A chinese place in time.

[MANICHAEAN]

A CHINESE PLACE IN TIME.

INTRODUCTION:

When you think about it carefully, your existence is invariably much more in the past than in the present and for a Chinaman of advanced years like myself, where the recollections are so great, it is allowable to live solely on them and even in them. It may even be pardonable, that from the depths, the looks of a fallen man, or even worse, an ignored man, may be involuntarily directed towards the splendour of his past existence. According to a Chinese proverb, (for it is in such that I am on native ground); pride invites sorrow. But this is not my case, for I believe that the soul also, is proud of her deep and numerous wounds. To feel, and to excite feeling, are not these the most powerful springs of our soul?
I therefore propose to make use of such designations as Chen Shih-yin (truth under the garb of fiction.) to illustrate my tale. Why you may ask? Perhaps because it was not the truth then! Who knows? Whatever may be the cause of the sentiment which actuates me, I have yielded to the desire of retracing the various sensations which I and my race have experienced during our lives and placed them at a place in time. For perverse it would be if such great remembrances, which have been so dearly purchased, be lost. Man may stumble and fall on his journey, but in facing the enemies he must fall with greater glory than they rose. There is no shame in being old and vanquished. No need to cast down those eyes, which have seen so many kneel before you, so many greater men likewise vanquished. Fortune, doubtless, owes me a more glorious repose; but, such as it is, it depends on myself to make a noble use of it.

[MANICHAEAN]

CHAPTER 1:

So reader, can you suggest whence the story begins? For myself, I sit leisurely in my library and my hand feels tired and my book has been placed on the table beside me. The happy rains of the spring are here. It is not the cold, drear rain of autumn, but dancing, laughing rain that comes sweeping across the valley, touching the rice-fields lovingly, and bringing forth the young green leaves of the mulberry. I hear it patter upon the roof at night-time, and in the morning all the earth seems cleansed and new and fresh colours greet my eyes when I throw back my casement. But for the moment though, I just lean my head on the teapoy and rest my eyes.

Outside it was market day and the streets were made more narrow by the baskets of fish and vegetables which lined the way. The flat stones of the pavements were slippery and it seemed the bearers of the two Chinese ladies could not find a way amongst the crowd of riders on horses and small donkeys, the coolies with their buckets of water swinging from their shoulders, the sweetmeat sellers, the men with bundles, and the women with small baskets. They all stepped to one side at the sound of the of the bearer leader. The women looked long at the signs above the open shop ways. There were long black signs of lacquer with letters of raised gold, or red ones with the characters carved and gilded. They bought silks and satins and gay brocades. They chatted and bargained and shopped. With demure childhood innocence they handled jade and pearls and ornaments of twisted gold, and with equally shrewd instincts priced amulets and incense pots and gods. They filled their eyes with luxury and the amahs' chairs with packages, and returned home two, tired, hungry women, thinking with longing of the hissing tea-urn upon the charcoal brazier.

Within the beautiful ancestral home of their husbands, high on the mountains-side outside of the city, they lived the quite, sequestered lives of high-class Chinese women, attending to the household duties, which are not light in these patriarchal homes, where an incredible number of people live under the same roof. The sons bring their wives to their father's house instead of establishing separate homes for themselves, and they are all under the watchful eye of the mother, who can make a veritable prison or a palace for her respective daughters-in-laws. In China the mother reigns supreme. A daughter-in-law is of very little importance until she is the mother of a son. Then, from being practically a servant of her husband's mother, she rises to a place of equality and is looked upon with respect. She has fulfilled her once great duty, the thing for which she was created: she has given her husband a son to worship at his grave and at the graves of his ancestors. To be childless is the greatest sorrow, as she fully realizes that for this cause her husband is justified in putting her away for another wife, and she may not complain or cry out, except in secret, to her Goddess of Mercy, who has not answered her prayers.

Understanding this, we can but dimly realise the joy of the older woman Kwei-li upon the birth of her son, and her despair upon his death. For her,the house on the mountain-top had lost its soul. It appeared sometimes as if nothing but a palace with empty windows. The procession carrying the returning women came to the pathway just at sunset, and as Kwei-li looked up, a little hurt came into her heart that her husband was not close at her side. And yet the structure lay so peaceful there and quiet, the curving roofs like flights of doves who had settled down with their wings not yet quite folded. It brought remembrance that for her it was an empty palace. She would see no one-- as her young newly married companion Li-ti would-- within the archway.

