by Gao Xingjian
I’m just fighting to survive, no, I’m not fighting for anything, I’m just protecting myself. I don’t have the courage of that woman and I have not reached a state of utter despair, I am still seduced by the human world, I still haven’t lived enough.
He is all alone. He has been drifting around for a long time and eventually encounters an elderly man wearing a long gown and carrying a staff. He goes up and politely asks, “Venerable elder, can you tell me the location of Lingshan?”
“Where have you come from?” the old man asks instead.
He says from Wuyizhen.
“Wuyizhen?” The old man ruminates for a while. “It’s on the other side of the river.”
He says he has just come from that side of the river. Can he have taken the wrong road? The old man cocks an eyebrow and says, “The road is not wrong, it is the traveller who is wrong.”
“Venerable elder, what you are saying is absolutely correct.” But what he is asking is whether Lingshan is on this side of the river.
“If I say it’s on that side of the river then it’s on that side of the river.” The old man is annoyed.
He says he has already come to this side of the river from that side of the river.
“You’re moving further and further away,” the old man insists.
“Then I’ll have to go back again?” he asks, but can’t help saying to himself, I really don’t understand.
“I’ve already put it very clearly,” the old man says coldly.
“Venerable elder, you are quite correct, you have put it quite clearly . . .”The problem is that it isn’t clear to him.
“What is it that you still don’t understand?” The old man scrutinizes him from under his eyebrows.
He says he still doesn’t understand how to get to Lingshan.
The old man closes his eyes to concentrate.
“Venerable elder, didn’t you say it is on the other side of the river?” he has to ask again. “But I’ve already come to this side of the river–”
“Then it’s on that side of the river,” the old man crossly interjects.
“And if I use Wuyizhen to get my bearings?”
“Then it’s still on that side of the river.”
“But I have already come to this side of the river from Wuyizhen, so when you say that side of the river, shouldn’t it be this side of the river?”
“Don’t you want to go to Lingshan?”
“Precisely.”
“Then it’s on that side of the river.”
“Venerable elder, surely you’re talking metaphysics?”
The old man says in all earnestness, “Aren’t you asking the way?”
He says he is.
“Then I’ve already told you.” The old man raises his staff, dismisses him, and walks along the river-bank into the distance.
He stays alone on this side of the river, the other side of the river from Wuyizhen. The problem now is on which side of the river is Wuyizhen? He really can’t make up his mind and can only think of an old proverb dating back a thousand years:
“Existence is returning, non-existence is returning, so don’t stay by the river getting blown about by the cold wind.”
I don’t understand the meaning of these reflections. It isn’t a large stretch of water, the leaves of the trees have all fallen and the branches and trunks are grey-black. The one closest seems to be a willow, the two further off but closer to the water could be elms. The slender branches of the willow in front are loosely tangled and the bare branches of the two at the back have only small twigs on them. I can’t tell if the water with the reflections in it is iced over, in cold weather sometimes there is a layer of ice. The sky is grey and gloomy and it looks as if it is about to rain, but there is no rain, no movement, the branches do not sway, there is no wind. Everything is frozen as if dead. There is only this faint trace of music, wafting and intangible. The trees all have a slight slant. The two elms slant, one to the right and the other to the left. The trunk of the slightly larger willow slants to the right and three branches of virtually the same thickness growing from it all slant to the left, so there is a sort of balance. Thereafter, it is fixed and unmoving, like a stretch of dead water, a finished painting which will not be further changed, devoid of any wish for change, devoid of disturbance, devoid of impulse, devoid of desire. Land and water and trees and the branches of the trees. Dark brown streaks in the water, neither sandbars, islets nor peninsulas and only amounting to a few small patches of earth poking out of the water are slightly interesting, otherwise the surface of the water is unnaturally monotonous. At the edge of the water at the extreme right is a small and insignificant tree. It is not very high and has many branches which grow out in all directions like withered fingers. The metaphor might not be quite right but they stretch out anyway and have no intention of coming together whereas fingers can retract. All uninteresting. Below the closest willow is a rock. Is it for people to sit on to cool off? Or is it for people to stand on so as not to get their shoes wet when the water rises? Maybe it is not for any particular purpose, maybe it is not a rock but just a couple of clumps of earth. There could be a road there, or something like a road, leading to the water. When the water rises, all of this would be submerged. Level to where the first branch of the willow forks, parallel to this branch, there seems to be an embankment. When the water rises it would become the shore, but there are many gaps and the water would still flood in. Where there seems to be an embankment it is not completely still, a bird flies up and dives into the