Gao Xingjian - Soul Mountain

You walk straight ahead and the road goes around in circles. Actually, there has never been a definite goal in your life. All your goals keep changing as time passes and as locations change, and in the end the goals no longer exist. When you think about it, life in fact doesn’t have what may be called ultimate goals. It’s just like this hornet’s nest. It’s a pity to abandon it, yet if one tries to remove it one will encounter a stinging attack. Best to leave it just hanging there so that it can be admired. At this point in your thinking, your feet become lighter, it is fine wherever your feet take you, as long as there are sights to see.

On both sides are red bayberry forests but it is not the season for picking the berries and by the time the berries ripen you don’t know where you will be. Whether berries wait for people or people wait for berries is a metaphysical problem. There are many ways of dealing with the problem, and it has been dealt with in endless ways, but the berries are still berries and the person is still me. One could also say this year’s berries are not next year’s berries and the person existing today did not exist yesterday. The problem is whether or not the present really exists and how the criteria are established. Best leave it to the philosophers to talk about metaphysics, just keep your mind on walking along your road.

It is uphill all the way and you begin to sweat profusely. However, suddenly you are at the foot of the stockade and, looking at the shadows in the stockade, a chill rises in your heart.

You did not expect to find crowds sitting on the long stone steps under the wooden pylons of the houses and you can only walk in the spaces between their crossed legs. Nobody looks at you, their eyes look down as they softly chant sutras, nan-nan-na-na . They seem to be in mourning. You go up the stone steps and follow the lane around a corner. On both sides the wooden houses lean and slant, propping up one another and stopping one another from collapsing. However, if there is an earthquake or a landslide, the collapse of one will cause a total collapse.

The old people sitting next to one another are also like this. Only one needs to be pushed and all of them would topple like the dominoes children have lined up. You don’t dare bump any of them for fear of creating a disaster. You carefully plant your feet between the bony ankles of their folded legs. Their feet, which are like chicken feet, are wrapped in cloth socks. While they chant the wooden houses creak and you wonder if it is the houses or their bones which are creaking. They all suffer from palsy and as they sway and chant their heads keep shaking.

The winding lane is endless and people sit crammed on the stone steps at the sides of the lane. The charcoal coloured clothing they all wear is covered in patches, it is local cloth and being very old disintegrates on washing. The sheets and coarse grass-cloth mosquito nets which hang from the railings of the tall buildings add to the intensity of the all-pervasive sadness of these old people.

In the midst of the chanting a shrill sound claws at you like a cat, clutching you and forcing you to walk on. You can’t make out where the sound comes from but see strings of paper money hanging outside a doorway and incense smoke wafting out through the door curtains. It seems that someone has died.

It gets harder and harder to walk. They are squashed even more tightly together and there is just nowhere to put down your foot. You are afraid if you tread on an ankle you will break it. You have to be even more careful, and picking somewhere to put down your toes between legs and feet which are like the gnarled roots of old trees, you hold your breath and take one step, then another.

You walk among them but not one of them looks up. They are either wearing turbans or cloth scarves and you can’t see their faces. At this point they all start singing. Listening intently, you gradually make out the words.

Come all of you,

One day make six rounds,

One round run six times,

In the netherland,

Scatter rice,

You must all come to help.

The shrill lead is an old woman sitting on a stone doorsill right next to you. There is something special about her. A black cloth is draped over her shoulders, her head is completely covered, and a trembling hand hits on a knee as her body slowly sways backwards and forwards in time with her singing. On the ground alongside her is a bowl of water, a bamboo tube filled with rice, and a stack of square coarse paper with rows of holes in it. She wets a finger in the bowl, takes a square of paper money and tosses it into the air.

When will you all come,

When will you all go,

To the end of the earth,

To the eastern slope,

A disaster, a calamity,

To kill a person doesn’t take half a grain of rice,

To save a person doesn’t take half a strand of hair,

All come to help for there is trouble and distress

Please all of you come!

You want to get past. You are afraid if you bump her shoulder her frail body will topple so you go to move her foot, but suddenly she screeches:

All red, all red clothes,

Feet small like chopsticks,

Head big as a duck’s cage,

When he comes it will be all right,

What he says counts,

Get him to come quickly,

Tell him not to be late!

Singing shrilly, she slowly gets to her feet then starts gesticulating at you. Chicken feet fingers stretch out at you, menacingly, you don’t know where the courage comes from but you block her arms and lift her cloth head cover. Inside is a small wizened face, a pair of sunken lustreless eyes, and a gaping mouth with one tooth. She seems to be smiling, but clearly is not, and while shouting starts to dance.

Red snakes slither everywhere,

Tigers and leopards on the prowl,

The mountain gate creaks open,

They come in by the stone gate,

Shouts arise all around,

One by one everyone shouts together,

Quickly go to help the person in distress!

You try to get out of her clutches but they are all slowly getting to their feet. One by one these old people, like dessicated timber, surround you and a sea of trembling voices starts shouting:

All red clothing, all red,

Quickly open the gate to ask,

Ask one moment and the next they’ll be here,

Ask Lord Thunder and ask Mother Lightning,

If there are horses everyone will ride,

If there is food everyone will eat!

The crowd charges at you, attacking you with sounds muffled in their throats. You are forced to push them aside and one by one they instantly fall, as if made of paper, soundlessly. A deathly loneliness prevails. You suddenly realize that behind the curtained doorway, the person lying on the planks is you. You refuse to die just like this, you must quickly, and right away, return to the world of human beings.

Leaving the Miao stockade, I walk from morning to afternoon along this desolate mountain road. Buses and truck convoys hauling bamboo and timber occasionally pass and though I signal none will stop.

The sun is already beginning to descend behind the mountain ridge opposite and chilly mountain winds start blowing all around. On the winding highway, up ahead and below, there are no village stockades in sight and there is no longer anyone walking on the road. The further I go the more desolate it becomes. I don’t know how much further it is to the county town or whether I will be able to get there before dark. If I don’t flag down a vehicle soon, I’ll have trouble finding somewhere to spend the night. I remember the camera in my backpack. What’s to stop me from pretending I’m a reporter? Maybe it will work.

At last I hear a vehicle coming from behind so I stand in the middle of the road and start waving my camera. A truck with a canopy is bumping along the road, charging ahead without slowing down. It is only when it is almost upon me that it screeches to a halt.