Un relato hipnótico, inmerso en supersticiones orientales, que nos conduce a una alucinatoria provincia china: La República del vino. El inspector Ding Gou es enviado a la República del vino para investigar unos rumores de canibalismo. Poblada por personajes extraordinarios -un enano, un demonio, un grupo de niños que han nacido para ser devorados, una profesora de cocina que ceba a sus alumnos con recetas monstruosas-, esta inolvidable novela de Mo Yan le confirma como uno de los mejores escritores de China.

A dark comedy, a detective novel, and an existential look at the transformation of China over the past thirty years. Mo Yan is a master storyteller, and this is a beautiful example. It is a book that is almost too disturbing to continue reading, and yet too compelling to let go.

Mo Yan creates the world of Liquorland, a province of reckless abundance, of gluttony to the highest degree (eating children, of course) and of extreme alcoholism. In it, he throws a misfit crew that are Frankenstein's monsters of literary characters and caricatures. The story itself becomes more and more inebriated as it progresses toward its bizarre and bitter conclusion. ( )

Let them understand that food and drink play an important role not only in the physiological process, but in the processes of spiritual molding and aesthetic appreciation.

My wife and I were about to watch a film the other night when I spoke loudly during the previews, it is becoming increasingly difficult to appreciate film when the screen is constantly being obscured by references: I'm getting too old. My appreciation for Republic of Wine thus pivoted on these gross, overbearing metaphors: A town built on alcohol and the practice of eating of children. Where does one even begin? The literal and symbolic asides to the Cultural revolution alone boggle the modern reader. Consider me boggled and then sickened. Well, almost anyway. There was reading as gagging sublimation underway. I pushed through it, though without relief.

Mo Yan's novel reminded me of Kafka's Castle, replete with sticky tavern floors and loose women. Each chapter is punctuated by an epistolary exchanges between "Mo Yan" and a resident of Liquorville, a doctoral candidate in distilling, as well as an aspiring author. A story from the aspiring author then follows before the chief thread of the novel is resumed. I appreciated the asides and stories more than blind drunk narrative arc. This isn't for the squeamish.
( )

The unusual narrative structure fails to achieve the heights Mo Yan reached in Red Sorghum. But it still works to an extent. This book is famous for a reason.

It's funny in parts, though I presume a lot is lost in translation, and there are certainly some fascinating episodes. But that’s just it - this is a book of parts and episodes, and as a whole it doesn’t really hold. The plot-cement between the big scenes is often dull. It's more like a book of short stories rather than a novel.

Its themes are pretty complex, using food/drink/consumables as an analogy for the sublime in art and literature. It’s like a quotidian variant of Eliot’s catalytic conception of literary inspiration. This is a novel obsessed with how fiction contains external reality by engaging its readership, anticipating censorship, wrestling with its muses, etc. There’s also the carnivalesque anti-corruption stuff I didn’t really care for, though it’s probably more significant, at least in terms of the amount of words devoted to describing it. I found that side of the story a little too flat, though Mo Yan brilliantly subverts it at the end, so at least there’s that.

There’s a lot here - a lot to think about - and the book would probably benefit from a reread. Though I doubt many people would want to read this book twice. At least not in translation. ( )

En tykännyt. Alussa meinasin tosissani lopettaa jopa kesken, niin typerän tuntuista sekavaa rinnakkaisten tarinoitten kerrontaa. Maaginen realismi ei tosiaan ole minun juttuni! Loppua kohden rupesi huomaamaan että kyllä tämä mies osaisi kirjoittaa, lyhyet tarinat olivat mukaansatempaavia mutta en kyllä aio enää palata tämän kirjailijan teoksiin. ( )