Gao Xingjian
Gao Xingjian
Gao Xingjianis a Chinese émigré novelist, playwright, and critic who in 2000 was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature “for an oeuvre of universal validity, bitter insights and linguistic ingenuity.” He is also a noted translator, screenwriter, stage director, and a celebrated painter. In 1998, Gao was granted French citizenship...
NationalityChinese
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth4 January 1940
CountryChina
distance symbolism white
Some distance away is a white azalea bush which stuns me with its stately beauty.____ This is pristine natural beauty. it is irrepressible, seeks no reward, and is without goal, a beauty derived neither from symbolism nor metaphor and needing neither analogies nor associations.
fighting men good-man
A good man never fights with a woman.
dream instant
They say it only takes an instant to have a dream; a dream can be compressed into hardtack.
smell body scent
Body odour (known also as scent of the immortals) is a disgusting condition with an awful, nauseating smell.
personal-experiences
Realty exists only through experience, and it must be personal experience.
ideas produce aspiration
Indeed, loft aspirations produce ideas.
reading book differences
I hadn't originally intended to do any reading, what if I did read one book more or one book less, whether I read or not wouldn't make a difference, I would still be waiting to get cremated.
struggle life-is natural
Life is fragile, yet to obstinately struggle is natural.
essentials
What is essential is whether it is perceived and not whether it exists. To exist and yet not to be perceived is the same as not exist.
hate love-and-hate together
Life is probably a tangle of love and hate permanently knotted together.
want sand
The sand murmurs that it wants to swallow everything.
writing profound want
I want to write a novel so profound that it would suffocate a fly.
voice want humans
When God talks to humans he doesn't want humans to hear his voice.
views literature bitterness
In my view the time for rousing revolutionary literature has passed, because the revolution has already revolutionised itself to death and has left behind only bitterness and a sort of weariness, listlessness and even nausea.