that so many of the events in the play were representations of what had actually happened over two thousand years ago. In this essay I will show what elements between the play and the history are similar.

First, Xiang Yu, in the play, was prideful. In real life, he was no different. (The following quote, as well as the rest of my quotes, not coming directly from the play, come from Wikipedia.com) “…his lack of political skills, the inability to accept criticism, and his inability to listen to wise advisors would eventually lead to his downfall.” Yes, Xiang Yu, according to our sources, was a cocky general. He had much more experience on the battlefield than he had at a bargaining table. And so we say that Xiang Yu’s tragic flaw was pride. A “tragic flaw” is typically a literary device, a thing that scholars analyze in a carefully crafted work of fiction. Granted, sometimes historians mold real events into stories, and may use terms like “the rising action of WW I,” but scholarly historians are careful not to cheapen the truth by turning real events into a show, with a beginning, a middle, an end, and with a good guy and a bad guy. Although storytelling makes for good drama, storytelling makes for inaccurate history. Thus, in Hegemon King, the line between fiction and non-fiction grows hazy.

Second, there really was a battle between two generals named Xiang Yu and Liu Bang, and there really was a field marshal named Han Xin. The Wikipedia article states, “Xiang and Liu would fight a five-year-year war known as the Chu Han Contention.” In the play, Xiang Yu says to Liu Bang, “Last time, at Guling, I spared your life, and these five years past I have never once clashed with you in personal combat.” So, Mei Lanfang was true to the time line of the war.
Third, Liu Bang really “ordered his army to sing songs from Xiang's native country of Chu to demoralize Xiang's army.” In the play, Han Xin sings, “I shall set another snare, with songs from Chu, their native land.” And so, songs from Xinag’s homeland were really sung by Liu Bang’s forces to discourage Xiang’s forces. This wasn’t just a clever tear-jerking plot device invented by Lanfang; it really happened. However, I did find a discrepancy between the play and the history on this point: the play suggests that Han Xin came up with the idea for singing native Chu songs, but the history says it was Liu Bang who came up with that idea. Which account are we to believe? Instinct tells me that it is always safer to trust the researched history, rather than the artistic play.

Finally, both in the play and in real life, Xiang Yu took his own life. In the play, Xiang Yu sees Lu Matong, and tells Matong that he will commit suicide so Matong can collect the money for the decapitated head. Then Xiang sings a song. In reality, though, Xiang Yu probably did not sing right before he committed suicide. Xiang Yu must have been out of breath at the moment. Also, wikipedia said about the suicide: “There are many different stories about Xiang Yu’s suicide. One famous example is when he was surrounded by Han cavalry, he saw an old friend and said ‘Are you Lu Matong? I have heard the Prince of Han has a great reward for my head. Here, let me give you this…’ After saying these words, he killed himself. (A legend indicates that he decapitated himself with his own sword, although many dispute whether such a thing is possible.)” So, since there probably was not a news reporter present at Xiang Yu’s death, writing down exactly what happened and exactly what was said, perhaps we can never know what happened way back in 202 BC.

The Chu Han Contention happened so long ago, that it’s impossible to know what actually happened. But while writing the play, Lanfang must have decided what facts to keep in, what facts to leave out, what to embellish, and etc. In this process of picking and choosing, the accuracy of the story is hurt, but the dramatic qualities of the play are enhanced. We will never be able to know just how true Hegemon King says farewell to his Queen is, but it is interesting to know that much of the play is based off true events.

Sailboats, Sailing Boats, and Sailing-Boats: Translation Issues in Thunderstorm

Plays are generally written to be produced and watched, not read. But many scholars, at times, treat plays as written literature. Scholars look for similes, metaphors, and other literary devices. In this brief essay, I have decided to treat Thunderstorm by Cao Yu as literature. But before we examine the play as literature, we must understand that Thunderstorm is translation literature. That is, it was originally written in Chinese, and then translated into English. Therefore, to understand literary devices we find in Cao Yu’s play, we must first understand translation generally.

Literature is always purest in its original language. For example, I have a copy of the Odyssey that looks like a novel. It has chapters, paragraphs, and sentences. But the Odyssey was originally an epic poem. Homer’s work was poetry; a modern translator made it prose. This example makes it plain to see that, inevitably, literary gems are lost in translation. Yes, certain unknown gems are lost in the translation process, and we can never get them back. Even if we spent years learning the original language, we would have to virtually live in a different time and place to fully understand cultural context. Part of appreciating a play from a different time, culture, and language is recognizing that an outsider can never completely understand the play in the same way that a native speaker or an original audience member would understand it.

