Ink. Gao himself.
"The sun will reappear soon and illuminates the mountain in front of me. The air is so pure, the coniferous forest below the cloud layer at this time offers a touch dark green so clear that it forces me to rapture. It is like a song that quiet would rise from the bottom of the lungs and spread along the shadows and lights, changing the tone in the blink of an eye. I run, I jump, continuing the changing shadows of the clouds, taking photo on photo.
The gray fog came back in my back, regardless of ditches, crevices in the ground, trunks of fallen trees. I have no way to flee before him and he catches me, without hurrying. I'm buried in fog. The landscape has gone before me, everything is indistinct. Only the heads remain in my feelings that I have experienced. I remain perplexed as a ray of sun breaks over me and illuminates the foam that covers the ground. Then I discovered under my feet with a strange plant world, too, its chains of mountains, meadows and groves of green sparkle. By the time I squatted, the fog returned and spread everywhere, like something out of a magician's hand, leaving only an indistinct gray range. "
So far, this book is a marvel that makes me want to write an article and go to China. Two characters travel : One of them fled his old life in the mountains and forests, after fears of losing as a result of a false diagnosis of cancer and the other is already a seasoned traveler who seeks to restore a meaning to the concept of travel by visiting the famous mountain of the Soul, and meet its inhabitants to the enviable life of all and who have never seen (or few) visitors.
One side explores a titanic nature where trees have thousands of years, mountains thousands of feet, with scientists taciturn, the other one visits the villages their hostels, train stations, historic sites decorated with characters that even the locals do not know decipher. Yet the stories are many: as river remembers dozens of suicide, such a street has seen thousands of New Year's parades. The brides fleeing and rivals alike hunks from one century to another. Their history is so long, the Chinese are not jaded either. They are like at peace with the idea that they are not unique, never originals. It's okay. Not enough to make it a depression.
**
In the quoted passage I like to find a literary form in its physical concept that struck me and serve me in writing my memory: that of scale invariance. This principle is that land surfaces have, no matter what the distance they are observed, the same degree of roughness. This means that if I watch the side of a lake of space, the ratio of angles, curves, bays will be roughly the same as if I gaze from my kayak. I will find again the same proportions, the same crevices, so I accosted in a bay and my field of vision is reduced to few meters of beach. Of his three distances, if I try to copy the line of the lake, j'obtiensle same drawing.
All that to say that our traveler is almost three thousand meters above sea level, fascinated by the green trees. When the fog rolls in and he can not see the other side of the ravine in front of it, the snowy peaks, he found the same green and the same relief on the ground, in moss and stones. Just like me, when I was little and amuse me I lay on the ground to look through the grass and imagine I was watching a forest strange and strangely familiar. Look at the picture of Gao, top: it operates exactly the same effect. We think it's a mountain, but why would not a small hill with a pond? For that matter, what prevents us from believing that this is not a small puddle of water that would look at ground level?
**
I read books translated from languages that I will never know and I can not really suspect in mind. I am trying to locate records in the process. Here, nature is perpetually animated, sometimes aware of herself and sometimes driven by the hand of a kind of divinity magician and singer. It's beautiful!
