From Root-Searching to Soul-Searching in “Buying a Fishing Rod for My Grandfather”

“Buying a Fishing Rod for My Grandfather” revolves around the narrator’s purchase of a fiberglass fishing rod for his grandfather, who had previously used only homemade ones made from bamboo. Prior to residing in the city, most of the narrator’s childhood had been spent with his grandparents in the countryside. The fiberglass fishing rod evokes the narrator to reminiscence about his grandfather. The narrator’s grandfather, in the countryside, wanted to catch as many fish as possible. He therefore made long trips to the city to buy better-quality fishing hooks, and even knitted his own fishing nets. In contrast, fishermen in the city viewed fishing either as a relaxing activity offering respite from the hustle and bustle of city life, or as a competitive spoil. This comparison of urban and rural lives makes the narrator homesick for the countryside. On the pretext of giving his grandfather a brand-new modern fishing rod, the narrator travels back to his childhood home to alleviate his homesickness. However, the narrator’s grandfather is already dead, although this information is withheld by the narrator until the last sentence of the story. As I shall elaborate in my close reading, Gao Xingjian uses the flow of language throughout “Buying a Fishing Rod for My Grandfather” to present the narrator’s return to his hometown as a non-linear exploration of his post-Cultural Revolution self.

The narrator’s internal probing begins even before he sets off for the countryside. Immediately after buying the fiberglass fishing rod, he imagines the difficulties of storing it at home:

But first I must find a safe place to put the rod. If that young son of mine sees it, he’ll wreck it. Why did you have to buy that? It’s cramped enough in here already. Where will you put the thing? I hear my wife shouting at me. I put it above the toilet tank in the bathroom, the only place my son can’t reach, unless he climbs onto a stool. No matter what, I must go back to the village to get rid of this homesickness, which, once triggered, is impossible to shake. I hear a loud crash and think it’s my wife using the meat cleaver in the kitchen. You hear her yelling. Go and have a look! You then hear that son of mine crying in the bathroom and know that calamity has befallen the fishing rod. You’ve made up your mind. You’re taking the fishing rod back to your home.

(69, italics in the original)

The absence of speech marks in the narrator’s direct speech, a technique not uncommon among the modernist authors who inspire Gao Xingjian, such as James Joyce and Franz Kafka, makes the referent of the second-person pronoun ambiguous. The narrator’s descriptions suggest that the shouting comes from his wife, yet without the conventional quotation marks, (“Why did you have to buy that?”), the shouting could also be part of the narrator’s critique of his own poor judgement in bringing a fishing rod back to his humble abode. The question may even ventriloquize the reader, assuming that the reader is in the same position as the narrator. As such, the second-person pronoun presents multiple possibilities with the potential to shape the reader’s interpretation of the entire work. What is integral to Gao’s flow of language is that all of these possible interpretations occur simultaneously when the reader encounters the second-person pronoun sans speech marks. The flow of language not only forces readers to pay attention to Gao’s language but also evokes re-readings of the narratorial consciousness from external and internal perspectives (the narrator’s wife and the narrator, respectively), and from an in-between positionality (the reader).

As stated earlier, one of the narrator’s primary objectives is to revisit the countryside to alleviate his homesickness. Ironically, the narrator discovers the part of the countryside in which he spent his childhood is no longer much different from his current residence in the city. In addition, all of the mental signposts associated with his old home have been covered up or altered:

Later, I find an older man and ask him where the lake used to be. [...] The lake? Which lake? The lake that was filled in. Oh, that lake, the lake that was filled in is right here. He points with his foot. This used to be the lake. So we’re standing on the bottom. Was there once a stone bridge nearby? Can’t you see that there are asphalt roads everywhere? The stone bridges were all demolished and the new ones use reinforced concrete. You understand. You understand that what used to be no longer exists. It is futile to ask about a street and street number that used to exist, you will have to rely on your memory.

(71)

When two young local girls laugh at the narrator’s accent, he realizes that even his linguistic roots have been wiped out:

In our village, the word for grandfather is laoye. However, the word “I”, “me,” or “my” is wo, produced between the back palate and the throat, and sounds like e, which means “goose.” So wo laoye to a non-local sounds like “goose grandfather”

(71).

