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Praise for
Can Xue
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“Can Xue is one of the most innovative and important contemporary writers in China, and in my opinion, in world literature.”
—Bradford Morrow
“Can Xue is the most original voice to arise in Chinese literature since the mid-century upheavals. . . . In short, there’s a new world master among us and her name is Can Xue.”
—Robert Coover
“If China has one possibility of a Nobel laureate, it is Can Xue.”
—Susan Sontag
“Can Xue invites comparison to the century’s masters of decay made meaningful, to Kafka especially.”
—New York Times
“Can Xue’s writing is among the most innovative to have appeared in China in recent years.”
—Times Literary Supplement
“Kafka, Schulz, and Borges. These three are serious company for any author. . . . Can Xue’s work is a welcome continuation of their liberating literary projects.”
—Matthew Badura, Centre for Book Culture
Also by Can Xue
in English Translation
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Blue Light in the Sky & Other Stories
Dialogues in Paradise
The Embroidered Shoes
Five Spice Street
Old Floating Cloud: Two Novellas
Copyright
Copyright © 2011 by Can Xue
Translation copyright © 2011 by Karen Gernant and Chen Zeping
First edition, 2011
All rights reserved
Several of the stories collected here have been previously published in the following magazines: “Hongye” [Red leaves], Shanhua [Mountain flowers], 2008, No. 5; “Yefang” [Night visitor], Xiaoshuo jie [Fiction world], 1997, No. 4; “Qinglu shouji” [An affectionate companion’s jottings], Jintian [Today], 2005, No. 6; “Dushili de cunzhuang” [A village in the big city], Furong [Lotus], 2008, No. 4; “Alinna” [Elena], Zuojia [Writers], 2009, No. 1; “Yueguang zhi wu” [Moonlight dance], Shanghai literature, 2007, No. 1; “Yiyuanli de meiguihua” [The roses at the hospital], Shanhua [Mountain flowers], 2007, No. 8; “Mianhua tang” [Cotton candy], Zuojia [Writers], 2002, No. 7; “Zijing yuejihua” [The brilliant purple China rose], Shanghai literature, 2009, No. 2; “Yujing” [Rainscape], Changjiang wenyi [Yangzi literature], 1997, No. 5; “Yong bu ningjing,” [Never at peace], Wenxue shijie [World of literature], 1998, No. 5.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data: Available.
ISBN-13: 978-1-934824-51-1
ISBN-10: 1-934824-51-8
Design by N. J. Furl
Open Letter is the University of Rochester’s nonprofit, literary translation press:
Lattimore Hall 411, Box 270082, Rochester, NY 14627
www.openletterbooks.org
To my husband Lu Yong
Vertical
Motion
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We are little critters who live in the black earth beneath the desert. The people on Mother Earth can’t imagine such a large expanse of fertile humus lying dozens of meters beneath the boundless desert. Our race has lived here for generations. We have neither eyes nor any olfactory sense. In this large nursery, such apparatus is useless. Our lives are simple, for we merely use our long beaks to dig the earth, eat the nutritious soil, and then excrete it. We live in happiness and harmony because we have abundant resources in our hometown. Thus, we can all eat our fill without a dispute arising. At any rate, I’ve never heard of one.
In our spare time, we congregate to recall anecdotes of our forebears. We begin by remembering the oldest of our ancestors and then run through the others. The remembrances are pleasurable, filled with outlandish salty and sweet flavors, as well as some crispy amber—the immemorial turpentine. In our recollections, there is a blank passage that is difficult to describe. Broadly speaking, as one of our elders (the one with the longest beak) was digging the earth, he suddenly crossed the dividing line and vanished in the desert above. He never returned to us. Whenever we remembered this, we fell silent. I sensed that everyone was afraid.
Even though people never descended to our underground, we actually gained all kinds of information about the mortals above us. I don’t know what sort of channel this information came from. It is said that it was very mysterious, and that it had something to do with our builds. I’m an average-sized, ordinary individual of my genus. Like everyone else, I dig the earth every day and excrete. Recalling our ancestors is the greatest pleasure in my life. But when I sleep, I have some odd dreams. I dream of seeing people; I dream of seeing the sky above. Human beings are good at movement. They feel bumpy to the touch. I’m extremely jealous of their well-developed limbs, because our limbs have atrophied underground. We all move about by wiggling and twisting our bodies. Our skin has become too smooth, easily injured.
We make these kinds of remarks about humankind:
“If you approach the border of the yellow sand, you can hear camel bells ringing: this is what our grandfather told me. But I don’t want to go to such a place.”
“Human beings reproduced too quickly: it is said that their numbers are immense. They’ve consumed all of earth’s food, and now they’re eating yellow sand. It’s dreadful.”
“If we don’t think about the sky and the people on earth, doesn’t that ultimately mean that those things don’t exist? We have enough memories and knowledge of this kind of thing. It’s pointless to go on exploring.”
“The yellow sand above us is more than ten meters deep. It’s just like the end of the world to those of us who live in the warm, moist, deep soil. I’ve been to the boundary and have felt the desire to thrust upward. Here and now, I’d like to recall that time.”
“Our kingdom of the black earth didn’t always exist. It came into being only later. Our oldest ancestors didn’t always exist, either. They, too, came into being only later. And so here we are. Sometimes I think that maybe one of us should take a risk. Since we came from nowhere, taking risks is part of our obligation.”
“I want to take a risk, too. I’ve begun fasting recently. I hate my sweaty, damp, and slippery body. I want a change. Whenever I think of yellow sand dozens of meters deep, I’m terrified. But the more terrified I am, the more I want to go to that place. There, I would certainly lose all sense of direction. Probably my only sense of direction would come from gravity. But would gravity change in such a place? I’m very worried.”
“We remember all of the history and all of the anecdotes. Why have we forgotten only our long-beaked grandpa? I always feel that he’s still alive, but I can recall nothing about him. Recollections concerning each of us are preserved only in our hometown. Once one leaves here, one is thoroughly invalidated by history.”
“When I grow quiet, whimsical ideas come into my mind. I would like our collective to ease me into oblivion. Yet, I know this can’t be done here. Here, my every word and action will be preserved in everyone’s memories, and will be passed on from generation to generation.”
“I think I can grow bumpy skin; I just have to make a point of exercising every day. Recently, I’ve been rubbing