topics: |  fiction | china | nobel-2000

the title story evokes the nostalgia of childhood, and the melancholy of
seeing the geography of memory destroyed by forces of change.  the
story opens with the narrator finding an "imported" fishing rod, with reel
and a telescoping rod - one that his grandfather
would enjoy immensely.  he knows that the river has dried up and the lake has
been filled in, yet he buys the rod for his grandfather.  however, in the new
landscape that has taken over his childhood village, he can no longer find
the childhood home where he grew up with his grandfather...

Excerpts

[as he is walking home with the fishing rod, he realizes that he has become a
spectacle.]
Shy since childhood, I am uncomfortable in new clothes, and being dressed up
is like standing in a display window; but it's worse carrying this long,
swaying, shiny fishing rod.  If I walk fast the rod sways more, so I go slow,
parading down the street with the rod on my shouolder, feeling as if I've
split my trousers or I can't zip up my fly. p. 68

The village has changed so much you can't recognize it.  The dirt roads are
now asphalt, and there are pre-fab buildings, all new and exactly the same.
On the streets, women of all ages are wearing bras, and they wear flimsy
shirts to show them off, just as each rooftop must have an aerial to show
there is a television in the house.  A house without an aerial stands out and
is regarded as defective. 70

The gate screen had a spotted deer carved in it Whenever we went in or out we
always touched the antlers, so they became very shiny. 72

[he is searching for his childhood home of his grandfather but all the
landmarks are gone - the old stone bridge is gone, the temple has burned
down, and no one knows the street name on his address.]   

I ask everywhere and search street after street and lane after lane.  I feel
as if I'm rummaging through my pockets; I've taken out everything, but still
can't find what i want.  In despair I drag along my weary legs, uncertain
whether they still belong to me.  73

[he has written a poem] in which I've strapped rattling hunting knives all
over myself.  I am a tail-less dragonfly flitting over the plain, but the
critic has barbed throns growing in his eyes and a wide chin.  

I want to write a novel so profound it would suffocate a fly.  76

[SPOILER: 
at the end, the story merges the broadcast of an argentina-west
germany world cup soccer final with a dream of failed wolf hunting...]
I should get up to see if that ten-piece fiberglass fishing rod that i bought
for my grandfather who died long ago, is still on top of the toilet tank.  88