While the countryside girls appear to be pure and naive, they are not welcoming of outsiders. Simply by opening his mouth, the narrator becomes a laughingstock, an outsider, in his own hometown.

As observed by Hee Wai-siam, “Buying a Fishing Rod...” is a parody of the Chinese root-seeking literary genre, which gained prominence in the mid-1980s. The genre derived from the ideological and cultural void during the aftermath of the Cultural Revolution. Despite the vast influx of Western cultural thought due to the relaxation of cultural governance in the post-Mao era, Chinese people felt a disconnect between themselves and their cultural roots. This urgency of rediscovering an “authentic,” ancient Chinese cultural identity inspired works set in the countryside and featuring stereotypical portrayals of minority nationality culture as being primitive and innocent.⁴

The flow of language in “Buying a Fishing Rod...” offers an introspective twist to the root-seeking genre. The narration brings the reader into intimate contact with the psychological experience of discovering one’s rootlessness. In the absence of quotation marks, readers experience both the narrator’s dialogue with the elderly local and the narrator’s dialogue with himself. Readers can follow the internal thoughts and emotional processes that lead to the narrator’s conclusion that “you will have to rely on your memory.” At the same time, the flow of language also cultivates distance between reader, narrator, and characters. Readers are provided with a space in which to critically evaluate the notion of memory’ in the context of searching for one’s roots. The question of how to remember one’s roots becomes relevant instead.

In “Buying a Fishing Rod...,” the narrator discovers on his root-seeking journey that his roots have long since disappeared. The end of the narrator’s traditional root-searching journey, however, marks the birth of his individualistic attempt at »«/-searching. Rather than relying upon topographical references, the narrator re-imagines his roots based on his fondest childhood memories of his grandfather and grandmother. The narrator’s memory (or imagination) once again begins with his grandfather’s fishing, but then moves swiftly to the discovery of his grandfather in tears after a hunting trip. The narrator consoles his grandfather and tells him that he has brought him a new fishing rod. However, his grandfather’s response is not enthusiastic. Fragments of the narrator’s childhood sporadically appear: his grandmother’s cooking, his grandfather’s dog Xiaohei, hunting with his grandfather. Through his spiritual exploration, the narrator makes a breakthrough regarding the liberation of the mind:

Grandfather, can you kick a soccer ball?

It’s a soccer ball that’s kicking your Grandfather.

Who are you talking with?

You’re talking with yourself, the child you once were.

That boy without clothes?

A naked soul.

Do you have a soul?

I hope so. Otherwise, this world would be so lonely.

Are you lonely?

In this world, yes.

What other world is there?

That inner world of yours that others can’t see.

Do you have an inner world?

I hope so. It’s only there that you can really be yourself.

(84-85, italics in the original)

If Ba Jin describes his confrontation with personal trauma as a “dissecting of the self,” Gao Xingjian’s flow of language is a language of trauma that dissects the traumatized self at a distance. In an imagined dialogue between the narrator and a detached observer, this detached perspective is referred to as one’s “inner world.” The dialogue takes place in the narrator’s inner world: a place in which “you can really be yourself,” and which offers, as Gao puts it, the freedom to be individualistic and nonideological. Having located his inner world, the narrator is free to talk to himself without the restrictions of root-searching. After abandoning all expectations of what he will find in his childhood past, the narrator converts his root-searching journey into a longwinded and aimless wandering of the mind. Elements of the narrator’s childhood life, such as fishing, his childhood home, and his grandfather’s fishing rod, are described in the same breath as Diego Maradona’s legendary performance in the 1986 World Cup final between Argentina and West Germany, the narrator’s archaeological interest in the ancient kingdom of Loulan, and a mysterious female figure⁵ who personifies the narrator’s fragmented self (82-88).

“Buying a Fishing Rod...” makes barely any reference to the Cultural Revolution, or to politics of any kind. Yet the lone hint to the Cultural Revolution has profound implications. The narrator remembers that his grandfather’s beloved shotgun was confiscated during the period of book-burning (67), which alludes to Gao Xingjian’s own experience of burning his own writings during the Cultural Revolution. He feels sad about his grandfather’s loss and wants to buy him another shotgun, but this would require permission from the state. Instead, the narrator buys his grandfather a fishing rod, but no fishing will be possible, because the rivers and pond near his house have dried up. Nevertheless, it is revealed at the end of the story' that the narrator’s grandfather had already passed away (88).

