People don’t really read Chinese literature. They might pick up The Joy Luck Club and read that and consider that all the Chinese literature they need. Or they might have Monkey forced upon them in a college class and end their Chinese intake there. What most people don’t know is that contemporary native Chinese writers are among the most daring, skilled, and beautiful prose stylists in the world. I have not read The Joy Luck Club. I have not read Monkey. I have, however, read To Live by Yu Hua. I picked up Mr. Yu’s book on a whim at my school library because, quite literally, I liked his name. What was to come was one of the most moving books I have ever read, and contemporary Chinese literature has become one of my favorite things. What’s important to emphasize is that when I say Chinese literature, I am not talking about Amy Tan. Though she is a talent in her own right, she is Chinese-American. I am talking about Chinese people living in China and writing their books in Chinese, which are then translated into English and put into our American hands. Yu Hua is one such writer, and To Live is one such book. Before he wrote To Live, Yu was primarily known for his avant-garde (and often extremely violent) short pieces. But with To Live, he adopts a more traditional narrative and the brutality is more emotional. It’s like the difference between Cronenberg’s body dismantling and von Trier’s just as harrowing emotional rides.

It’s hard to know if you’re reading a “good” translation of a foreign book because, well, you don’t speak the native language. You trust the translator as an artist in his or her own right to do justice to the book’s aesthetic in its original language. I don’t speak Chinese, so I am assuming that Michael Berry did a great job of translating, since he knows Yu personally and because I loved the book so much. Maybe someday I’ll become fluent in Chinese, read To Live the way Yu wrote it, and it may be a completely different experience. But that will probably not happen. Regardless, To Live is a fantastic and powerful read. I don’t want to reveal too much plot, but I’ll start at the beginning. Fugui is a horrible person. Trust me, you’ll hate him. He cheats on his wife and gambles away the fortune of his dying father, eventually turning up broke. In many ways the story follows the fundamental line of the prodigal son parable crossed with the Book of Job. The way this fairly short book covers the entire life of one man is a major feat, and Yu goes above and beyond what I thought a book could be. It moves like a beautiful piece of ambient music by Eno or Budd, captivating your attention completely yet also moving you through by its own will. But rather than just being a beautiful tone poem, Yu’s novel is also rather political, with Mao and Chiang looming presences throughout. In fact, the book was banned in its home country for these themes, giving the book a reputation it didn’t deserve. But Yu does not push any agenda or ideal. The historical context is just that, a historical context.

By the final page, you will have encountered some of the most powerful writing you will ever read in your life, and you will love the man you hated so much in the first pages. His tragic life is, by the end, a life you will wish to live. You will not want to turn away from the incredible painting that Yu has composed, I guarantee you. I cannot sing its praises enough. This extraordinary writer has done something absolutely monumental here, and not enough people are going to read it. Flags: Many s- and f-words, fairly brief mention of sex and prostitutes, not much else is offensive otherwise. Definitely not for children or even most teenagers.