[nida]

your story is quite impressive, and while reading it, i felt as i was reading a story about pakistani woman rather chinese: whole life revolving around a male-child.

[MANICHAEAN]

Dear nida
Glad you liked it. It is perhaps not such a strange prejudice. Henry VIII wanted a male child desperately. He got one eventually, but the boy died young. Then England got one of the strongest Queen's in her history!

When I was in Nigeria it was sometimes a different motive. Boy's were percieved as an insurance for their parent's old age. A number of girls were kept for different household chores. The rest in some instances, once they were about 18 years of age were driven out. Invariably all they had were their bodies and became prostitutes.

Best regards
M.

[MANICHAEAN]

CHAPTER 2:

The following day Kwei-li arose in the morning early, and after seeing that her hair was tidy, she took a cup of tea to the Aged One and make her obeisance. Then the ritual was undertaken of placing the rice and water in their separate dishes before the God of the Kitchen, and lighting a tiny stick of incense for his altar, so that the day may begin auspiciously.

After this she found solace, looking out over the town and the river that lay below. That crowded, bustling, threatening centre seemed another world from her quiet, walled-in dwelling. She felt that here they were all protected, guarded, and life's hurry and distress would only pass them by, but not touch them.

Then she remembered that her husband was not coming from the city to her, and she said to herself that there could be no dawn that she cared to see, and no sunset to gladden her eyes, unless she shared it with him. Memories of summer days came back into her mind. Days spent idling in a quiet so still that they could hear the rustle of the bamboo grasses on the hillside down below; or, still more dear, the evenings passed close by each other’s side, watching the brightening into jade of each door and archway as the dipping rays filtered and passed.

He had sent word and asked if she still cared for him, if the remembrance of his face has grown less dear with the passing of the days.

“Dear one”, she said to herself, “ thou knowest we Chinese women are not supposed to know of love, much less to speak of it. We read of it, we know it is the song of all the world, but it comes not to us unless by chance. We go to you as strangers, we have no choice, and if the Gods withhold their greatest gift, the gift of love, then life is grey and wan as the twilight of a hopeless day.”

She remembered when Meh-ki, wife of another son had brought out a dwarf bonsai-tree and put it on the terrace, but she remembered also her husband saying that it looked like an old man who had been beaten in his childhood. Meh-ki had thought it very beautiful, and so did Kwei-li once; but she had learned to see with her husband’s eyes, and she understood that a tree made straight and beautiful and tall by the Gods is more to be regarded than one that had been bent and twisted by man.

She remembered when she had stood bravely before her new husband, that little girl dressed in red and gold, her hair twined with pearls and jade, her arms delicate and with tiny fingers, but with all her bravery she had been frightened. She was away from her parents for the first time, away from all who loved her, and she knew if she did not meet with approval in her new home her rice-bowl would be full of bitterness for many moons to come.

“I long for thee, I love thee, I am thine.” she said quietly to herself.

"Birth is not a beginning, nor is death an end."

[MANICHAEAN]

CHAPTER 3:




Li-ti, the acknowledged butterfly of the daughters in law took her duties seriously and these same duties consisted of dressing for the day. In the morning she sat herself before her mirror, and two maids attended her, one to hold the great brass bowl of water, the other to hand her the implements of her toilet. While the face was warm she covered it with honey mixed with perfume, and applied the rice-powder until her face was as white as the rice itself. Then the cheeks were rouged, a touch of red was placed upon the lower lip, the eyebrows were shaped like the true willow leaf, and the hair was dressed. Her hair was wonderful and she adorned it with many jewels of jade and pearls. Over her soft clothing of fine linen she drew the rich embroidered robes of silk and satin. Then with her jewels, earrings, beads, bracelets, rings and the tiny mirror in the embroidered case; the bag with its rouge and powder was fastened to her side by long red tassels. When all things were in place, she rose, a being glorified, a thing of beauty from her glossy hair to the toeS of her tiny embroidered shoes.

Her husband was enchanted, even to ignoring the insignificance of the idiosyncrasies she laid upon his submissive acquiescence and in ignoring under the cloak of marital duties, his blessed Mother’s distain. Upon initial arrival from her parents house it was so that the bed must be so placed that the Spirits of Evil passing over it in the night-time could not take the souls of sleepers away with them. The screens must stand at the proper angle guarding the doorways from the spirits who, in their straight, swift flight through the air, fall against these screens instead of entering the house. She gravely explained to him that the souls who dwell in darkness like to take up their abode in newly organised households and many precautions must be made against them. She even seriously considered the roof, to see if all the points curved upward, so that the spirits lighting upon them be carried high above the open courtyards.

