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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The fear generated by that conversation caused them to avoid one another. They didn't dare make any further contact, and it was only fourteen years later that they met again. Big Head's father was dead, and an uncle in America had helped him to liaise with a university for further study. When Big Head had his passport and American visa, he came to say good-bye and mentioned that evening when, happy with alcohol, ears burning, they cracked the mystery of Old Mao's unleashing of the Cultural Revolution.

Big Head said, "If what you and I said that day had been exposed, I wouldn't have been herding cattle and would be somewhere else!" He also added that if he could get a teaching position in a university in America, he would probably never return.

That night, fourteen years earlier, after Big Head left, he opened wide the door to his room to let out the smell of alcohol. Afterward, he locked the door, allowed himself to calm down from the excitement and fear, and stretched out on the bed to look at the black cracks in the ceiling. It was as if he had pried open an ants' nest, and inside was a pitch-black, wriggling chaos. The ceiling could collapse on him any time, and this made him feel numb all over.

28

It was winter again. The stove door was shut, and he was sitting in bed, propped up against the headboard. The only light came from the table lamp, and the metal shade clamped to the bulb cut down the light that illuminated the floral bedcover and left the upper part of his body in darkness as he gazed at the circle of light on the bedcover. On the gigantic chessboard without borders, winning or losing was not decided by the chess pieces but by the chess players in the dark manipulating them. So, if a chess piece wanted to have its own way and stupidly refused to let itself be taken, surely it was crazy? You are less than insignificant, nothing but an ant that can be squashed underfoot any time, any place. But you can't leave this ants' nest, and can only mingle with the swarms of ants. Whether it was a matter of philosophical impoverishment or impoverished philosophy, from Marx down to those revolutionary sages, who could have foreseen the calamities and spiritual impoverishment this Cultural Revolution would bring?

There was a tapping on his window. At first, he thought it was the wind, but the glass was pasted with paper on the inside, and the curtains were drawn. Again, there were two soft taps.

"Who is it?" he sat up and asked. There was no response, so he got out of bed and walked barefoot to the window.

"It's me." A woman's voice came from outside, softly.

He could not make out who it was, but he unlatched the door and opened it a crack. In a gust of cold wind, Xiao Xiao pushed open the door and came in. He was surprised by this middle-school student coming so late at night and, as he was only in his underpants, quickly got back into bed and left it to the girl to close the door. She had almost got the door to close, when it blew open again and the chilly wind howled as it poured into the room. Xiao Xiao put her back against the door to stop it from blowing open.

"Latch it." He said this without thinking, but when he saw the girl hesitate before turning and gently pushing in the metal latch, his heart thumped. The girl unraveled the long woolen scarf wrapped tightly around her head to reveal her pale but refined features. Her head was bowed, and she seemed to be catching her breath.

"Xiao Xiao, what's the problem?" he asked, sitting up in bed.

"Nothing." The girl looked up but remained standing by the door.

"You must be frozen, open the stove door."

The girl took off her knitted woolen gloves. With a sigh, she took the iron hook lying by the stove, and opened both the stove door and the iron cover on top. It was as if she was expected to do this. Clearly, this thin, ungainly girl was not spoiled at home and was used to domestic chores.

Xiao Xiao had come with a crowd of middle-school students to his workplace to take part in the movement that soon split into two factions. This girl and a few other female students leaned toward their faction, but they were fickle and moved from faction to faction; they were enthusiastic for a few days and would then disappear. It was only Xiao Xiao who came regularly to their headquarters. She didn't yell and shout, and she was not keen on arguing, like the other girls, but always remained quietly on the side, reading newspapers or helping to copy out posters. Her calligraphy with a brush was passable, and she was patient. One afternoon, there was an urgent job to write out a batch of posters to attack the opposition, and by the time they had all been written and pasted up, it was already after nine o'clock at night. Xiao Xiao said her home was at the Drum Tower, and, as it was on the way, he offered her a lift. He got her to sit behind him on the bicycle rack. When they passed by the entrance of his courtyard, he suggested having something to eat before going on. Xiao Xiao came into his room, and it was she who went ahead and made noodles. After eating, they got on the bicycle and he took her to a hutong, where, insisting there was no need for him to go in, Xiao Xiao jumped off the bicycle and disappeared like smoke.

"Have you eaten?" he asked her out of habit.

Xiao Xiao nodded as she rubbed her hands. The heat radiating from the stove made her face instantly turn red. He had not seen the girl for a while, and was waiting to hear why she had come. Xiao Xiao remained seated on the chair by the stove, pressing her lovely face in her warmed hands.

"What have you been doing lately?" This was the only thing he could think to ask as he sat in bed.

"I haven't been doing anything." Xiao Xiao gazed at the fire with her hands on her cheeks.

He waited for her to continue, but the girl said nothing.

So, he went on to ask, "What's happening in your school?"

"All the windows of the school have been smashed, and it's too cold, so no one goes. My schoolmates have scattered everywhere, they don't know what they will be doing either."

"That's great. You don't have to go to school and can stay at home."

The girl did not answer. He leaned across, pulled his trousers off the shelf at the foot of the bed, then started to get out of bed.

"You can just lie there. It's all right. I've just come to talk with you." At this, Xiao Xiao turned and looked at him.

"Then make yourself some tea!" he said.

Xiao Xiao just sat there without moving. He guessed why she had come. Her face was flushed, and there was a glint in her bright eyes.

"It's a bit hot, shall I take off my padded coat?" Xiao Xiao said.

She seemed to be asking both herself and him at the same time.

"Take it off if you're hot," he said.

The girl stood up and removed her padded coat. She was not wearing a jacket and had on a dark-red, knitted sweater that clung to her upper body. He saw her protruding breasts and said awkwardly, "I'd best get up."

"There's no need, there's really no need," Xiao Xiao said.

"It's very late, it won't be good if you are seen by the neighbors." He was worried about her being there.

"It's pitch-black in the courtyard, and the only glimmer of light was from your window. Nobody saw me come in." Xiao Xiao's voice had turned gentle, and, instantly, this girl who was a stranger was on intimate terms with him.

He nodded to indicate that she could come to him. Xiao Xiao walked to his bed, and, as her legs touched the bed, his heart began to pound. He heard a rustle as Xiao Xiao pulled up her sweater and the faded, pink, cotton shirt tucked in her trousers to reveal her slim, lustrous body and part of her breasts. He instinctively reached out to touch her, and the girl put her hand on his, but he was not sure if she wanted to guide or to stop him. He looked up at Xiao Xiao, but could not see the expression in her eyes. Her smooth body gleamed in the circle of light, and, at the lower part of the breast he was pressing on, was the raised line of a tender, red scar. The girl's delicate fingers were squeezing his hand tightly, so, not bothering about the scar, he thrust his hand into the girl's tight-fitting shirt and seized the breast that no longer seemed to be small but was firm and had swelled up. Xiao Xiao was mumbling something, but he did not have time to work out what she was saying. He swept her into his arms, and the next moment she was in his bed.

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