Finally, a chance to read - a chance read - of this fine author I had a chance to hear here in Buffalo on the Big Stage. There was an astonishing turnout then, as though this one writers' series is all there is that might, reliably, turn out everyone of a certain intellectual rank. 'What if everyone were to have read the same book?' And "history is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake." Let's all read something different, how about? And compare notes.
Ha Jin's is clearly a superior intellect, and his reasons for writing in his non-native English were, well, brilliant to the point of (my) wanting to cheer out loud. I have a vague memory that some brave souls might have done just that. The perpetual alien these well-credentialed scholars wanted to style themselves, I suppose.
But this English-language book is not written in English exactly. It's written in Chinese and then by translation - prior to the page I guess - rendered into English. I love looking up those unfamiliar words for familiar things which must have gotten there onto this page by having themselves been looked up by someone who can't possibly have mastered quite enough of English contexts.
Words like "gluteal fold" where you'd have to reach for a nice juicy metaphor in English, and know that there is no particular there there, below the it that is it. Then there's this pivotal passage:
"Not until now did he realize that he had been putting on a show. Somehow he had lost himself altogether in the performance and had unconsciously entered into the realm of self-oblivion -- a complete union with a character or an object, which he realized was the ideal state of artistic achievement, dwelled upon by many ancient masters throughout the history of Chinese arts." (pp. 153 in the paperback)
Of course, this is pure nonsense. Chinese artists of the true and sanctioned variety could only strive for mastery of true readings of what is, in fact, in front of them. Actors, imitators, as in the West, are lowlier manifestations of the artistic bent. Unschooled, as is our protagonist here, Shao Bin, they strive for what they cannot know. Putting on a show would be rather, well, picaresque for actual Chinese scholars. Fiction is a Western fetish. Artistic creation is meant to better nature. Where?
We don't know where our author stands, between two worlds. Is his mimetic art or is it the calligraphic poesis of brushstrokes to open the world to our reading. Is nature bettered in the mind or in reality (ask all the latest films and novels and, um, well, look around you)? Ha Jin may be making fun.
He stands, Ha Jin, at an historic crossroads. He writes about ordinary Chinese striving for justice - for a narrative of justice - in a world of petty privilege exercised without constraint beyond what the literate might dare to make in a complaint out loud. There are no legal codes.
Ha Jin delineates an illiterate nightmare in the place of a once great civilization. He might as well be describing U.S. I look forward to his further development, happily already accomplished for my belated reading. Anyhow, this is a nice start.