Gao Xingjian - One Man

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One Man's Bible is the second novel by Nobel Prize-winning author Gao Xingjian to appear in English. Following on the heels of his highly praised Soul Mountain , this later work is as candid as the first, and written with the same grace and beauty.
In a Hong Kong hotel room in 1996, Gao Xingjian's lover, Marguerite, stirs up his memories of childhood and early adult life under the shadow of Mao Zedong and the Cultural Revolution. Gao has been living in self-imposed exile in France and has traveled to this Western-influenced Chinese city-state, so close to his homeland, for the staging of one of his plays.
What follows is a fictionalized account of Gao Xingjian's life under the Communist regime. Whether in "beehive" offices in Beijing or in isolated rural towns, daily life is riddled with paranoia and fear, as revolutionaries, counterrevolutionaries, reactionaries, counterreactionaries, and government propaganda turn citizens against one another. It is a place where a single sentence spoken ten years earlier can make one an enemy of the state. Gao evokes the spiritual torture of political and intellectual repression in graphic detail, including the heartbreaking betrayals he suffers in his relationships with women and men alike.
One Man's Bible is a profound meditation on the essence of writing, on exile, on the effects of political oppression on the human spirit, and on how the human spirit can triumph.
***
One Man's Bible belongs to that sad class of books sold on the strength of their authors having won a prize. But a prize is rather a thin argument for reading it, especially in a wooden English translation. Does one want to know more about Gao Xingjian than his first novel translated into English, Soul Mountain, told? That book had just enough exotic colour to survive its translation; from its portentous title onwards, One Man's Bible has much less going for it. It needs more story, structure, people, situations, atmosphere, ideas – anything strong enough to come through the obscuring veil of alien words.
When, in 2001, Gao became the first Chinese writer to win a Nobel prize for literature, it came as a surprise. The Chinese literary bureaucrats – today's counterparts of the strange Soviet creatures in Bulgakov's The Master and Margarita – had long been pushing for one of their trusties to win. Gao was certainly not one of those, but neither was he prominent in any of the exiled literary cliques. Since being driven to leave China in the 1980s he had been living in France, writing supposedly experimental, sub-Beckettian plays with Chinese characteristics that some critics in the Chinese-speaking world thought worth discussing. These plays also suited small, subsidised European theatre companies in search of uncommercial exotica full of the timeless wisdom of the east. While still in China, Gao was best known for Bus Stop, a one-acter about people waiting for a bus that never came. What delighted audiences and infuriated the authorities when the play appeared some 20 years ago was its apparent implied message: the never-arriving bus was the wonderful future that the regime promised but could not deliver.
Soul Mountain was fiction in the form of an autobiography (or vice versa) that told a fragmented tale of a writer on the run in the wilder reaches of the Yangtze valley. The background chimed with Gao's own flight from the thought police, as well as being a celebration of "authentic" China surviving 40 years of the party state in remote and picturesque areas. There was quite a lot of sex, too.
One Man's Bible also invites us to read its central character, again an author, as an alter ego of Gao's. As he looks back from cosmopolitan exile in the present – the book was written in the late 1990s – on his life in China, this author makes much of feeling uncomfortable, and wallows in sententiousness. The book starts with a bourgeois childhood before the Communists seized power in 1949 (when the real Gao was eight or nine), moving on to his family's and his own troubles in the unending series of political campaigns that ran through the Mao era and its aftermath. Much of it deals with the cultural revolution, with our hero as participant as well as victim in a hellish process, and with how all this made him what he is now. Between the earlier life and the recent past there is a gap where Soul Mountain might fit.
Like Gao, the central figure in One Man's Bible is an exile based in France who writes fiction and drama in his own language. He enjoys the freedom not to be caught up in politics, and wonders how he came to be what he is. Invitations to events on the international cultural circuit give us scenes in Hong Kong, Sydney, New York, Perpignan and elsewhere, all of which are much the same. None of it seems to matter very much in comparison with the seriously deranged political movements of his youth which, though hindsight tells him they were wrong, he savours the discomfort of remembering.
If Soul Mountain explored China and Chineseness, One Man's Bible is all about enjoying feeling guilty, but not too guilty. It is about not being at home anywhere, not even in your own skin, and making the best of it; about the middle-aged worry over what you were when you were younger. As the central figure looks back over his life, he tries to accept the great realisation that it hasn't meant anything. Yet for all his attempts to be sophisticated, he can't help but feel disappointed at the pointlessness of life. He has not got over the Maoist urge to preach, though it is now a different sermon.
In the past 20 years, having a hard time under the Communist party dictatorship has been the stuff of a commercially flourishing genre of autobiographical writing in English by people, especially women, who have got out. Gao is not into that sort of soppy stuff. His fiction has rather more in common with a newer popular sub-genre of Chinese fiction for foreign readers: unillusioned fucklit, by younger women writers. The China his central character has left was an awful place, but one that gave him access to plenty of women's bodies. The west has given him freedom and more women for his bed, but not happiness or meaning. It has allowed him to hold forth on life and art, even if what he has to say is banal.
As a self-conscious follower of European modernism, Gao does not give us this fictional life in a chronological sequence. He assumes that readers can find their way through the cut-up narrative of the cultural revolution, picking up references as Chinese people of his generation will be able to. Yet most foreigners will simply be confused. They are more likely to follow the novel through the unending couplings with which its subject tries to fill the voids in his past and present lives. We start with a German-Jewish woman in Hong Kong, where one of his plays is being staged. There is another in France, and others collected elsewhere on his travels, as well as the various sexual partners in his earlier life in China. But on the whole, the bodies do not seem to have brains.
The ideas in One Man's Bible are commonplace, its characters are ciphers, and it is not redeemed by wit, grace or self-mockery. Its solipsism is banal. I hope we will not have to endure a third novel in this series on the splendours and miseries of being a Nobel prize-winner.
WJF Jenner is a translator and expert on Chinese writing.