Nevertheless, if we abandoned all literature originally written in a non-English tongue, we’d be saying goodbye to Socrates, Plato, Jesus, Tolstoy, Homer, and, yes, Cao Yu. Of course we shouldn’t stop reading translated works just because they are translated. I am only pointing out that we must always remember that we are at the mercy of the translator. We do not read the work in its original glory- we get the filtered version.

However, most literary elements make a relatively smooth transition from language to language. Plots and characters, for example, make the changeover easily. Slang, idioms, alliterations, rhymes, and other word-plays, on the hand, are either drastically altered or totally lost in the translation process. And so, one can distinguish between the work of an original author and the work of the translator. I claim that in Thunderstorm, themes, characters, and stories should rightly be attributed to Cao Yu. However, good use of alliteration, assonance, consonance, rhymes, adept punctuation, and other such things should be attributed to Wang Zuoliang and Barnes, the translators.

In the rest of this essay, I’ll point out a few literary element originated by Cao Yu, and then some literary elements originated by Zuoliang and Barnes. In attributing literary elements to the author and the translator, I will refer to a single passage, found on page 277, where Chong is trying to woo Sifeng.

Chong: Sometimes I forget the present- (with a rapt expression on his face) I forget my home, I forget you, I forget my mother- I even forget myself. It seems like a winter morning, with a brilliant sky overhead…on a boundless sea… there’s a little sailing-boat, light as a gull. When the sea breeze gets stronger, and there’s a salty tang in the air, the white sails billow out like the wings of a hawk and the boat skims over the sea, just kissing the waves, racing towards the horizon. The sky is empty except for a few patches of white cloud floating lazily on the horizon. We sit in the bows, gazing ahead, for ahead of us is our world.

Yu uses a repetend when he repeats “forget.” (I know that this was the author’s doing because “forget” appears five times in the English page, and the Chinese symbol representing “forget” occurs five times on the adjacent Chinese page.) So, the poetic repetition of a word was carried over from Chinese to English.

Yu is also responsible for imagery. In the passage being discussed, Chong says, “a salty tang in the air”and, “The sky is empty except for a few patches of white cloud.” Thus, our taste buds and eyeballs are summoned as Yu creates sensuous language.

In this passage we can also see the handiwork of Wang Zuoliang and Barnes, the translators. The translators create an alliteration with “skims over the sea.” The repetition of the ‘s’ sound makes his speech all the more romantic. Surely Cao Yu could not have intended this- he was writing in Chinese!

To see more of the translators’ fingerprints, let me draw your attention to “a little sailing-boat.” It’s such a problematic phrase. Chong does not say “a little sailboat.” If he had said “sailboat,” we would understand that the boat is a specific type of boat- a sailboat. And we would also get even more specific- we would understand that it was a little sailboat, rather than a medium-sized or a large sailboat. Nor does the text say “a little sailing boat,” without the hyphen. “A little sailing boat,” would have meant that we do not know specifically what make and model the boat it is, but the gerund “sailing” would describe the boat. Or, “sailing boat” (Again, without the hyphen,) could also be the British alternative for the American “sailboat.” Instead of these two options, which both make sense, the translators wrote, “sailing-boat,” with a hyphen; so, I don’t know what to think. “Sailing-boat,” with the hyphen is not to be found in any dictionary I’ve seen. Therefore, it’s safe to conclude that the translators made a mistake- as they have in other places in the text.

Perhaps you may think it strange that I’m making such a big deal about a little hyphen. I have two responses to your hypothetical concern. My first response is, when you’re dealing with literature, punctuation can make a huge difference. Why, scholars could spend pages and hours discussing E. E. Cummings use of punctuation, for example. Sometimes punctuation is just as important as word choice. My second response is, if I were an actor playing Chong, I’d like to know what type of boat I’m supposed to be imagining. Am I to imagine a sailboat or a boat that is sailing? It could conceivably make a minute difference in my performance!
If we were to read Thunderstorm in its original language, there would be no confusion. We would know which boat Yu meant. But since the play has been altered to reach English speakers, some confusing things have developed.

