Death was playing a joke on me but now that I’ve escaped the demon wall, I am secretly rejoicing. Life for me once again has a wonderful freshness. I should have left those contaminated surroundings long ago and returned to nature to look for this authentic life.
In those contaminated surroundings I was taught that life was the source of literature, that literature had to be faithful to life, faithful to real life. My mistake was that I had alienated myself from life and ended up turning my back on real life. Life is not the same as manifestations of life. Real life, or in other words the basic substance of life, should be the former and not the latter. I had gone against real life because I was simply stringing together life’s manifestations, so of course I wasn’t able to accurately portray life and in the end only succeeded in distorting reality.
Xingjian Gao, “Soul Mountain”
Probably my favorite book of all time. If I had to ever pick one book and one only (for whatever purpose), it’d be this one. It’s beautiful. Savor it.
I don’t know this guy, but the sentiment reminds me of Dostoevsky’s “Notes from the Underground”.
Haven’t read “Notes from the Underground” yet. Read “Crime and Punishment” senior year in high school and made an attempt at “The Idiot” two years ago. Enjoyed “Crime and Punishment”, but had to put “The Idiot” down halfway and I’m uncertain whether it’s because I don’t enjoy the work itself or the translation was poor. I have heck of a time trying to find an appropriate translator for prominent authors who wrote in languages other than English. In the case of Gao Xingjian and other modern authors from East Asia, I don’t have much of a choice, since there is only one translation and translator per work. Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, and Chekhov? It’s a nightmare trying to find a translator who can remain faithful to the work without making the transition from Russian to English awkward.
It’s wonderful thus far. I mentioned elsewhere reading it is like meditation—almost. I’m reading it at the usual pace, which only seems fast if one ignores the fact I spend nearly half of my eighteen waking hours reading.
The joys of having no real responsibilities.