But at night she conquered his spirit and his body, as her lithe, delicate frame rode his manhood and she took him far into the boundaries and realms of eternity and then returned him sated and exhausted back into the reality of mortality.

[Jack of Hearts]

This piece has not been far from this reader's mind since he read it a week ago.

In terms of maintaining interest, it is above average. The content is delivered through accessible prose. There are a few spots that are relatively rough going, but for the most part that's a very quick fix from a very light edit.

An intelligible critique cannot be given at this time, but there are many stylistic questions that are begging to be answered. Why is this work framed in the first person (as one assumes it's being related by the narrator in the prologue)? The most ready answer is that the entire work is a literary effort to recreate the oral tradition. This reader has thoughts on this but is hesitant to go further until he can see the finish line.



J

[MANICHAEAN]

CHAPTER 4:

The night denies me sleep and I rose early when I heard the rattle of the watchman as he make his rounds.

I walk the outer stones till the moon fades from the dawn's pale sky, and the sun shows rose-coloured against the morning's grey. Across the river a temple shines faintly through its ring of swaying bamboo, and the faint light glistens on the water dripping from the oars that bring the black-sailed junks with stores of vegetables for all the city below. The mists cling to the hill-tops, while leaves from giant banyan-trees sway idly in the morning wind, and billows of smoke, like dull spirits, roll up-ward touched with the golden fingers of the rising sun.

Spring will soon be truly here; the buds are everywhere. Everything laughs from the sheer joy of laughter. The sun looks down upon the water in the canal and it breaks into a thousand little ripples from pure gladness. I too am happy, and I want to give of my happiness. My son he smiles in his dreams, and I know that Kwan-yin the Divine is playing shadow-play with him.

My father has come to visit. He says he is an old man, nothing but “wet ashes”. But they do not see the laughter in his eyes; for my father, the father of Kwei-li is like the pine-tree, ever green, the symbol of purpose and vigorous old age.
The lessons of my father, this grand old man, who steeled his soul and tamed his thoughts and got his body in control by sitting in the silence and being one with nature. He throws himself into the minds of his opponents, he accounts for their mistakes. He knows the weakness of human reason as well as its strength, its province, and its limits.
It will be a day of peril for our young ones, when these men of the past lose their hold on the growing mind. As rapidly as this takes place, the reverence for the old-time gentleman, the quiet Chinese lady of distinction will wane, and reverence will be supplanted by discourtesy, faith by doubt, and love of the Gods by unbelief and impiety.

We dream that for us as for our mothers, the little lamp will burn on through the generations; we see in fancy the yet unborn, the children of our children's children, bowing their tiny heads and making the filial obeisance before the tablets that bear our family name.

[MANICHAEAN]

CHAPTER 5:

My son, my man-child is dead. The life has gone from his body, the breath from his lips. I have held him all the night close to my heart and it does not give him warmth. They have taken him from me and told me he has gone to the Gods. There are no Gods. There are no Gods. I am alone.

He had his father’s eyes. Thou wilt never know your son and mine, my Springtime. He was so strong and beautiful, my first-born.

My father, he submits to pain because it is inevitable, to bereavement because it is irreparable, and to death because it is destiny.

But I am alone on the mountain-top. I have gone the pathway the last time to lay my offering at the feet of Kwan-yin. She does not hear my voice. There is no Goddess of Mercy. She is a thing of gold and wood, and she has mocked my despair, has laughed at the heart that is within me, that is alive and full of an anguish such as she has never known.

They have put a baby in my arms, a child found on the tow-path, a beggar child. I felt I could not place another head where my dear boy had lain, and I sat stiff and still, and tried to push away the little body pressing close against me; but at touch of baby mouth and fingers, springs that were dead seemed stirring in my heart again. At last I could not bear it, and I leaned my face against her head and crooned His lullaby:

"The Gods on the rooftree guard pigeons from harm
And my little pigeon is safe in my arms."

My heart is breaking.

I have given to this stranger-child, this child left to die upon the tow-path, the clothes that were my son's. She was cold, and the Aged One came to me so gently and said, "Kwei-li, don’t you have clothing for the child that was found by the servants?" I saw her meaning, and I said, "Would you have me put the clothing over that which I have wept, and that is now carefully laid away in the camphor-wood box, upon this child?"