I could go on forever pointing out little things that have changed during the translation process. But, I suspect that what I have written is sufficient for my purposes. Overall, while it is interesting to think about the slight differences between the Chinese and the English version of Thunderstorm, I believe that no matter what language the play is translated into, its wonderful drama will come shining through.

The Chorus, Tarokaja and Jirokaja

As I read “The Demon of Oeyama,” the Chorus struck me as an interesting type of character. In “Tied to a Stick,” both Tarokaja and Jirokaja were hilarious. In this essay, I will discuss the characteristics of the Chorus, Tarokaja and Jirokaja.

The Chorus interested me because it is uniquely Noh. There is not really a modern day equivalent to a Noh Chorus. They don’t really have a personality of their own; they seem to switch freely from narrator to backup singers to the voices of characters who are too busy dancing or fighting to talk. Thus, the Chorus switches its functions. To a modern Western audience member, the Chorus morphing between these several roles would be confusing. But to someone familiar with Noh, the convention is understood.

Several quotes will demonstrate what I mean by “switching functions.” First, the Chorus acts as a narrator, describing the action. “He dashes forward/ seizes the demon’s arm, and they grapple fiercely.” (At first I thought that this language was redundant. After all, the audience can plainly see the actors fighting. But then I thought that much of the fight scene might be portrayed as a symbolic dance, so an explanation would be helpful to the audience.)
Second, the Chorus acts as backup singers when they sing, “What will go well with the wine? Among the flowers…” This seems to be a song that is not integral to the plot, but that is a pretty song for the audience to hear, and it sets a nice mood.

Third, the Chorus speaks for particular characters. Specifically, the Chorus speaks for the Shite many times. We see the transition between the Shite’s dialogue and the Chorus’ dialogue clearly in the following excerpt:

SHITE (opens his fan)
Indeed, it is true,

CHORUS indeed, it is true
That Demon’s Castle is near,

So, the Chorus is a very versatile and flexible type of “character,” if you can call the Chorus a character.

Next, I will discuss two very funny men, Tarokaja and Jirokaja, from “Tied to a Stick.” These men remind me of the three stooges, only more cartoon-like. Just get a load of these happy-go-lucky lines they say: “Great!” “Bravo! Bravo! Encore!” “Oh, goody, goody!” “A marvelous idea you’ve just had there!” At times Tarokaja and Jirokaja are best of friends and partners in mischief. They compliment each other and just have a jolly time together while their master is away. But at other times, they betray each other. Remember that in the beginning Tarokaja ploys with the Master to tie Jirokaja to the stick. And then in the end they both blame each other when the Master comes back.

Since Tarokaja and Jirokaja change so quickly, they should not be seen as realistic characters. They should be thought of more as clowns or comedians, who are just trying to get a laugh out of the audience. But even though they are far from being realistic, it is nonetheless a hilarious play. The audience laughs at their plight. The audience can identify with their desire for a good drink now and then. Also, at the end of the play, when Jirokaja chases the Master away, using his “warding off a night attack” secret technique, the audience can identify with that. Haven’t we all, sometime, wanted to chase away our boss or parent or other authority figure?

In conclusion, the Chorus from “The Demon of Oeyama” and the two clowns from “Tied to a Stick” are very interesting characters that can really only exist in Noh and Kyogen theatre. Yep, they sure don’t create characters like these anymore.

Obligation vs. Compassion

The Subscription List is a complicated serious Kabuki play dealing with loyalty issues. To quote from the editor’s essay before the play, “The conflict between giri (obligation) and ninjo (human sympathy) is a major theme in Japanese drama.” In much of Asian theatre, the conflict between loyalty and compassion is explored. The Subscription List is a great example of a play that addresses the giri-ninjo conflict. Two characters have this ethical dilemma: Benkei and Togashi.
Benkei is a priest that is a devoted follower of Yoshitsune. His true loyalty is made apparent in his lines to Yoshitsune, “Oh, my lord, it pains me to see you degraded and reviled. But your life itself is all-important.” Lest we think these words may be flattery or lies, the stage directions say, “(To Yoshitsune, with deep respect). As a loyal servant to Yoshitsune, Benkei is obligated to do all he can to save his masters life. He could be compared to a bodyguard for a public official.

