Soul Mountain (chinese)
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"Soul Mountain is one of those singular literary creations that seem impossible to compare with anything but themselves… In the writing of Gao Xingjian literature is born anew from the struggle of the individual to survive the history of the masses."
– from the citation of the Nobel Prize committee of the Swedish Academy
When this year's Nobel Prize for Literature was awarded to Chinese expatriate novelist and playwright Gao Xingjian, few in the English-speaking West were familiar with his work. Gao's masterpiece, SOUL MOUNTAIN (PerfectBound, an e-book from HarperCollins; February 20, 2001; $19.95), is a dazzling kaleidoscope of fiction, philosophy, history and fable. Elegantly translated by Australian sinologist Mabel Lee, this richly textured autobiographical novel recounts a dual journey-a literal journey into the heart of China and a spiritual journey of the self.
When Gao was 43, he was incorrectly diagnosed with lung cancer. Resigned to death by the same means that had claimed his father just a few years before, Gao spent six weeks indulging his appetites and reading philosophy. The spot on Gao's lung mysteriously disappeared, but a new threat arose when rumors began to circulate that he was to be sent to a prison farm because of his controversial writings. No longer facing imminent death, the writer quickly left Beijing and disappeared into the remote forest regions of Sichuan, then spent five months wandering along the Yangtze River from its source down to the coast. Gao's 15,000 kilometer sojourn forms the geographic parameters of the fictional journey in SOUL MOUNTAIN.
While on a train at the start of his trip, the writer protagonist meets another traveler who says he is going to Lingshan, "soul mountain," which can be found by the remote source of the You River. The writer has never heard of such a place, and he resolves to go there, but his fellow traveler can give him none but the vaguest directions. Thus begins a metaphoric odyssey into the hinterlands of China and the outlying Qiang, Miao and Yi districts that dangle on the fringes of Han Chinese civilization.
The writer is in search of the traditions that are hidden in rural China, and as he travels he encounters a parade of unforgettable characters who embody both vestiges of the past-Daoist masters, Buddhist monks, ancient calligraphers-and the modern culture that has surfaced since the revolution: small town communist cadres, budding entrepreneurs, independent young girls grappling with parochial repression. The two worlds exist uneasily as one, with stories and customs from centuries past colliding with a world of televisions, automobiles, and technology. All is permeated by the dark legacy of the Cultural Revolution, the encroachment of ecological damage, and the harsh monetary realities of everyday life in contemporary China.
SOUL MOUNTAIN is a dazzling work of the imagination, where classic fables merge with tales of modern cruelty and ancient philosophy does battle with existentialism. But Gao goes deeper still as he explores notions of the devastation of the self at the hands of social expectations. He continually shifts his narrative voice as the "I" of the writer becomes the "you" of an imagined companion, then the "she" of a woman companion. Yet all reflects back on the protagonist, who craves these two seemingly contradictory ends-the solitude necessary for nurturing the self and the anxiety-provoking warmth of human society.
Gao began this novel in the mid-eighties, then carried the manuscript with him when he fled China in 1987. Now living in Paris, he completed the book there in 1989. His writings continue to be banned in his native country. As Gao's work at last gains the public's attention here in the West, SOUL MOUNTAIN provides a dazzling introduction to the achievement of one of contemporary literature's acknowledged masters.
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六十
"你跳舞的时候,不要三心二意。
你才同她认识,跳第一个舞,她就这么说。你问她:
"怎么啦?
"跳舞就是跳舞,不要故作深沉。
你哈哈笑了。
"严肃点,搂着我。
"好的,"你说。
她噗哧又笑。
"笑什么?"你问。
"你不会搂紧点?
"当然会。
你搂紧她,感到她有弹性的胸脯,又闻到了她敞领的颈脖肌肤温暖的香味,房里灯光很暗,搁在墙角的台灯挡上一把张开的黑布伞,一对对跳舞的人脸都模糊不清。录音机放着轻柔的音乐。
"这样就很好,"她低声说。
她柔软的鬓发被你呼吸吹动,撩触你的脸颊。
"你挺讨人喜欢,"你说。
"什么话?