Her bitter words are only as the rough shell of the lichee nut that covers the sweet meat hidden within-- she said, "Why not, dear one? This one needs them, and the hours you pass with them are only filled with saddened memories." I said to her, "This is a girl, a beggar child. I will not give to her the clothing of my son. Each time I looked upon her it would be a knife plunged in my heart." She said to me, "Kwei-li, you are not a child, you are a woman. Of what worth that clothing lying in that box of camphor-wood? Does it bring back your son? Some day you will open it, and there will be nothing but dust which will reproach you. Get them and give them to this child which has come to us out of the night."

I went to the box and opened it, and they lay there, the little things that had touched his tiny body. I gave them, the trousers of purple, the jackets of red, the embroidered shoes, the caps with the many Buddha’s. I gave them all to the beggar child.

The cherry-blossoms have bloomed and passed away. They lingered but a moment's space, and, like my dream of spring, they died. But, passing, they have left behind the knowledge that we'll see them once again. There must be something, somewhere, to speak to despairing mothers and say, "Weep not! You will see your own again."

I went to the Holy Man who dwells underneath the Great Magnolia-tree near the street of the Leaning Willow. He lives alone within a little house of matting. He lives alone in peace and with untroubled mind. In his great wisdom he has learned that peace is the end and aim of life; not triumph, success, nor riches, but that the greatest gift from all the Gods is peace.

Peace-- what the holy man desired, the end of all things-- peace. And I, I do not want to lose the gift of memory; I want remembrance, but I want it without pain.

I do not want a God of temples. I have cried my prayers to Kwan-yin, and they have come back to me like echoes from a deadened wall. I want a God to come to me at night-time, when I am lying lonely, wide-eyed, staring into darkness, with all my body aching for the touch of tiny hands. I want that God who says, "I give thee Peace," to stand close by my pillow and touch my wearied eyelids and bring me rest.

Never in our China are the dead too quickly forgotten; by simple faith they are still thought to dwell among their beloved, and their place within the home remains holy.

O, He who hears the wretched when they cry, deign to hear this mother in her sorrow!

O my son, my son! How can I rise to begin the bitter work of life through the twilights yet

[Jack of Hearts]

It's interesting... the more one get's to understand your style, the more clear the whole endeavor becomes. It seems impressionistic, almost, the way you write... certain related pieces more inclined to give an overall flavor than a linear story.

Awaiting your next.



J

[everyadventure]

This is a long piece, so I'll just comment as I read...

"allowable to live solely on them..." excellent phrasing. I'm imagining this man, old and peckish, so lost in revelry that he absentmindedly waves away the tea tray...

The soul is proud of her deep and numerous wounds. This struck me, as last night I was working on a piece centering around that very concept. I'll try to get it up later today, maybe you could give me some feedback since it's clearly something you've considered :)

Skillful, the way you've eased in appropriate references and terminology... mulberry, casement, teapoy, brazier. Either you've spent a good deal of time in the Orient, or a good deal of time researching it! This piece rings authentic and true.

(Do you mean "quiet" sequestered lives?) A smooth read so far, but "a little hurt" caused me to stumble. I won't dare attempt to reword it for you... you're clearly a master of words.

As I read on, I'm feeling that the introduction is becoming disjointed from the rest of the story. I'm sure you'll pull it in later... but so far, this is a story of women, and does not seem to belong to the elderly man. Perhaps a line or two at the beginning of chapter 1 that foreshadows how these women are tied to this man?

Beginning chapter 4 left me even more confused. Back to first person... at first I assumed we were once again in the present with our elderly friend, but upon mention of the son I realize we're still lurking in the past. If I read these chapters as individual short stories, I'm intrigued. Together, I'm lost. Chapter 5: in the voice of the mother now?

"nothing but dust which will reproach you..." Reproach is a wonderfully selected word. Don't you just love the way the perfect word tastes? :)

Now that I've finished, I have to say that this is beautifully done. Reminiscent of Pearl S. Buck. If this were a 400 page novel, I would want to read it straight through. The only advice I'd give is to keep your point of view consistent. If you'd like to switch between speakers, perhaps you could make a chapter heading with the speaker's name in italics so we know where we're at?

Thanks for sharing, can't wait to see what you'll add next!

[MANICHAEAN]

Dear everyadventure

I'm obliged for your dearth of platitudes. I'm afraid I would have been the bane of any formal English Literature education, and what tutors that might have endeavoured to mould me would be by now broken men, twitching and mumbling incoherently into the night.