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Don't you think it's hilarious?"

"Don't say that, at that time, in China, everyone was puritanical, I understand…"

Her fingers play little games on your body. You say that you were not puritanical and that you also wanted her.

"Was it because you were repressed that you wanted to indulge yourself?"

"I wanted to indulge myself with a woman's body!" you say.

"And you also wanted a woman to indulge herself, right?" Her velvety voice is right by your ear. "Then fuck me, like you did those women of yours in China."

"Who?"

"Lin, or that girl whose name you've forgotten."

You turn and embrace her, lift her negligee, and slip into her…

"If you want to ejaculate, go ahead…"-"Ejaculate in whose body?"-"A woman you want…"-"A wanton woman?"-"Isn't that what you want?"-"You're a prostitute?"-"Yes."-"Have you ever sold yourself?"-"Yes, and not just once____________________"-"Where?"-

"In Italy…"-"Who did you sell yourself to?"-"Anyone who wanted____________________"-"You're cheap!"-"Not at all, you can't afford me, what I want is for you to suffer____________________"-"That's all in the past."-

"No, it's right by you____________________"-"That deep place?"-"Yes."-"It's very deep, right inside to the end… maybe too deep… Is that why you're squeezing hard, sucking?"-"You've ejaculated! Don't worry…"-"Aren't you afraid?"-"Afraid of what?"-"What if you became pregnant?"-"I'd have an abortion."-"Are you crazy?"-"You're the one who's afraid, you want to indulge but you don't dare. Don't worry, I've taken something."-"When?"-"In the bathroom."-"Before coming to bed?"-"Yes, I knew you would fuck me."-"Then why did you torment me for so long?"-

"Don't ask, if you want to, just use it… this body…"-"The body of a prostitute?"-"I'm not a prostitute."-"I don't understand."-"Don't understand what?"-"What you said just now."-

"What did I say?"-"You said you had sold yourself."-"It would be impossible for you to comprehend, impossible for you to understand, impossible for you to know!"-"I want to know everything about you!"-"If you want to use me, go ahead, but don't hurt me."-"But aren't you a prostitute?"-"No, I'm just a woman, one who became a woman too early."-"When?"-"When I was thirteen…"-"Nonsense! Are you making it up?"

She shakes her head. You want her to tell you about it! She mutters that she doesn't know anything and doesn't want to know…

She needs to suffer and to experience ecstasy through suffering. You need women, need to ejaculate your lust and loneliness into the bodies of women. She says she pays because she, too, is lonely and longs for understanding. Pays for love and enjoyment? Yes, she just wants and so she gives and also pays. And sells herself? Yes. And is wanton?