Considering the above hints, both the title of the story' and the narrator’s act of buying a fishing rod for his dead grandfather are intricately' linked with the Cultural Revolution. The narrator’s decision to finally' disclose the death of his grandfather reflects his ability' to come to terms with trauma in his own way' - through talking to himself in his inner world. The narrator’s autodidac-tic approach also reminds readers of the importance to be reflexive when tackling their own Cultural Revolution trauma. Rather than relying upon the neat but reductionist discourse provided by the Chinese state, readers of “Buying a Fishing Rod...” are encouraged to focus on their experiences in individualistic and nonideological ways.

From Positivity to Fragility in “The Temple”

“The Temple” opens with its narrator stating that he and his wife Fangfang are on their honeymoon trip to Yuanen Temple and are “deliriously' happy” (3). Yet within the first two paragraphs of his account, the narrator mentions that he, his wife, and their families, have all endured “catastrophic years in this country' [...] and to some extent we still resented our generation’s fate” - presumably' referring to the Cultural Revolution (4). Fragments of their traumatized past surface in his narrative, including their experiences as youths sent down to the countryside and their memories of the destruction of temples:

It was in this manner that we finally' climbed to the top of the hill and arrived at the outer gate in front of the temple. Within the collapsed courtyard wall was a gutter with pure water from the pump running through. In what had been the courtyard, someone had planted a patch of vegetables, and next to that was a manure pit. We recalled the years we had spent shoveling manure with production units in the countryside. Those difficult times had trickled away' like water, leaving some sadness but sweet memories as well. And there was our love, too. In the glorious sunlight, no one could interfere with this secure love of ours. No one would be able to harm us again.

(10-11)

Although the narrator has the chance to elaborate on the horrors of the Cultural Revolution’s “Up to the Mountains and Down to the Countryside” movement, he instead represses his troubled memories, exhibiting a disturbing positivity'. Throughout the story, the narrator manages to alleviate his negativity' with

The Language of Trauma 43 reports of “delirious” happiness, composed of glorious sunlight, sweet memories, and unassailable love. Another example is the narrator’s emphasis on the meaning of the name “Yuanen Temple.” Despite acknowledging that the temple’s name is not important, he feels compelled to specify that its Chinese characters mean “‘perfect’ as in ‘perfect union,’ and ‘benevolence’ as in ‘benevolent love’” (4). In addition, the narrator unreservedly shares moments of affection for his wife Fangfang during the trip. Standing on the platform of a train station, the narrator remarks that he wanted “the conductors on the platform and the countless pairs of eyes on the other side of the train windows to look at us with envy” (6).

The narrator draws his seemingly endless stream of positivity from two sources: His marriage to Fangfang and an undifferentiated group of friends whom he addresses as “all of you.” The physical presence of these friends, however, is unconfirmed. When the narrator describes his hike up to Yuanen Temple, neither Fangfang nor the narrator’s friends have any concrete voice in the narration:

“Is it hurting your feet?” I asked Fangfang.

“I like it,” you replied softly. On our honeymoon, even having sore feet was a happy sensation. All the misfortunes of the world seemed to flow away with the river water, and we returned for a moment to our youth. We frolicked in the water like mischievous children.

As I steadied her with one hand, Fangfang leaped from rock to rock, and from time to time she hummed a song. Once across the river, we started to run up the hill, laughing and shouting. Then Fangfang cut her foot and I was very upset, but she comforted me, saying that it was all right, it would be nothing as soon as she put on her shoes. I said that it was my fault, but she replied that she’d do anything to make me happy, even let her feet get cut. All right, all right, I won’t go on about it. But because you are the friends we value most, who have shared our anxieties with us, we should also share our happiness with you.