So much more refreshing to throw yourself at the feet of Hillwalker, Jack of Hearts, Prince and their ilk of Lit Net to get a critique of "Must try harder" behind which I percieve possible wry grins!

I know I dip in and out with reckless abandon, past and present tenses and situations with a minimum of explanation. Its wrong but just go with the flow for the moment. I promise to try harder!

Would love to read the piece you are working on to see how you approach the subject of wounds to the soul, and of course your style.

Take care & best wishes.
M.

[loki456]

Hi MAN
well firstly I'M BACK... from the darkness of backwards and beyond - a stint in medullary Australia where the sun burns blue and your skin follows suit.

Now being back and wading through the tomes of missed prose, I knew I had to read your piece first. A breath of fresh enigma, and as always your beligerant dis-regard for polished refinement makes the hairs on my arm stand straight - no doubt a physiological response to skin trauma suffered. but take comfort in knowing that I have left all reason out of this critique.

I found this piece both intriguing and well scripted. As jack pointed out, the style although reminiscent of 'you' it left me wondering why you posted in such a manner. As the story progressed it felt as if you made the connection you were yearning for with your characters and the story shone. I'm sure there are things you could do better - as there is always with everyone. But, as far as I am concerned, this is far from my recent readings of 'pathological basis of disease' 'Dalleys clinically oriented anatomy' and 'ganongs medical physiology' texts. all of which possess mind numbing, and mind altering properties.

Thanks for sharing,

Loks

[MANICHAEAN]

You been on walkabout Doc with your tucker bag, or adrift on a boat in Queensland?

Anyway, welcome back blue.

During your absence, some of your patients have passed on due to a lack of bedside manner on your part, while other Poms on Lit Net have gone completely crock.

I take your point of "beligerant disregard" as an Australian compliment and trust the actinic keritosis on your arms is improving with the Efudix cream.

Dont use impressive clinical terms on me as my Indian UK doctor assures me that my condition is a combination of advanced dotage, refusing to limit my alcohol intake, and a determination to outlive Mick Jagger, a close contemporary.

Good to see you back.

M.

[loki456]

hahaha one good thing about efudix - can't look any redder than I already am - and yes I was definitely posting a compliment - too much refinement can make a man look fruity haha.
but yeah I was caught up in the floods - no harm to person or property though, just a few days without electricity - it's amazing the thoughts that rummage around up there without the subconscious whir of propelled electrons.

[MANICHAEAN]

CHAPTER 6:

He looked, she imagined, as his dead infant brother would have looked, this second son of Kwei-li. Glancing slowly and shyly at us all, he went to his father and saluted him respectfully, came and bowed before me, then took me in his arms in a most disrespectful manner and squeezed me together so hard he nearly broke my bones.

I was so frightened and so pleased, that of course I could only cry and cling to this great boy of mine whom I had not seen for this six long years of his education overseas.

I held him away from me and looked long into his face. He is a man now, twenty-one years old, a big, strong man, taller than his father. I can hardly reach his shoulder. He is straight and slender, and looks an alien in his foreign dress, yet when I looked into his eyes I knew it was mine own come to me again.

Then I remembered how he came to me in answer to the prayers I raised when my first-born slept so deep a sleep he could not be wakened, even by the voice of his mother. But that sorrow passed and I rose to meet a face whose name is memory. At last I knew it was not kindness to mourn so for my dead. Over the River of Tears their silent road is, and when mothers weep too long, the flood of that river rises, and their souls cannot pass, but must wander to and fro.

But to those whom they leave with empty arms, they are never utterly gone. They sleep in the darkest cells of tired hearts and busy brains, to come at echo of a voice that recalls the past.

I remembered he and his sister, when young children. We showed them the filial young crow who, when his parents are old and helpless, feeds them in return for their care when he was young; and we pointed out the young dove sitting three branches lower on the tree than do his parents, so deep is his respect.

I never before had realised that I have had the honour of bearing children with such tongues of eloquence; and I fully understand that I belong to a past, a very ancient past-- the Mings, from what I hear, are my contemporaries.

For us of that older generation our womanhood has been trained by centuries of caressing care to look as lovely as nature allows, learning obedience to father as a child, to husband as a wife, and to children when age comes with its frosty fingers.

The last is approached with a degree of hesitancy, for it is still with a disturbing unquiet, that one try’s to persuade the Gods to temper winds to untried hands.