net-like branches of the willow. If I didn’t see it fly down there, it would be quite hard to see it. Its existence or non-existence lies solely in its having flown down there. The bird is in fact quite alive and on closer inspection there is more than one, hopping about on the ground under the tree and flying up and down. They are all smaller than the one which has just flown down and are not as dark either. They are probably sparrows, so the one hidden in the branches of the willow should be a myna, if it hasn’t flown off. What is essential is whether it is perceived and not whether it exists. To exist and yet not to be perceived is the same as not to exist. Something is moving on the opposite shore, on the other side of the water there is a cart above the grey-brown clumps of bushes. Someone is behind pushing it and the person bent over at the front would be pulling it. A cart with rubber tyres on the wheels could be carrying a half-ton load. It is moving slowly, unlike the sparrows, and its movement can barely be detected. It is only after identifying it as a cart that its movement is noticed. All this is determined by thought. If a road is identified then it is a road, a proper road, one that is not obliterated even after rain and flooding. Following the broken line above the grey-brown bushes then going back to look for the cart, it can be seen that it has moved quite some distance and entered the branches of the willow. At a glance, it could be taken for a bird’s nest but because it was identified as a cart before entering the branches of the tree, when one looks it is of course still a cart, moving slowly and moreover carrying a heavy load, a load of bricks or a load of soil. Do the trees, birds and cart of this scene also think of their own meaning? And what associations does the grey sky have with the reflections on the water, the trees, the birds and the cart? Grey . . . sky . . . water . . . leaves all shed . . . not a trace of green . . . mounds of earth . . . all black . . . cart . . . birds . . . straining to push . . . don’t disturb . . . billowing waves . . . sparrows noisily chirping . . . transparent . . . treetops . . . hungry and thirsty skin . . . anything will do . . . rain . . . tail feathers of the golden pheasant . . . feathers are light . . . rose colour . . . endless night . . . not bad . . . there’s a bit of wind . . . good . . . I’m very grateful to you . . . a vacuous formlessness . . . some ribbons . . . curling . . . cold . . . warm . . . wind . . . tottering . . . spiralling . . . sounds now intermingled . . . huge . . . insects . . . no skeletons . . . in an abyss . . . a button . . . black wings . . . night unfurling . . . everywhere are . . . panic . . . fire illuminates
. . . finely painted designs . . . joined to black silk gauze . . . insects in a straw sandal . . . nuclei swirling in cytoplasm . . . eyes form first . . . he decides the style . . . innate potential exists . . . an earring . . . nameless imprints . . . I didn’t notice that it had snowed but there is a thin layer of pure white which has not had time to pile up on the branches. The willow branches growing in the opposite direction of the slanting trunk have turned black. Above the branches of the two spreading elms, one leaning to the left and the other to the right, there was originally a stretch of shining white water, like snow which had fallen on a flat cement surface, the water must have been frozen. The mounds of earth which are neither sandbars, islets or peninsulas have become black shadows. If one didn’t know they were mounds of earth one wouldn’t know why they are black shadows. Even if one knew they were mounds of earth one would still not understand why snow hasn’t piled on them. Further off, the bushes are still bushes which are still grey-brown. Above the bushes there appears to be the hint of a road, but it can’t be seen clearly. In the upper part of the outstretched branches of the little tree is a winding white line crawling upwards, the cart must have been pushed up the slope there. At this moment, there is no cart on the road and no-one walking on it. If there were people walking on the snowy road they would be quite distinct. The rock under the willow, or the couple of clumps of earth which look like a rock, has vanished. The snow has covered all the small details but the tracks which have been walked on after the snow look like veins. An inconsequential snow scene like this creates images in my mind, induces in me a desire to enter it. By entering the snow scene I would become the back of someone. This back of course would not have any particular meaning if I were not at this window looking at it. Gloomy sky, snow-covered ground brighter than the sky, no mynas and sparrows. Snow absorbing thought and meaning.
A dead village, sealed by a heavy snowfall. The large silent mountain behind is also blanketed in thick snow. The grey-black is the bent branches of trees, the grey loose tangles are the needles of fir trees, the dark shadows can only be cliffs where the snow can’t pile up. There is an absence of colour, it’s impossible to tell if it’s day or night for there is light in the darkness. Snow seems to be falling so that footprints appearing are immediately blurred.
It’s a leper village.
Maybe.
There are no dogs barking?
They’re all dead.
Call out.
No need to. There used to be houses here. A broken wall, crushed by the snow, heavy snow. They were all pressed into sleep.