Benkei’s big moment of ethical dilemma comes on page 228, when Benkei strikes Yoshitsune three times. Obligation utterly forbids a servant to strike his master. Human sympathy, though, requires Benkei to hit his master. Benkei’s deep remorse is shown both in the stage directions and in Benkei’s own dialogue. The stage directions say, just after the hitting, “Benkei’s lips quiver and he suppresses his tears.” Later, away from Togashi and the other guards, Benkei says, “I have struck my own dear lord. The heavenly reprisals are frightening to contemplate. How wrong I have been! How wrong!”

Let’s move on to Togashi. We are introduced to Togashi as a fierce samurai guard, loyal to his master, Lord Yoritomo. He is standing guard to find and apprehend Yoshitsune. As a samurai and a guard, Togashi is under obligation to stay true to his job, but his human sympathy gets the better of him and he lets the brother go on. In the beginning, Togashi is not sure of the true identity of the priest and the porter. The stage directions on page 219 say that Togashi is, “(suspicious and determined to test Benkei’s story.)” Later, though, the reader understands that Togashi knows who has come to the Ataka barrier. The stage directions on page 224 say, “Togashi is certain they are Benkei and Yoshitsune, yet Benkei has not faltered in his defense of his master. Impressed, Togashi decides to let them pass.” Thus, in the end, Togashi gives in to his compassionate feelings and lets the group pass.

At the end of the play, Benkei and Togashi share a special, understanding moment together. They respect each other as fellow samurais. They also enjoy some sake together! It’s as though the play is saying that at times it is appropriate to act based on obligation, and at other times it is appropriate to act based on compassion. Both ideals must be sought; only wisdom can dictate when a certain course of action should be taken.

“The Zen Substitute” as Farce

“The Zen Substitute” is a rollicking, irreverent, rib-tickling Japanese Kabuki farce by Okamura Shiko. But what is a farce, exactly? How does “The Zen Substitute” fit the characteristics of a farce? This essay will attempt to answer those questions.

The dictionary defines “farce” as, “a comedy characterized by broad satire and improbable situations,” and, “foolish show; mockery; a ridiculous sham.” The words in these definitions I want to stress are, “satire” and “mockery.” “The Zen Substitute” mocks several normally reverenced aspects of Japanese culture.

First, the chorus starts the play by saying, “Public tranquility!/ Domestic concordity!.../ Peace without!/ Peace within!/ No outside gale ruffles/ The harmony of the home.” After a few scenes, the audience quickly realizes that these pronouncements are sarcastic. If the chorus were honest, it would say, “Public uproar!/ Domestic conflict!/ Troubles within!/ Troubles without!/ A hurricane dishevels/ the harmony of the home.”

Lord Ukyo looks important when he first enters the stage. The stage directions say, “He cuts a magnificent figure in his voluminous court robe of pale-blue silk brocade patterned with silver and gold… In samurai style his head is shaven bare.” To the audience member unfamiliar with “The Zen Substitute”, Lord Ukyo appears to be practically an Asian King Lear- a noble, important, serious figurehead. But just about as soon as he opens his mouth and says such un-noble things like, “Hmmmmm….. Ah! I have it!” the audience understands that this guy is a clown, not a king.

Next, Lord Ukyo tries to appear to be pious in front of his wife. He bugs his wife about his spiritual needs and says, “What I’ll do is perform a seven-day-and-seven-night Zen meditation.” But really Lord Ukyo wants to visit his mistress. Lord Ukyo also tries to look really sweet in front of his wife. When his wife is out of the sound of her voice, he says, referring to his wife, “Where is the old shrew?” Then, when addressing her, he says, “Are you there, my love? Are you there, my sweet?” Then the chorus outs Ukyo’s false front when they say, “His words allure…/ But underneath it/ Lies, such lies!”

But not only does Lord Ukyo appear religious, the whole household seems religious. Indeed, at first glance, the house seems like a good Buddhist household. As evidence of their “piousness,” they have a family temple in their garden, and they frequently throw around such terms as “Buddha” and “Nirvana.” Contrary to their religious appearance, however, it turns out that they are hardly a devout family.

Another prized Japanese relationship is the relationship between a master and a servant. In the Subscription List, for example, Benkei is a perfect model of a loyal servant; his loyalty is celebrated. But in the Zen Substititue, Tarokaja doesn’t fake the Zen meditation out of a deep sense of loyalty and respect for his master. Rather, the servant fakes the meditation to save his own neck!

