Monthly Archives: November 2012

A rock pile ceases to be a rock pile the moment a single human mind contemplates it, bearing within him/her the image of a cathedral.

Iris van Herpen: 3D printed wings and their new reach

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Opening exhibition Mountain & Water | Casual Friday plus drinks and a chat with yours truly, really, ME. Graag tot ziensx

Boyuan Art House presenteert:

>Hillebrant Jacobsplein 1  2515 XS The Hague

>Hillebrant Jacobsplein 1  2515 XS Den Haag

16 Nov. 17:00-19:00

  —————-

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The book is not just a love story with darker shades but also is a treatise on the futility and brutality of wars between nations and a critique on the idea of nation state. Historically insightful with political undertones, the novel has fully fleshed out multi-layered and credible characters. Written beautifully and structured intelligently, you get hooked to the story right from the first page. The denouement is also equally fascinating.

Read here the complete review of my novel BUTTERFLY by Abdullah Khan.

The title is now available in all eBook formats, including iPad, Kindle, Nook, Sony Reader, Kobo, Copia, GardnersBaker & Taylor, eBookPie.

>>> Order print copy on Amazon or Barns&Noble

                                                           or

>>> Free worldwide delivery from Book Depository. Buy here your print copy today!!!

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Invitation to opening “Berg en Water” | “Mountain & Water” 山水

INVITATION

for presentation of anthology “Berg en Water” (Mountains and Water), classical Chinese landscape poetry, translated into Dutch by Silvia Marijnissen, and simultaneous exhibition “Mountains and Water”, with art works inspired by Chinese landscape poetry of René Bakker, Chen I-shu, Marjolijn Groustra,  Chung-hsi Han, René Klarenbeek, Hans Landsaat,  Jenny Lee, Li Yuhua, Liao Zhanhong, Liu Rong, Julie O’Yang, and Sylvie Overheul, on *Friday, 16 November 2012, from 17.00 – 19.00 at *Boyuan Art House in The Hague.

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If Proust had been an Oriental: some hand-painted, stolen Time

“Every  reader finds himself. The writer’s work is merely a kind of optical instrument  that makes it possible for the reader to discern what, without this book, he  would perhaps never have seen in himself.” Marcel  Proust

Now forget about one hundred battles awaiting me 🙂 Get into silk underwear and start stealing time. Happy weekend!

 

Samisen

Bathing in bygone times

Yumiko

Mr. Camera

A couple

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MUWAH ♥

Free worldwide delivery. Click link below & Get a print copy of my novel today!

http://www.bookdepository.co.uk/Butterfly-Novel-Julie-OYang/9781469991634

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A novelist lives in fear. Each new day demands new ideas, and I can never be sure whether I’m going to come up with six impossible things and speak the truth..

A truth liar and a liar truth. There are still five more different ways to look at a novelist’s way of looking at facts.


… …

AS A FICTION WRITER I HAVE A PENCHANT FOR FACTS. Why is it after watching this I have the impression that the Americans are violent liars?  (wink wink)

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(Virtual) date me, mon cher président

Following my post from yesterday, I give you here more personal, expert consult, a video and an indepth-look at the subject matter .

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Ho Two” by Ministry of Tofu:

http://www.ministryoftofu.com/2012/10/what-consequences-a-laowai-foreigner-must-accept-if-he-marries-a-chinese-woman/

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A conversation held in Beijing in February 1973

Published in Harper’s 40 years ago, from a conversation held in Beijing in February 1973:

>>>>>>>>>>>
Chairman Mao Zedong: Do you want our Chinese women? We can give you ten million.
U.S. National Security Adviser Henry Kissinger: The chairman is improving his offer.
Mao: We can let them flood your country with disaster and therefore impair your interests. In our country we have too many women, and they have a way of doing things. They give birth to children, and our children are too many.

***Congratulations to the winner of the 2012 United States presidential election scheduled to be held on Tuesday, November 6, 2012!!!

>>>>>>>>

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Happy halloween, Mr. Rochelero!

Dear David,

Thank you for the edited version of the SPANISH translation of my novel, Butterfly! Today I would like to gift you, my Translator, two photos taken during the Chinese/Japanese Halloween, which is known as the Feast of Ghosts celebrated annually on the 14th day of the 7th Lunar Moon.

————————————————————-Yours,

————————————————————-Julie

Butterfly, a novel by Julie O’Yang

Translated by David José Rochelero, read a fragment from Chapter 4

… 

No se le ha olvidado a ella. Hoy, hace exactamente seis años.

Había despachado a su hijo aquella mañana con un pergamino destinado al señor Lau, un cliente regular y patrocinador. De hecho, Sheng insistió en ir a solas a Nankín. -Para ver a un amigo,- le dijo a su mamá. Iba a cumplir dieciocho años el joven después de la celebración de la luna.

-Necesita tener sus propios secretos.- Había intentado persuadir a su esposo que permitiera que su hijo viajara a solas. -Conoce la ciudad, creció allá. De no haber sido por la guerra, aún estaría viviendo en Nankín.

