(This is a true story. So if you don't like true stories then stop reading or, if you like them but prefer to read the originals and not mere reviews, then simply skip this one.)
Once upon a time, in China, during the time after Mao, people are arrested, jailed and placed in labour camps for all sorts of reasons, most of them unfathomable that many of them, outraged at the senselessness of it all, took their own lives. People get arrested for talking, for not talking, for singing, reading books, listening to the radio, telling jokes, for laughing at some inappropriate times, for being intelligent, or educated, or thinking his own thoughts, or having money.
The author was arrested, imprisoned, placed in labour camps and forced to do years and years of farm work because he wrote some poems. For his artistic expressions he was branded as a counter-revolutionary.
At 31 years of age he is still in one of these state farms. A labour camp guarded by soldiers. He lives with his fellow male counter-revolutionaries and those declared as misfits of the society. He's still a bachelor and a virgin. He has not known any woman, biblically, in his entire life.
One day, as fairy tales go, in a marsh, he hears a splashing noise. He thinks it might be a wild duck which he may be able to catch, cook, and have for dinner. But no. It's a young nymphet with a boyish short hair. Another one of Mao's worker for the revolution. A woman. Completely naked. Bathing.
He watches. She finishes. She picks up her underwear and sees him. He doesn't know what to do. The first naked woman before his very eyes. He ran away.
The next day he sees her marching to some place with the group of female prisoners. She recognizes him. She menacingly lifts the sharp scythe she is holding and tells him, as she walks, "If I could, I would butcher you." He wasn't able to say anything to her.
They didn't see each other for eight (8) years after that. She, Huang Xianjiu, was transferred to another labour camp. In those eight years he never stopped thinking of her, she whose only words to him, as he keeps on recalling the tone of her voice, was about her butchering him if she could.
He talks to the ghost of a girl who killed herself rather than be forced into marriage. He talks to her about love and life. He wonders why he keeps on thinking about that girl Xianjiu. It can't be love for he does not know it. Or not anymore. For many years of privations and suppressed desires, day in and day out, he has been only with men, animals and the various manual tasks assigned to them. The planting and the harvesting, the tending of the sheep, pasturing the horses.
"Pure love, the fear and trembling of first love, the fragrance, the illusions of romance, where were they now? Eradicated by prison clothes. Eradicated by lining up, yelling out a number, being counted, marching to work. Snuffed out by bitter struggle. The physical needs of an animal were what remained. What frightened me was not that around us there were no women to love, but that if put to the test I could not have found love left in me. My emotions had grown as coarse as my skin...."
Then, after those eight years, in another labour camp, they see each other again. She has been twice divorced already, but childless. He is still a bachelor and a virgin. With no one else around in similar auspicious circumstances everyone thinks they are a good match. They themselves think so,even without any consideration of "love" deemed inexistent in such a stifling atmosphere of oppression. So they get married.
On their first night they discovered that he's impotent. His body wouldn't dance with his desire. The revolution has snuffed out even his libido. They were devastated.
In a few months, she succumbs to the wiles of a lustful party official. He, on the other hand, withdrawn and in pain, begins to talk to a castrated horse, Karl Marx himself (or his apparition) and some wise personages from Chinese antiquity.
But here I shall stop. For it is in this most strange and tragic of circumstances between man and wife that the reader shall be haunted by some of the tenderest moments of love which can be found in memoirs or autobiographical novels like this. No review, short of quoting the pertinent passages themselves, can do justice to the exhilarating prose of this poet-novelist Zhang Xianliang (and Martha Avery's brilliant translation) which whill leave your heart aquiver.