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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42

The old date tree outside the window had lost all of its leaves, and the bare thorny branches were poking into the leaden sky. Another tree, a tallow tree, had a few trembling purple leaves left on its slender branches. It was early winter when he received a reply from Qian; she said she would come to see him as soon as the village primary school went on winter vacation. It was a simple letter with spare sentences, written in neat characters amounting to just over half a page. There was nothing in the letter about coming to live with him, but she had finally decided to come, so he presumed that she had considered his proposal. Seeing some hope, he went on to turn it into concrete plans.

The late crop of rice had been harvested, dried, threshed, and stored in the production team granary, and the paddy fields had been drained and sown with grass seeds for green fertilizer so that in spring it could be ploughed into the soil to nourish the rice seedlings. Work in the paddy fields had finished for the year, and the peasants were attending to their own affairs, going into the mountains to chop wood and mending their pig enclosures. If earthen walls were put up or houses built, usually it meant there was a marriage or brothers were establishing separate households. He, too, needed to get some things done to prepare for Qian's arrival. He had to wait until after summer for the mud walls to dry right through before he could whitewash them, so, apart from filling in any gaps around the door, windows, and rafters, there was nothing else he could do. When Qian came, she, of course, would sleep in the same bed with him, and to the villagers that would mean they were married. He would have to spread the news in advance, so that the villagers would know that he was going to get married. It would be simple if Qian agreed. They would only need to go to the commune office for a marriage certificate, and there was no need for a banquet, as was the custom in the village. In any case, old customs had all been abolished. The only problem was that Qian's letter did not actually say if she was coming to get married.

The bus station was at the edge of the village, two buildings on the site of the old monastery that had burned down some years ago, and every day a bus came from the county town and immediately went back. He could not remember very clearly what Qian looked like, but, when the bus pulled in, he instantly recognized her, because unlike the locals getting off, she was carrying a travel bag. She had her hair in two short plaits, and her face was tanned. It seemed as if she had put on weight, but it could have been that she was wearing a lot, because it was winter. He went up, took the bag from her, and asked, "Did everything go well on the trip?"

Qian said that from such-and-such a place to such-and-such a place, she had to change long-distance buses, then get on a train, then change trains, before getting the long-distance bus here. Luckily, Rong had bought her a bus ticket and was waiting for her at the bus station, so she was able to get on the bus from the county town right away. Qian heaved a sigh as she said, "This is my fourth day on the road!"

Qian was nonetheless in good spirits and appeared relaxed. On the embankment between the paddy fields into the village, she walked leaning close to him, as if they had been sweethearts for many years, as if she were his wife. The young woman would soon be living with him, be his wife, they would rely on one another for life, were any other explanations needed?

Qian sat on the straw mattress on the plank bed, the most comfortable place in the house. He sat facing her on the only chair in the house, and said, "Take off your shoes, if you're tired you can prop yourself up on the bedding and have a rest."

He made Qian a cup of new-season green tea, the best local produce in this mountain village.

Qian looked at the lumpy walls and the roof tiles without a ceiling. He said he would whitewash the walls after summer and he could buy some timber for a ceiling, he could also get a carpenter to make some furniture, and she could arrange it however she liked. Qian said her cave dwelling also had earthen walls, but it was very dry. Her village was much poorer than this village, it was an expanse of brown loess with scarcely a tree. That season, even corn stalks were chopped up and burnt for firewood, there was not a patch of green anywhere. The primary school she was at was not too bad and there were three teachers altogether; the other two were locals. Village cadres of the production brigade administered the school, and it wasn't easy getting a position in such a school in a big village with over two hundred families. However, the school was one hundred and fifty kilometers from the county town, and buses didn't go there. To get to the county town, she had to get one of the peasants to give her a lift in a mule cart. He said the primary school in town was starting classes again, and he could speak to the commune and county cadres about getting her relocated. Qian was agreeable, she had no illusions and was very practical.

They went to an old teahouse, the only all-day restaurant in the county town, and ordered two sautéed dishes. During the big market festivals on the first and fifteenth day of every month, there was a rowdy din upstairs and downstairs, as peasants from the four villages filled the ten or so square tables to rest their feet, drink tea, and eat. However, usually-and on this particular afternoon-the place was empty. There were only the two of them, and they walked across the creaking floor upstairs to look down from the window onto the small narrow street paved with black cobblestones. The upstairs windows faced the windows on the opposite side, and downstairs there were shops. There was a meat shop, a bean curd shop, and a haberdashery shop; a general store that sold rope, lime, enamel ware, oil, salt, soy sauce, and vinegar; and an oil-and-grain store that also served as a factory for pressing oil and milling rice. There was a wood, bamboo, and metal cooperative that also sold bath soap, buckets, and hoes. And there was a traditional medicine shop that also sold Western medicines. The commune block was located here, too, and had a veterinary clinic, health clinic, savings bank, and a police station with one policeman in charge of the surrounding villages of the commune. Daily necessities were available in the commune block, as well as the most basic level of political authority, which issued marriage certificates stamped with the portrait of the Great Leader.

After eating, they walked the length of the little street in two minutes. He asked Qian if she wanted to buy anything, but she didn't say either yes or no. Anyway, he took her back to the haberdashery shop and bought her a round mirror with a nickel-plated wire stand. He also bought a double-bed sheet that required cotton fabric coupons, and a pair of nylon-and-cotton blend pillowcases that were expensive but did not require coupons. Qian didn't object and helped him to choose these. The few sheets in the shop had big red flowers on them, and the pillowcases all had the word for wedded bliss, "double happiness," embroidered on them; these items were bought by the villagers only for trousseaus, and there was nothing else to choose from. Qian let him buy these without objecting.

When they got back to his mud hut in the village, he closed the back window. There was a pond outside, with duckweed floating on it. Alongside the pond were smooth flagstones, where, morning and night, the village women did their washing, pounding it with wooden rods. In the summer the men also washed their feet and scrubbed down here. It was early winter, and there was no croaking of frogs to be heard.

Qian said she was tired, so he made up the bed with the sheet he had just bought, and Qian helped him. He also took out the pair of "double-happiness" pillowcases. He only had one pillow, so he stuffed a woolen pullover into the other one. Qian took some clothes from her bag and also stuffed them in.

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