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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It was a blind alley, a narrow corridor with a wall on the one side and hemp bags stacked higher than a person on the other. He had escaped into a warehouse. When he stopped to catch his breath, he heard a noise, and, turning around, he saw the young woman slumped against a pile of hemp bags, also trying to catch her breath.

"What happened to the others?" he asked.

"I don't know."

"Where are you going?"

The woman did not answer.

"I'm going to Beijing."

"I… am too," the woman said after a pause.

"You're not a local, are you?" he asked, but the woman didn't answer.

"University student?" he asked, but again she didn't answer.

It gradually grew dark, and a cool breeze started blowing. He felt his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his back.

"We'll have to find a place to spend the night, it's not safe here," he said, walking out of the warehouse. He looked back and saw the woman quietly following but keeping a few paces away. He asked, "Know of anywhere to stay?"

"Near the station, but it's too dangerous to go back. There are places along the river, close to the wharf, but it's a very long walk," the woman said quietly. She was clearly a local, so he insisted that she lead the way.

Sure enough, below the big embankment, along the river, in a little street of old houses, youths were standing outside or sitting in doorways, chatting with one another across the road and asking about the battle. Until the bullets hit them in the head, they couldn't help being curious, even excited, by it all. The shops and little eating places were all closed, but two places with lights on the doors were old-style inns, where traveling traders and craftsmen used to stay. One of them was full, but the other one had a small room with a single bed.

"Do you want it or not?" asked the fat woman behind the counter, waving a fan.

He immediately said yes and took out his identity card. The woman took it and made an entry in the register.

"What's your relationship?" the woman asked as she wrote out the entry.

"Husband and wife." He winked at the woman beside him.

"Surname and name?"

"Xu-Ying," she answered after a pause.

"Work unit?"

"She hasn't got work yet, we're going back to Beijing," he answered for her.

"There's a five-yuan deposit. It's one yuan per day, and the account is settled when you vacate the room."

He paid the money. The woman kept his identity card and came out from behind the counter with a bunch of keys. She opened a small door by the stairs and pulled the light cord inside. A light bulb hung from the sloping ceiling. Having squeezed into this little nook, a storage space under the stairs that had been converted into a small room with a single bed, they couldn't straighten up. At the other end of the room was a washbasin stand and nothing else, not even a chair. The fat woman shuffled off in her slippers, waving her bunch of keys.

He shut the door. He and this woman, Xu Ying, looked at one another.

"I'll go out soon," he said.

"There's no need," the woman said, sitting down on the bed. "It's all right."

It was only then that he took a good look at the woman. She was very pale, so he asked, "Are you very tired? You can lie down and rest."

The woman remained seated and didn't move. Footsteps clattered overhead. Someone came down the stairs, then, outside, there was the sound of splashing water, most likely the person was having a wash in the courtyard. The little room had no window for ventilation, and it was unbearably hot and stuffy.

"Would you like the door open?" he asked.

"No," the woman said.

"Would you like me to get you a basin of water? I'll wash outside," he said.

The woman nodded.

When he came back later on, the woman had washed and combed her hair. She had changed into a round-neck sleeveless top with little yellow flowers, and, shoes off, was sitting on the bed. She had replaited her hair tightly, and the color had returned to her face; she had a girlish look. She bent her knees to leave half the bed clear, and said, "Sit down, there's room here!"

For the first time, the woman smiled. He also smiled, relaxed, and said, "I had to say that." He was, of course, referring to when they registered and he had put them down as husband and wife.

"I understood, of course." The woman's lips scrunched up into a smile.

He then bolted the door, took off his shoes, sat cross-legged at the other end of the bed, and said, "I can't believe it!"

"What?" the woman asked, tilting her head to one side.

"Do you need to ask?"

This woman called Xu Ying again scrunched up her lips into a smile.

Afterward, many years later, when he thought back to that night, there was also flirting, seduction, lust, passion, and love. It was not just a night of terror.

"Was that really your name?" he asked.

"I can't tell you right now."

"Then when will you?"

"You'll know when the time comes. Wait and see."

"See what?"

"Isn't it clear to you yet?"

He stopped talking and felt cozy and comfortable. The footsteps on the stairs had stopped, and there was no more splashing out in the courtyard. A sort of tension began to coalesce, and it was as if something was about to happen. It was only some years later, when he thought back to that time, that he again experienced such a feeling.

"Is it all right to put out the light?" he asked.

"It is a bit too bright," she said.

When he felt his way back to the bed after putting out the light, he bumped her leg, and she immediately moved away but let him lie beside her. He was very careful, and lay on his back very straight on the outside part of the bed. However, in the single bed, their bodies inevitably touched, and, if she didn't move away, he didn't try too hard, either. The woman's clammy warmth and the stifling heat in the room made him sweat all over. In the dark, he could vaguely make out the sloping ceiling that seemed to press down on him and made the heat feel even more oppressive.

"Would it be all right if I took off my clothes?" he asked.

The woman didn't respond, but didn't indicate that she objected. When their bodies touched after he'd removed his shirt and trousers, she didn't move away, but she was obviously not asleep. "Why are you going to Beijing?" he asked.

"To see my maternal aunt."

Surely this wasn't the time to be visiting relatives? He didn't believe her.

"My aunt works in the Ministry of Health," the woman added.

He said he also worked in a state workplace.

"I know."

"How do you know?"

"When you took out your identity card."

"And do you also know my name?"

"Of course, didn't you register just now?"

In the darkness, he seemed to see, or, rather, sense that the woman had her lips scrunched up in a smile.

"Otherwise, I wouldn't…"

"Be sleeping with me, right?" he said it for her.

"As long as you know!"

He detected something gentle in her voice, and when he unavoidably put his hand on her thigh, she didn't try to move away. But then he thought she trusted him and he didn't dare do anything else.

"Which university are you at?" he asked.

"I've already graduated, I'm waiting to be assigned work," she said, evading his question.

"What did you study?"

"Biology."

"Have you dissected corpses?"

"Of course."

"Including human corpses?"

"I'm not a doctor, my studies are theoretical, but, of course, I've done practical work in hospital laboratories. I'm just waiting to be assigned to a work unit. The project was set up, if it hadn't…"

"If it hadn't what? This Cultural Revolution?"

"It had already been settled that I would go to a research institute in Beijing."

"Are your parents cadres?"

"No."

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