And cheap! She rolls on top of you and you see her eyes glinting in the dark before you close your eyes and start calling out…

11

As he lay in Lin's nuptial bed of not long ago, he opened his eyes wide, still finding it hard to believe he was not dreaming. Naked and beautiful, and looking down at him like this, Lin had taught him what it was to be a man. Lin led him from the sitting room down to the very end of the corridor to her bedroom. Thick velvet curtains hung to the floor, and the only light came from under the chrysanthemum-yellow shade over the tall vase-based table lamp. She sat him at the desk and brought out a big photo album with pressed-metal edging. As he turned the pages, he saw that the photos were all of her, either in sleeveless, low-cut dresses revealing her arms, shoulders, and legs, or else in wet bathing suits that clung to her body; her husband had taken these at Beidaihe just after they married. At this point, Lin leaned toward him, and he felt her hair brush his cheeks. He turned to put his arms around her slender waist and, as his face pressed against her breasts, he became aware of the fragrant warmth of her body. He straight away pulled down the zipper at the back of her dress, got her onto the bed, and started wildly kissing her on her lips, face, and neck, then, after removing her bra, her nipples. This was what he had sought in his dreams. He was in such a desperate hurry that he tore her delicate sexy panties that were not available in ordinary shops. But he was not able to get an erection and could not enter her. Again, it was Lin who eased his mind by saying that by this time of the night her parents would be asleep and that they do not come to her room anyway. Also, her husband's hi-tech weapons research institute was far away in the mountains of the western suburbs; army discipline was strict, and he could not come home unless it was a weekend. He suddenly needed to urinate, so Lin put on a dress, went outside in her bare feet, and came back right away with a washbasin. He latched the door, but pissing so noisily into the enamel washbasin made him feel like a thief. Switching off the light, Lin helped him off with his shoes and socks, then got him to lie down naked in the bed. She pulled the bedcover over him just like a big girl in his teenage dreams, or like a kind nurse on the battlefield caring for him, cleaning his bleeding wounds with her gentle, firm hands. It was then that he suddenly had an erection. He turned, bore down on this spritely woman, and carried out his most important act since birth.

He left Lin's room before daybreak. The courtyard was pitch-black, and above the branches of the old persimmon tree was a blue-black square of sky. Lin quietly removed the bolt, and the heavy door creaked open. He slipped out and, glancing back, watched the big ancient metal-studded door close, then wheeled his bicycle into the middle of the hutong. Not in a rush to get on his bicycle, he listened to his footsteps as he made his way through the maze of hutong. He did not want to go home immediately, and if his roommate Old Tan started asking questions, he would have to talk his way around things. As he was coming out onto the street, his footsteps were gradually absorbed by the noises and sounds of the city waking up. The first lot of empty electric trolleybuses rumbled by; then in both directions, the number of cyclists and pedestrians gradually increased. He took a few deep breaths, and, as his lungs relaxed, he felt an exhilarating freshness and a sense of quiet self-confidence.

At midday, he saw Lin in the big dining hall. She was wearing a long-sleeved dress and a silk scarf. Her collar was buttoned up. When her colleagues at the long table left, Lin glanced at him and quietly said, "My neck is all purple where you kissed me."

It was hard for him to say if he was in love with Lin, but from that time onward, he lusted for her beautiful body. They arranged other meetings, but he could not go to her home on a regular basis. If her parents were at home, he was forced to listen reverently while they spoke passionately about national events. They were always lecturing him, and he had to put on an act of being good. It was as if he belonged to the generation of successors to the revolution, and, to agree, he had to say many hypocritical things. When the elderly couple started yawning and left the sitting room, Lin would signal with her eyes and they would start talking some nonsense about the office. When it grew quiet in her parents' room, he would get up and say something in a loud voice to indicate that he was leaving.

Lin would escort him out of the sitting room and take him into the courtyard where the lights were already out. He would quietly circle back into the corridor, wait by a post as Lin put out the sitting-room lights, then slip into her bedroom to spend the night in utter bliss.

He preferred to meet Lin outdoors: in a park, by the city wall, or among lilac and jasmine bushes. They would spread their overcoats on the ground, or have quick sex standing against a big tree. If Lin's husband had to go away on an assignment to a military site, they would go to the hollows of Badaling and stay until sunset, then at twilight, in the night wind, grope their way down the mountain to catch the last bus back to the city. Sometimes they took a train further off to the Western Hills and got off at Mentouqi, where Peking Man was discovered, or some small station where the train stopped tor only one minute. They took food with them, and would climb to the other side of the mountain and find some secluded spot where they would totally abandon themselves in the sun and the howling fountain wind. It was only at such times, lying on the grass in the wilds and looking at the clouds floating in the sky-free of worries, free of danger, and making love-that he felt natural.

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