Did they all die in their sleep?
That would have been better but unfortunately it was a massacre, a slaughter, a display of manliness by being utterly ruthless. First meat buns were thrown to the dogs, they were laced with arsenic.
Wouldn’t the dogs have wailed when they were dying?
An expert only had to hit the dogs once on the nose.
Why not hit them somewhere else?
It is only when a dog is hit on the nose that it will die instantly.
Didn’t the people fight back at all?
They were all killed inside their houses, they didn’t take a step outside.
Couldn’t the young girls and babies escape?
Broadaxes were used.
Weren’t the women spared?
When the women were raped it was even more brutal–
Enough.
Are you frightened?
The village couldn’t have had just the one family, could it?
One family with three brothers.
They all died?
People say it was a sworn enemy of the family or else an epidemic. Maybe they suddenly got rich, found gold in the riverbed.
And were killed by outsiders?
They occupied the riverbed and wouldn’t let outsiders pan for gold.
Where’s the riverbed?
Right under your feet and mine.
Why can’t I see it?
All that can be seen are vapours rising from hell but that is just a feeling. This is a dead river.
You and I are on this dead river?
Yes, let me show the way.
Where to?
The other side of the river, to that stark white snow-covered land. There are three trees at the edge of the snow and further on is the mountain, the houses covered by the snow have collapsed under the weight. Only this section of broken wall is standing and behind it broken earthenware pots and fragments of celadon bowls can be picked up. You can’t resist kicking at them and are startled by the flapping wings of a nocturnal bird taking flight. You can’t see the sky and only see snow drifting down. There is fine snow on a fence and behind it is a vegetable plot. You know that hardy winter potherb mustard and piaorcai like the crinkled skin of an old woman’s face are all buried under the snow. You know this vegetable plot well and know the location of the back door leading onto this garden. You have eaten hairy little chestnuts sitting on the threshold. You can’t work out if this is a dream you had in childhood or a dream about your childhood, it would take a lot of effort to work this out. Right now, with great stealth, you are careful not to tread on the cat’s tail. That animal’s eyes glow in the dark, you know it is looking at you and you pretend not to be looking at it. You must quietly make your way around the well, there is an upright chopstick propping up a woven bamboo basket and you and she are hiding behind the door holding a piece of string and waiting for sparrows to come along. The grown-ups are inside playing cards. They are all wearing glasses with round brass rims and have bulging eyes like goldfish. Their eyeballs stick out from their sockets but they can’t see a thing and are holding the cards right up to their glasses. The two of you crawl under the table and all you can see are legs. There is a horse’s hoof. And there is also a fat and very long tail, you know it is a fox, it swishes from side to side, turns hard, and becomes a striped tiger crouched in the armchair. It will pounce on you any time. You can’t sneak past, you know if there’s a fight it will be a fierce one, and it is about to pounce on you!
What’s up?
Nothing, I seem to have had a dream. In the dream it was snowing on the village. The night sky was lit by the snow, this night was unreal, the air was bitterly cold and my head was light and empty. Anyway, I was dreaming of snow and winter and my footprints left in the snow in winter, I was thinking of you,
Don’t talk to me about this, I don’t want to grow up, I miss my father, only he truly loves me, you only want to sleep with me, I can’t make love without love,
I love you,
Nonsense, with you it’s only a momentary need,
What are you talking about? I love you!
Yes, rolling about in the snow, like dogs, go away, I only want myself,
The wolf will take you away in its mouth and eat up all your insides and the brown bear will take you to its cave and mate with you!
You only think about that, think about me, think about my feelings,
What feelings?
Take a guess, oh you are so stupid, I want to fly–
What?
I see a flower in the darkness,
What flower?
A camellia,
I’ll pluck it for you to wear,
Don’t destroy it, you wouldn’t die for my sake,
Why would I want to die?
Relax, I won’t ask you to die for me, I am really lonely, there are no echoes, I shout out at the top of my voice but there is only silence all around, there isn’t even the gurgling of a spring, even the air is so heavy, where is the river where they panned for gold?
Below the snow under your feet,
Rubbish,
It’s a secret underground river, they are all bending, scrubbing, and washing,
There’s a burr here,
What?
There’s nothing here at all,
You’re really wicked,
Who told you to ask, hey, hey, there seem to be echoes, up there, take me there,
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If you want to go, then go, . . .
I can see, you and her, in the snow, on a grey hazy night, I can’t see clearly but I can still see, you are in the snow, barefoot.