"我喜欢你,可不是爱。
"这样更好,爱太累得慌。
你说你也同感。
"你同我是一路货,"她笑着感慨道。
"正好配对。"
"我不会同你结婚的。"
"为什么要?"
"可我就要结婚了。"
"什么时候?"
"也许是明年。"
"那还早。"
"明年也不是同你。"
"这不用你说我也知道,问题是同谁?"
"总之得同人结个婚。"
"随便什么人?"
"那倒不一定。不过我总得结回婚。"
"然后再离婚?"
"也许。"
"那时咱俩再一起跳舞。"
"也还不会同你结婚。"
"为什么一定要?"
"你这个人感觉很好。"她似乎是由衷之言。
你说了声谢谢。透过玻璃窗可以看见密集的万家灯火,那些整整齐齐竖起明暗不一的灯光该是同这一样长方盒子式的一幢幢高层住宅,轰轰不息的车辆声隐隐传来。有一对舞伴突然在这不大的房里转起圈来,从背后撞了你一下,你赶紧煞住脚,扶抱住她。
"你不要以为我夸奖你舞跳得好,"她抓住机会又来了。
"我跳舞不是为的表演。"
"那为什么?同女人亲近?"
"也还有更亲近的办法。"
"你这张嘴也不饶人。"
"因为你总不放过我。"
"好,我不说了。"
她偎依着你,你闭上眼睛,同她跳舞真是一种享受。
你再见到她,在一个深秋的夜里,刮着寒冷的西北风。你顶风蹬着自行车,马路上落叶和纸屑被风追逐得时不时腾起。你突然想起去看一位画家朋友,等风小点再走。拐进一条路灯昏黄的小巷,只见一个独单的行人缩头缩脑的背影,顿时有点凄凉。他那漆黑的小院里,只在窗上透出点光亮,微微闪动。你敲了一下房门,里面一个低沉的嗓子应了一声。他开了房门,提醒你注意暗中脚下的门槛。房里有一根小烛光,在一个锅开的椰子壳里摇晃。
"够意思,"你挺欣赏这一点温暖,"干什么呢?"
"不干什么,"他回答道。
屋里挺暖和,他只穿了件宽厚的毛衣,一蓬茅草样的头发。冬天取暖的火炉子也装上了烟筒。
"你是不是病了?"你问。
"没有。"
烛光边上有什么动了一下,你听见他那张破旧的长沙发的弹簧吱吱作响,这才发现沙发一角还靠着个女人。
"有客人?"你有些抱歉。
"没关系,"他指着沙发说,"你坐。
你这才看清了,原来是她。她懒洋洋伸出手同你拉了一下,那手也有气无力,十分柔软。她垂着长头发,用嘴吹了一下垂在眼角的一缕。你开个玩笑:
"要是我没记错的话,你原先好像没这么长的头发。
"我有时扎起来,有时散开,你没注意就是了。"她抿嘴笑。
"你们也认识?"你这画家朋友问。
"一起在一个朋友家跳过舞。
"你这倒还记得?"她有点嘲笑的意味。
"同人舞都跳过,还能忘了?"你也开始了。
他去捅炉子,暗红的炉火映照在房顶的纸棚上。
"你喝点什么?"
你说你只是路过,就便来坐一坐,一会就走。
"我也没什么事,"他说。
"没关系…"她也说了声,声音很轻。
之后,他们都沉默了。
"你们继续说你们的,我来取暖,寒流来了。等风小一些,我还得赶回去,"我说。
"不,你来得正好,"她说,下面就又没话了。
"应该说我来得不巧。"你想你还是应该起身。
你这朋友不等你起身便按住你肩膀说:
"你来了正可以一起谈点别的,我们俩该谈的已经谈完了。
"你们谈你们的,我听着,"她给缩在沙发里,只见她苍白的脸上一点轮廓,鼻子和嘴都很小巧。
你没有想到,过了很久,有一天,大中午,她突然找到你门上。你开了房门,问:
"你怎么知道我住这里?
"难道不欢迎?