Several Japanese mores are centered around the way a man treats his wife. Traditionally, the man is supposed to wear the pants, so to speak; he’s supposed to be in charge. However, in the Zen Substititue, Lord Ukyo is scared of his domineering wife, Lady Tamamoi.

Let us return our attention to another part of the definition of “farce.” Besides being a satire, a farce includes improbable situations. Probably the most improbable situation in this play comes when Lady Tamamoi replaces Tarokaja. Lord Ukyo returns and, mistaking Tamamoi for Tarokaja, goes on and on about his wonderful time with his mistress. From page 263 to page 269, in fact, Lord Ukyo continues to blab about his hot time away from home. This is completely unbelievable. Wouldn’t he recognize that his “servant” was being way too quiet? And isn’t it a little much to believe that Lord Ukyo would insult his wife so much and so humorously? For goodness sake, Ukyo calls his wife “A decrepit old monkey who scratches around in the forest all day.” But of course this play has unbelievable elements; it’s a farce.

By poking fun at Japanese customs and containing several far-fetched situations, “The Zen Substitute” is a textbook example of a farcical Kabuki play.

Nephi and Laban: Noh Stlye

I think it would be a cool idea to turn the story of Nephi killing Laban from the Book of Mormon into a Noh play. Since the story is serious, involves a God (the Holy Ghost), and involves a killing and a disguise, the story lends itself well to being a serious Noh play. If I were to adapt that story into a Noh play, I would assign the following characters to the following role types: Nephi is the shite. Laban is the waki. Zoram is the wakizure. The chorus would speak the words of Nephi as the narrator and musicians would provide nice backup music. For this essay, I’ve decided to adapt 1 Nephi 4: 6-19 into a Noh-type script.

(Nephi advances on the hashigakari, to enter the stage. He stops at the third pine tree and sees Laban, drunken with wine. He dances a little. He advances to Laban’s body.)

Nephi: I behold his sword.

(He dances with Laban’s sword in hand while the chorus sings.)

Chorus: I behold his sword.
I draw it from the sheath.
Oh what fine workmanship this is!
Oh what fine workmanship this is!
The hilt is gold and the blade
Is made from the most precious steel!
The hilt is gold and the blade
Is made from the most precious steel!

(An interesting solo flute melody indicates the Spirit’s voice)

Nephi: What is this I hear?
It is the Spirit talking to me!
I should kill Laban?
But I have never killed anyone.

(He dances while the chorus sings.)

Chorus: Nephi is conflicted. He knows
That Laban is wicked, and he
Sees that he is drunk, and he
Needs to get the plates, but Oh-
Still what a difficult task!

(Nephi prepares to smite Laban, but then he stops)

Nephi: No! I will not do it!
Never have I shed the blood
Of man, and I never want to.
But what’s this I hear?
The voice is coming again!

Chorus: The Spirit, for the second time,
Tells Nephi to kill Laban-
The Spirit tells him stronger
Than the first time.
The Spirit tells him stronger
Than the first time.
Now Nephi prepares to kill.
He raises the sword afresh.

(Nephi prepares to smite Laban again, but then he stops and nearly cries)

Nephi: No! No! No! No!
Please, Spirit, please God,
Do not make me do this.
Let there be another way.

Chorus: But now the Spirt comes
The third time, saying:
Slay him, for the Lord
Hath delivered him into thy hands;
Behold the Lord slayeth the wicked
To bring forth his righteous purposes.
It is better that one man should perish
Than that a nation should
Dwindle and perish in disbelief.
It is better that one man should perish
Than that a nation should
Dwindle and perish in disbelief.

(Nephi takes Laban by his hair and symbolically cuts off Laban’s head. Assisted by the koken, Nephi puts on Laban’s clothes and armor.)

To reiterate, I think this story lends itself very well into being adapted into a Noh play. It feels important and epic, and it has the intervention of a divine character, as many Noh plays do. I wonder though, if Nephi would be seen by classic Noh audiences as a weakling, instead of a proper samurai-type shite. A samurai would probably not hesitate as much as Nephi did to kill a man. But also, a samurai might consider killing a drunken man to be cowardly. I’m not really sure; I guess I would have to research more about samurai ethics to figure out how audiences would react to Nephi’s struggle. But as it is the end of the semester and I’m a little researched out right now, I trust that this lack of information, (but wealth of imagination) will suffice.

Sincerely,
Telemoonfa