(10)

The group of friends addressed here play the role of a silent audience listening passively to the narrator as he rambles on about his honeymoon. Yet no hard evidence is provided that the friends exist at all. The case of Fangfang is even more complex. All Fangfang’s responses during the honeymoon trip are presented by the narrator in reported speech. And although Fangfang appears to be present throughout the narrator’s recounting of the trip (“All right, all right, I won’t go on about it”), she never vocally intervenes or participates in the narrative. The reader is unsure whether Fangfang is influencing the narrator non-linguistically or whether the narrator is merely imagining her presence and responses. If Fangfang is present all along, why does she not contribute to the narration?

Critics have argued that Gao Xingjian’s depiction of females in his prose works is misogynistic (Kam 2001 and Rojas 2002), and “The Temple” indeed seems to be guilty of silencing the female voice. This accusation could also be extended to the singularization of the Cultural Revolution trauma narrative, since the narrator appears to dominate the narrative of his post-Cultural Revolution life, not unlike the Chinese state. However, in light of Gao’s flow of language, Fangfang and the narrator’s group of friends can be read as fragmented representations of the positive side of the narrator’s scarred subjectivity. By omitting speech marks, Gao implies that the narrator is engaging in dialogue with himself from different points of view. Fangfang represents the narrator’s third-person perspective (“she”), and the group of friends represent the narrator’s second-person perspective (“you”). The reader learns about them only through the narrator’s characterization. Fangfang is introverted and maintains a low profile, in stark contrast with her overtly enthusiastic husband (the narrator). Although the friends remain unidentified, they are likely also to be survivors of the Cultural Revolution, as the narrator repeatedly justifies the sharing of his story as giving back to his friends for their enduring support during the difficult times. In short, the narrator is likely to be talking to himself all along from different points of view.

During the latter half of his trip to Yuanen Temple, the narrator’s positivity gradually weakens. The narrator and Fangfang meet a scruffy-looking man who has brought along a little boy to hunt for grasshoppers near the Temple. With the discovery' that the boy' is not the man’s son, but his “paternal cousin’s,” the tone of the narration changes drastically, becoming somber. What were once viewed as the temple’s “glazed tiles sparkling in the sun” (9) are now merely' “a broken tile at the edge of the eave [that] looked as if it were about to fall” (15); the mountain wind that once contributed to the peaceful atmosphere of the temple (11) now gives the narrator and Fangfang chills (15); even the perfect harmony' between the narrator and Fangfang is disrupted by a minor conflict over Fangfang’s insensitive question regarding the whereabouts of the man’s lover (15).

The narrator’s hyper-positivity is replaced with fragility, a notion integral to Gao Xingjian’s artistic vision: “A writer is an ordinary' person, perhaps he is more sensitive and people who are highly' sensitive are often more frail. [...] His voice is inevitably weak but it is precisely' this voice of the individual that is more authentic” (“The Case for Literature”). The narrator no longer hides behind the rosy' illusion of “delirious happiness” to protect himself from his traumatic past. Rather than repressing trauma, the narrator exposes and confronts it. This state of fragility drives the narrator’s experience of visiting Yuanen Temple. Moving beyond the literal meaning of the temple’s name, “perfect benevolence,” he explores instead its underlying attributes - “(perfect) union” and “(benevolent) love.” As Rebecca E. Karl notes, “not only was the Chinese Cultural Revolution a failure in its own terms, it was often a cruel and demoralizing movement that ruined the lives of many, took the lives of many, and permanently' altered the trajectories of several generations” (119). The destruction of families (against union) and familial, romantic, and social relationships (against love) continues to affect those who survived it.

Near the end of his autocommunicative sharing, the narrator seems to have lost his ability to translate negative thoughts and memories into positive ones. Through the process of talking to himself, the narrator experiences gradual internal changes and possibly' growth regarding his reconciliation with the Cultural

Revolution trauma. Upon seeing the man and the boy holding hands as they walk down the hill (16), the narrator’s escapism and pessimism are replaced with optimism:

“Do you think the man caught grasshoppers for [the boy]?” Fangfang, do you remember asking me that?

“Of course,” I said. “Of course.”

“He caught five of them!” you said cheekily.

(16)

The man and the boy represent the present and the future respectively of post-Cultural Revolution China. Despite the destruction of social relations during the decade of chaos, the narrator has faith that the present generation will lead a better life if they do not give up on familial love, trust, and care.