Tun-huang
Robert Hass once said of the poetry of Tomas Transtromer that “it’s so pure, I don’t know what to do with it.” I feel the same way about Tun-huang, the 1959 novel by the late Japanese National Treasure Yasushi Inoue. It is an historical novel that imagines how an incredible trove of Buddhist, Nestorian, and Zoroastrian texts ended up behind a false wall in a cave near the remote town of Tun-huang (now Dunhuang).
Located at the western terminus of the Han Great Wall, Tun-huang marked the moment of transition from China to something else. By the time of the story, Chinese Tun-huang has effectively been cut off from China by the rise of the Hsi-Hsia (modern: Western Xi), a warlike people that fought for control of the Silk Road beyond Chengu (now Xi’an).
Inoue has many talents, and the story’s fable-like structure and simple language disguise hidden depths. But he also - more than any other novelist I have read - has an eye for the telling detail, the simple observation that persuades you that everything you are being told is completely real.
A few examples:
The girl cried bitterly again as she spoke. Resolutely, Hsing-te left for his quarters, staring all the while at his moving shadow which resembled a blot of ink spilled upon the ground, whose soil had a light, ashlike quality.
. . .
That night Wang-li gathered all his troops in the square and addressed them. “Until now we’ve had only minor brushes with the enemy, but at last an all-out war with the Turfans is about to start. Our unit will take part in the battle. As soldiers of the Chinese vanguard, fight bravely so that you won’t stain our honor. Those surviving must dig graves for those who die.”
. . .
When the marshes ended, barren wastelands continued until the men came in sight of snow-capped mountains in the distant southwest. From this point on, trees and houses could be seen here and there. Most of the trees were apricot; they swayed in the piercing cold winds.
. . .
Whenever he thought of the Uighur girl, he was filled with peace. This feeling was not love for a lost one, nor was it mourning; it transcended such emotions, and was more akin to admiration for something pure and perfect.
. . .
“What was your relationship with her?” Hsing-te asked this question, which had been on his mind all this time, with resolution.
“I loved her,” Wang-li sighed.
“Was that all? You just loved her?”
Wang-li was silent for a while, then he looked straight ahead and replied. “I don’t know how she felt. I just know I loved her.”
. . .
Hsing-te watched it happen. Near the gate each and every one of the guards’ horses reared, dust rose thickly, and the countless arrows shot from the wall converged on the spot as if drawn by a magnet. Arrows continued to rain on the now disorganized unit. Human cries and the neighing of horses rose from the dusty mass. Beyond this single area the plains were completely silent. The skies were blue and clear. Billowy clouds dotted the horizon like bits of cotton. The winter sun shone on the plains.
Yasushi Inoue, Tun-huang (link)