Algunos meses antes había decidido su esposo que la familia se fuera de su hogar. Ocupado ya el Noreste, se le acercó a la Gran Muralla de Beijing el Ejército Imperial Japonés. En las ciudades mayores como Shanghai y Nankín, había aumentado la tensión dramáticamente en pocos días; la gente tenía miedo. Y aunque se negaron a proporcionar las autoridades una imagen clara de la realdad, estaban preparados los chinos para la llegada de soldados armados marchando en sus vidas, aclamados por una asamblea animadora de admiradores y oportunistas como había pasado en Manchuria. Les resultó obvia la guerra pero la política era otra cosa. Varios periódicos que reportaron la guerra y la defensa revelaron muy poco con su melancólico y monótono aspecto de color gris que intentaba imitar el realismo y que ocultaba la verdad. Son dos personajes ficticios en una novela que no tienen nada en común, la realidad y la verdad.

-O con los japoneses o sin ellos, nos debe quedar igual la vida,- y así dio su esposo su sermón. -Debemos de colaborar, como hacen todas las familias ricas. ¿Por qué debe resultarles distinto a los Fu? He oído decir que son personas muy crueles los japoneses. Después de todo, uno no se enriquece por ahorrar, ¿verdad?

Pero un día, cambió de opinión su esposo.

-Pronto cada chino va a beber del mismo río del cual beben los erizos del mar. ¡Yo no! ¡No los Fu! Odio a los ingratos imitadores. Son como la víbora de fosa que intenta hacerse pasar por dragón…

Se le ocurrió un plan.

-Una vez fui a pescar allá. Wuan es una pequeña aldea en la curva del río Yang-Tsé, no muy alejada de aquí por si cambies de opinión. Es como un paraíso, protegido por una verdura exuberante allende el horizonte montañoso; un paraíso de hierba perfumada, escondido muy, muy lejos del campo de batalla. Así que, ¿qué dices, Mariposa? ¿No suena el lugar tal como los poemas de Tang que has escrito en tu caligrafía? Y contestó ella, imitando la alegre voz melódica que había utilizado como riza: -Ríen y lloran los lotos. Shalala. Descansa la golondrina debajo del alero, fijada la mirada más allá de los cerros a dos pájaros amarillos cantando dentro de la ‘una pulgada de la sombra del amor.’ Hagamos las maletas.

No mencionó que el poema no era de Consort Ban ni de Li Po, sino uno de sus propios, ni que conocía sus consecuencias. No tenía idea que, mientras redactaba las palabras realizadas sin esfuerzo aparente, alguien le saludaba muy de cerca.

Era la mano del Destino.

Floating Lanterns during Obon

Souls in the bamboo forest

>>>

Read the original in English. A fragment from Butterfly, a novel by J. O’Yang.

… …

She didn’t forget. Today exactly six years ago.

In the morning she sent her son away with a scroll to bring to Mr. Lau, her regular client and patron. In fact, Sheng insisted that he wanted to go to Nanking alone. “To see a friend,” he told his mother. The boy was to become eighteen after the moon feast.

“At his age the boy needs to have his own secrets,” she had tried to persuade her husband to allow their son to travel. “He knew the city, he grew up there. If it hadn’t been for the war we would still be living in Nanking.”

Some months before her husband decided that the family should leave their home. The Japanese Imperial Army occupied the Northeast and quickly approached the Great Wall north of Beiping. In the major cities such as Shanghai and Nanking, tension increased dramatically within a matter of days, people were afraid. And although the authorities refused to give a clear picture of reality, the Chinesewere prepared in expectation of armed soldiers marching into their lives, hailed by a cheering assembly of well-wishers and opportunists as happened in Manchuria. For them the war was obvious, politics anything but. Various newspapers on war and defence revealed little with their dull grey, gloomy looks to imitate realism and to hide the truth. Reality and truth are two fictitious characters in a novel who have nothing in common.

“Japanese or no Japanese, life for us should stay as ever,” her husband had delivered his sermon. “We should choose to collaborate, all rich families do. Why should it be different for the Fus? I heard the Japanese are very cruel people. After all, one doesn’t become wealthy by saving, does he.”

But then one day, her husband changed his mind.

“Soon every Chinese is going to drink from the same river as the sea urchins. Not me! Not the Fus! I hate the ungrateful imitators. Pit viper playing dragon.”

He came up with a plan.

“I once went fishing there. Wuan is a small village on the bend of the Yangtze river, not far from here in case you change your mind. It’s a paradise, sheltered in the lush green beyond the hilly horizon; a heaven of scented grass, hidden far, far away from the sulphur of arms. So what do you say, Butterfly? Doesn’t the place sound just like the Tang poems you wrote in your calligraphy?” And she answered, mimicking the light-hearted, tuneful voice he had employed for a laugh: “Lotuses lean on each other, laughing and weeping. Shalalala. Under the eaves the swallow rests, looking over the hills to two yellow birds singing in the one inch of love’s shadow. Let’s pack.”

She didn’t mention that the poem was not by Consort Ban or Li Po but one of her own, neither did she know of its consequence. She had no idea that when she drafted the effortless words, someone was saluting her from a close distance.

It was Fate’s hand.

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