"不,正相反。请进,请进。
你把她让进门里,问是不是你那位画家朋友告诉她你的地址。你已往见她都在昏暗的灯光下,你不敢确认。
"也可以是他,也可以是别人,你的地址也保密吗?她反问你。
你说你只是想不到她居然光临,不胜荣幸。
"你忘了是你请我来的。
"这完全可能。
"而且地址是你自己给我的,你都忘了?
"那肯定就是这么回事,"你说,"总之,我很高兴你来。
"有模特儿来,还能不高兴?
"你是模特儿?"你更诧异。
"当过,而且是裸体的。
你说你可惜不是画家,但你搞业余摄影。
"你这里来人都站着?"她问。
你赶紧指着房间说:
"在这里就如同在你自己家里一样,随便怎样都行。你看这房间也就知道,房主人没一点规矩。
她在你书桌边坐下,环顾了一眼,说:
"看来这屋里需要个女主人。
"如果你愿意的话,只不过别是这房子主人的主人,因为这房子的所有权也不属于房主人。"
你同她每次一见面就斗嘴,你不能输给她。
"谢谢,"她接过你泡的茶,笑了笑,"说点正经的。"
她又抢在你之前。你只来得及说声:
"好。
你给自己的茶杯也倒满水,在书桌前的靠椅上坐下,这才觉得安适了,转而向她。
"可以讨论一下,先说点什么。你真是模特儿吗?我这也是随便问问。"
"以前给画家当过,现在不当了。"她吹了吹垂在脸上的头发。
"可以问为什么吗?"
"人家画腻了,又换别的模特儿了。"
"画家是这样的,这我知道,总不能一辈子总画一个模特儿。"
你得为你的画家朋友辩护。
"模特儿也一样,不能只为一个画家活着。"
她这话也对。你得绕开这个话题。
"说真的,你真是模特儿吗?我是问你的职业,你当然不会没有工作。"
"这问题很重要吗?"她又笑了,精灵得很,总要抢你一着。"说不上怎么重要,不过问问,好知道怎么跟你谈,谈点什么你我都有兴趣的话。"
"我是医生。"她点点头。你还没来得及接上她的话,她又问:"可以抽烟吗?
"当然可以,我也抽烟。
你赶紧把桌上的香烟和烟灰缸推过去。
她点起一支烟,一口全吸了进去。
"看不出来,"你说,开始捉摸她的来意。
"我所以说职业是不重要的。你以为我说是模特儿就真是模特儿?"她仰头轻轻吐出吸进去的烟。
说是医生就真是医生吗?这话你没说出口。
"你以为模特儿就都很轻佻?"她问。
"那不一定,模特儿也是个严肃的工作,袒露自己的身体,我说的是裸体模特儿,没什么不好,自然生成的都美,将自然的美贡献出来,只能说是一种慷慨,同轻佻全然没有关系。再说美的人体胜过于任何艺术品,艺术与自然相比总是苍白贫乏的,只有疯子才会认为艺术超越自然。
你信口侃侃而谈。
"你为什么又搞艺术呢?"她问。
你说你搞不了艺术,你只是写作,写你自己想说的话,而且随兴致所来。
"可写作也是一门艺术。
你坚持认为写作只是一门技术:
"只要掌握了这门技术,比方说你,掌握了手术刀,我不知道你是内科大夫还是外科大夫,这也不重要,只要掌握了这技术,谁都可以写作,就像谁都可以学会开刀一样。
她哈哈笑了。
你接着说你不认为艺术就那么神圣,艺术不过是一种活法,人有不同的活法,艺术代替不了一切。
"你挺聪明的,"她说。
"你也不笨,"你说。
"可有笨的。"
"谁?"
"画家,只知道用眼睛来看。"
"画家有画家的感受方式,他们比写作的人更重视视觉。"
"视觉能了解一个人的内在价值吗?"
"好像不能,但问题是什么叫价值?这困人而异,各有不同的看法,不同的价值只对于持有同样价值观的人才有意义。我不愿意恭维你长得漂亮,我也不知道你内里是否就美,可我能说的是同你交谈很愉快,人活着不就图点快活?傻瓜才去专找不痛快。"