Flock of Brown Birds, by Ge Fei

Translated by Poppy Toland

1989, translated 2016

Penguin

This work is representative of the Chinese avant-garde literature movement of the late 1980s. In his introduction to this Penguin edition, Ge advises–perhaps with a wink–that the reader should not feel bad if she does not comprehend the work as he does not understand it himself. The narrative evolves in a loop-like form. Situations and conversations repeat themselves, and although the narrator discourses extensively on the nature of time, all action takes place in a world outside of history and current events. There is no calendar and no clock, only a flock of brown birds that manifests with some regularity, perhaps representing the passage of time or an avian broom meant to sweep the past away. The speaker styles himself as a type of St. John working in a sandy, riverine environment on his own Book of Revelations. The most linear elements of the narrative involve women. The core story is of the entry of a woman into his life, their blossoming relationship, and her death on their wedding day. Time seems to pass, and then a new woman enters the narrator’s world. Her name is Qi, and although she claims to know the narrator, the narrator has no recollection of her. Perhaps as proof of her existence, she carries with her a portfolio of drawings depicting her; these, however beautiful and concrete, fail to remind him of their connection. That evening, the narrator holds Qi in his arms while he relates the story of his tragic love. They part, and a year later she returns. The narrator attempts to reconnect with Qi, yet this time she refuses his overtures and insists that he is a stranger to her. Readers familiar with Kafka and Borges will find themselves in an eerie, self-referential, and claustrophobic world as Ge explores the nature of narrative and its relation to the truth, the instability and persistence of memory, and the relationship between the narrator and his ineffable subject.

“Like a great ship, this season has run aground. Dawn and dusk alternate at an old man’s pace. I live alone in an area known as the ‘Waterside’, writing a book akin to the Revelations of St. John. I wish to dedicate it to my former lover. She became over-excited at the candle-lit dinner held for her thirtieth birthday, suffered cerebral thrombosis, and died. After that I never saw her again.” (1)