I had the feeling I would like this book as soon as I got it, not because of the cover, which was nondescript, but because of the chapter headings, which were alluring, a little mysterious ( Selling chiffon scarves in a traffic jam, Flies in scrambled eggs, Lure of the distance, Men in the dark). They pulled me in and made me want to read on. I knew right away I was going to have trouble with the names, though. Despite the helpful note about the configuration of Chinese names I suspected I was not going to be able to differentiate between Da Xian, Lu Ping, Fan Chen, Chen Hong and Lingling, and they weren't even real names, except for Ma Jian and his daughter. My self-criticism was correct, because whenever I came across sentences like "In the afternoon, Hu Sha comes from Beijing, and Yang Ming, from Chengdu," my brain went into sleep mode. I never really got to grips with the characters and their interrelationships except possibly Ma Jian's wife and lovers, who, if I got them right (Guoping, Xi Ping, Wang Ping), demonstrated a predilection for Pings. But this was a trivial negative response to what I thought was a rather beautiful piece of writing.. This book for me was about China (and Tibet), about all its people, not just a few individuals. That said, the characters were still interesting, such as the one who "looks like any other pretty girl in the street. You would never guess she has a child in nursery, a husband in prison, a married boyfriend, a girlfriend, a Canadian lover and an opium addiction." (I don't remember her name!)
I think China remains a huge mystery to the rest of the world. Such a vast country, so many millions of people, so much history and turmoil and what do we really know? Almost nothing. So I began my reading with a sense of anticipation and excitement, and I wasn't disappointed.
I thought the writing was sensational. Although it contained much description, it wasn't a bit like Hemingway. This was a painter, photographer and poet describing things for us, and I truly believe such people perceive the world differently than the rest of us. Did you notice how often and in how many ways he described the light? Some of the descriptions were so vivid, it was more like looking at a painting than reading a paragraph. Ma Jian often mentioned himself (and others) looking at a scene through the lens of his camera. He was our camera and we looked at everything through his lens.
The book covered a lot of ground, physically, mentally and historically. Surely we only got a glimpse, for it showed us landscapes and histories that were as varied as those of Earth, Pluto and Alpha Centauri and people that were as strange to each other as them from us. There was an interesting duality in the narrative, as this was both a journey of a Chinaman through his own country and of a stranger in a strange land. On arrival at many places, Ma Jian must have known no more of it that we do. It made you wonder how someone like Mao Tse Tung could get a grip on such a vast and diverse land and peoples, such that one person's main claim to fame was having "shaken the hand of a Red Guard soldier who had shaken hands with Chairman Mao."
The timing of Ma Jian's journey was particularly interesting because as he struggled to find his own path, China was also trying to find its path as it emerged from the Cultural Revolution. What an ironic term! What could be cultural about a regime under which landscape painting was considered a counter-revolutionary crime? There was so much that was truly shocking and I don't mean the sky burial, which was gruesome in the extreme. The self-criticism – imagine standing up in front of your colleagues and bosses and admitting you are always late back from lunch! The regimentation of people's lives, trying to extend even to their thoughts. The horrible murders and executions performed in its name. And the most chilling epitaph I have ever seen: "Posthumously awarded membership of the Chinese Communist Party."
I enjoyed the journey and was fascinated with every detail, the places, the people, the history, the traditions, the buildings, the religion (the names of the Buddhist gods were mysterious and mystical: Avalokiteshavra, Boddhisattva, Manjushri, Vajrapani), the food, the sights, sounds and smells. Although Ma Jian was mostly on foot, sometimes the pace was too fast. I wanted to linger a while longer and have a look round, but he always moved on. If I want to learn more, I will have to read other books. Having read this book, I don't feel I know that much more about the Chinese than I did before, but what I did learn is that there is an awful lot more to know. Ma Jian has made me aware of the red dust, but I'll have to find my own path through it.
Footnote: whenever I read a book that is translated, I can't help noticing the translation as well as what the author is trying to say (I would have liked to be a translater) and occasionally you could not help noticing this one. Mostly, Flora Drew (the translater) managed to retain the artistry and poetry of the story, but there were a few sore thumbs. One I remember is "more narrow streets" that I thought should have been "narrower". Another was something to do with "cops" – who on earth says cops? I never think it works very well to translate into slang because we all have our personal set of slang expressions so any that we don't use introduce jarring notes that proper English would avoid.