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7 of 7 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Engrossing, June 3, 2006
This is a fantastic autobiographical novel about the author's experiences under Mao's China and how it affected him and others. The subject matter itself is enough to reccomend this book because we rarely get insights into this closed world and must strive to understand it as it emerges as a world economic power.
The author uses an interesting techinque of detachment where the main character is also the narrator who speeks most often in the third person. Irme Kertesz in his novel "fatelessness" beautifully dscribes how people can survive even the worst suffering, such as the holocaust, by detachment of soul from body. In "Fatelessness", the protagonist survives the concentration camps by escaping outside himself and comes to not only view his suffering and surroundings in the third person but becomes so detached that the physical pain, wounds, illness and suffering of his own body are described and experienced as a thiid person. This mode of escape was subconcious and persisted after the war, leaving a permanent scar of detachment that leaves the reader wondering how the protagonist will relate in peacetime.
Gao has evidently experienced a similar form of coping mechanism that is evident in the sections of the novel that take place in the present, during his expatriat years. It becomes manifest by his casual serial sexual encounters with women who also have similar problems of forming lasting bonds and attachments because of trauma (rape etc). Gao's inability to form a lasting personal bond extends to his lack of attachment to China, his people and his new home, career and friends. Though his insights are [rofound, Gao's emotions and actions are superficial and dream-like.
The most brilliant technique is his use of the word "you." The detached narrator (Gao)uses this word to refer to the subject (Gao)as if he is writing for and talking to himself. I have only seen this technique used in Gao's other novel translated into English "Soul Moutain." Later in the novel, when describing the past he uses "him" to describe the subject "Gao" living in Mao's China. The Narrator uses "you" to refer to the Gao in the present, expatriat state.
The use of "you" and "him" has a multilevel effect on the text and the reader. "Him" Gao of the past becomes "You" Gao of the present - a different level of detachment. "Him" Gao is the Gao of the present describing the Gao of the past as if from a distance, as if that person no longer exists and is dead or lost. The "You" Gao is more familiar, closer, intimate yet detached, a different, mature Gao of the present who is having these relationships, having his plays performed and struggling with the present novel and his past. If a man is the sum of his experiences we are left still wondering who the real Gao is and if he knows himself. It is as much a discovery of Mao's oppressive China as an effort of self descovery -- both painful.
The other effect of the use of "You" used by the narrator to describe Gao in the present is the author subtly drawing in the reader, to place him or herself in Gao's place, to become Gao. "You" also refers to the reader. We are invited to become Gao in our imagination as we read the text. The simplicity of one word creating so many layers of meaning and effect on the text and reader is on par with Jose Saramago's penchant for a lack of puntuation in many of his works.
This book is indeed something special, ingenious, and genuine. You may walk away haunted and disoriented, angry, frustrated, helpless and questioning your security. But as Gao makes clear at the begining, the experience of a Chinese mind under Mao can only be compared to the Holocaust under Hitler. Here East and West share a commonality of humanity at its best and worst, a common suffering and experience and a place to begin a dialog of understanding. Evil takes on many forms but it's effects on the human soul are universal.
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5 of 5 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Cultural Drift, May 16, 2006
To this day, the bizarre, cult-like events of the Cultural Revolution remain a prime focal point for Chinese novelists and, especially, memoirists. Writers from Adeline Yen-Mah, Jung Chang, Jan Wong, and Anchee Min to Yu Hua, Mo Yan, Dai Sijie, and Yan Geling have plumbed the depths of political capriciousness, human debasement, and the sheer will to survive in their own lives or in those of their fictional characters. Yet few if any Chinese writers have dared examine the effects of the Cultural Revolution on their later, post-Tiananmen Square massacre (1989) lives. Gao Xingjian's semi-autobiographical novel, ONE MAN'S BIBLE, is the first I have encountered, and the results are hauntingly devastating.
The story opens in a Hong Kong hotel in 1996 with the unnamed Chinese narrator (an internationally successful playwright) and his temporary paramour, a white Jewish woman of German descent named Margarethe. Theirs is an affair of mutual convenience and simple animal lust, but it is also a continuation of two largely hopeless searches for human closeness and warmth even as both characters deny that they seek such a thing. Margarethe works insistently to draw out the narrator's past, asking him to tell his life's story and suggesting that he turn it into a book. The narrator for his part insists that such a thing is not possible, that "things in China can not be explained by language alone," yet the book of his life unfolds before us in chapters that alternate (for the first half of the book) between his present-day encounter with Margarethe and his autobiography.
What emerges from this approach is a haunting tale of a rational, intelligent man trying desperately to cope with the utter irrationality of the Cultural Revolution. At first a nonpolitical citizen of Beijing, the narrator decides that he can best survive by becoming a faction leader. Having established his revolutionary bona fides, he then lays low and chooses his moves carefully, ultimately realizing that his next move is to the countryside, to keep his head down as a peasant farmer and teacher for perhaps the rest of his life. To maintain his sanity, he secretly writes about his feelings and experiences, keeping his papers well-hidden from nosy neighbors. Over time, he discovers that survival under Mao requires repeated acts of selfishness and disregard for the feelings of others, particularly the women who pass through his life, offering sexual temptation coupled with the threat of personal ruin. Ultimately, Margarethe returns to Europe and disappears from the alternating scenes, leaving Gao to examine ever more intensely his own past, his failings and regrets and lost relationships. He never shares with us the manner in which he "escapes" from China, partly because it doesn't really matter and partly because, in a psychological sense, he will never escape.
By using the alternating chapters, the author establishes a clear divide between history and the present while simultaneously illustrating how that history impinges on the narrator's current life. Gao takes this structure even further by bifurcating the narrator himself, referring to his present-day self in the second person (you) and to his pre-escape self in the third person (he). Yet they are clearly just variations of the same person; the narrator's past is an inescapable part of his present. He is scarred for life by the Cultural Revolution, and the lonely, distant, untrusting person he has become is a direct reflection of the persona he was forced to adopt in order to survive those times. He has learned to be a soulless user of others, and little else.
This is a dark and haunting examination of life and survival during the unimaginable events of the Cultural Revolution and its aftermath. Timed and placed in 1996 Hong Kong just before the British turnover over that island to the Communist government in Beijing, it is also a fascinating metaphorical contemplation of modern China, a nation of soulless users lusting after money the same way his narrator lusts after women. Gao Xingjian emerged from relative obscurity (at least outside of China) to become his country's surprise first Nobel Prize winner for Literature. In ONE MAN'S BIBLE, Western readers can get a sense of why he was chosen. Deservedly so, it would seem.
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5 of 5 people found the following review helpful:
3.0 out of 5 stars
Strong and Compelling, November 3, 2004
One Man's Bible is not easy to read, as it is complicated both in form and content. An autobiogaphic novel of a chinese writer during Mao's Cultural Revolution....
The book deals with the thoughts, happenings and loneliness of one man, who struggles to find himself in the middle of political and culural turmoil in China.
Nothing is good or bad, everything is simply different shades of gray. What's acceptable one day is punishable the next. Nobody wants (dares) to take any type of political stance, in a changing world.
Anxiety and vulnerability are in every single paragraph, as the writer is obcessed with finding the meaning of life in casual sexual experiences.
Everyone is forced to wear a mask, which allow them to blend in to the everchanging panorama of things. Identity is nonexistent.
Regaring form, the book jumps not only from time to time, back and forth, but is also narrated in second and third person, which complicates things a bit.
As Gao clarifies during his Nobel acceptance speech, he wites for himself, and by doing so, provides an insight into twentieth century maoist China.
In summary, a bit heavy....
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