My brain was like being drained recently, empty and lethargy, just like how I feel some time. I was not in a good mood to write, as each time when I forced myself to sit in front of the computer to write, sentences could not flow out, but were squeezed instead like from a tube. I guess writing is about passion, and a good piece will only come up when you feel that your tank inside is overflowing like a volcano that it is to erupt. I am not a natural writer, and to keep up reading and writing is perhaps the only way to progress.
From time to time, the library disposes of some old novels and books at 25 cents each. Whenever I stopped by, I peeked at the special shelves right at the entrance to see if there are any classics or good ones to collect. Memoirs of a Geisha was not a classic, and out of a curiosity, I bought it together with a few other books. It stayed in my car trunk for months, if not a year. On a boring day, I spotted it sitting creased and yellow in the corner of the trunk, inviting me to read. And surprisingly I finished it within two weeks.
Published in 1997, this novel is written by an American writer Arthur Golden, and was once on New York Times Bestseller List for over a year. In 2005, it was adapted into a movie, in which Zhang Ziyi is the actress who plays Sayuri, a legendary geisha in Kyoto. I never watched the movie, but the reading of the novel stirred my interest. However Netflix does not carry it, neither do the nearby libraries.
The novel was written in first person narratives. It is intriguing to see how an American writer portrays the life of a Japanese geisha with sensational vividness, bringing the exotic culture and the historical scenes to life. As a matter of fact, the writer was so successful that I was almost deceived to believe that it is a true story dictated by a geisha. But it is fictional- a story of a pretty nine years old girl of an impoverished family off a desolate fishing village, being sold to an okiya in a faraway place, and her ascent to fame. It may look like a Geisha’s life story, but it is more a romantic epic, a fable of how she encountered a kind Chairman by the riverbank at the age of twelve, falling in love with him and dreaming of entering his world by becoming a Geisha. This is her turning point in life, and it is this hope that helps her live through the hardship and ordeals. The story ends when she and her Chairman danna lived happily ever after, like in a fairy tale. From the perspective of a novel, it is well-written, however unrealistic in my eyes.
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Extracts from the novel
His face was very heavily creased, and into each crease he had tucked some worry or other, so that it wasn’t really his own face any longer, but more like a tree that had nests of birds in all the branches.
Just as seaweed is naturally soggy, you see, but turns brittle as it dries, my mother was giving up more and more of her essence.
His arms were sticks wrapped in old leather, dangling from two bumps.
I’d been blown about like a scrap of paper in the wind.
I felt a persistent, icy dread at the thought of any mother’s illness.
For a moment we were both awash in sparks and flames.
The day was drab, everything in shades of gray.
I felt as a dam must feel when it’s holding back an entire river.
The sky was extravagant with stars.
I felt as sore as a rock must feel when the waterfall has pounded on it all day long
Which couldn’t have been further from the truth.
All my senses were assaulted. Trucks rumbled past to close. I could smell the scorched rubber odor of their tires.
And then as if the day hadn’t been difficult enough, the worst thing of all happened.
My eyes had welled up with tears so much I could scarcely see.
But the tears pooled in my eyes before I could think of how to stop them
I felt a knob in my stomach.
I felt a jolt when I set eyes on them.
Willowy shape
A strip of bright sunlight fell across
Stood erect
Weaving its way from the hem up to the waist was a beautiful vine made of heavily lacquered threads bunched together like a tiny cable and sewn into place.
I heard thunder rumble overhead, and the air smelled of rain.
A certain thought was swelling in my head, growing until I couldn’t ignore it any longer.
I didn’t allow myself to picture my mother quite so vividly; just the thought of seeing her again was enough to bring tears to my tears.
I felt a pit inside myself as big and empty as if the whole world were nothing more than a giant hall empty of people.
This humble person has been alive long enough to see two generations of children grow up, and know how rare it is for ordinary birds to give birth to a swan. The swan who goes on living its parents’ tree will die; this is why those who are beautiful and talented bear the burden of finding their own way in the world.
The tears had begun to flow out of me just like water from a pot that boils over.
Mr. Tanaka had brought me nothing but suffering; but he also changed my horizons forever. We lead our lives like water flowing down a hill, going more or less in one direction until we splash into something that forces us to find a new course.
As I thought of this my mind began to swirl like a hurricane.
Though I am sure my words carried none of the fullness of my feelings.
I cleared my mind of everything but the image of him and the feeling of warm sun on my face and the hard stone wall where I’d sat that day when I met him.
I am no more a rival to her than a puddle is a rival to the ocean.
I can see you have a great deal of water in your personality. Water never waits. It changes shape and flows around things, and finds the secret paths no one else has though about-the tiny hole through the roof or the bottom of a box. There is no doubt it’s the most versatile of the five elements. It can wash away earth; it can put out fire; it can wear a piece of metal down and sweep it away.
She was gong to use me in the role of a weed that chokes out other plants in the garden.
Her eyes never met mine for more than a flicker of an instant.
My mind on the eve of my debut was like a garden in which the flowers have only begun to poke their faces up through the soil.
A man is interested in only one thing.
A sprinkle of laughter fell down onto us from the second-story windows brightly lit overhead.
You ought to feel flattered, really, considering that Hatsumomo geos to such trouble just to torment you.
Like a ball tossed in the air that seems to hang motionless before it falls, I felt myself suspended in a state of quiet timelessness.
I felt myself wading though an ocean of sorrow.
But every night I lay on my futon with his handkerchief pressed against my cheek, reliving again and again my encounter with him. I was like a temple bell that resonates long after it has been struck.
The comb was a showy red color adorned with bright flowers.
Accentuate the angles
The gloomy atmosphere seemed as thick as the water in a pond that night.
Hopes are like hair ornaments. Girls want to wear too many of them. When they come old women they look silly earing even one.
The radiant smile she’s worn now faded, just as the darkness fades from a valley when the sun rises on it.
I felt I was standing on a stage many hours after the dance had ended, when the silence lay as heavily upon the empty theater as a blanket of snow. I went to our okiya and stared with longing at the heavy iron padlock on the door. When I was locked in, I want to be out. Now life had changed so much that, finding myself locked out, I wanted to be inside again.
