{"product_id":"the-girl-who-played-go-isbn-9781400032280","title":"The Girl Who Played Go","description":"As the Japanese military invades 1930s Manchuria, a young girl approaches her own sexual coming of age. Drawn into a complex triangle with two boys, she distracts herself from the onslaught of adulthood by playing the game of go with strangers in a public square--and yet the force of desire, like the occupation, proves inevitable. Unbeknownst to the girl who plays go, her most worthy and frequent opponent is a Japanese soldier in disguise. Captivated by her beauty as much as by her bold, unpredictable approach to the strategy game, the soldier finds his loyalties challenged. Is there room on the path to war for that most revolutionary of acts: falling in love?“Breathtaking. . . . While exploring epic themes like the loss of innocence and the meaning of honor, it lingers on the tiny, exquisite details of life.”  \u003ci\u003e--Vogue\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Shan . . . writes spare prose adorned with images that linger in the mind. . . .  In this elegant translation . . . the dreamlike, mesmerizing alternation of voices stands in uneasy contrsast to the operatic violence of the plot.”  --\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Powerfully drawn. . . heart-breaking. . . . Sa’s descriptions and metaphors take hold powerfully and linger. Sa also brings to the reader with stark precision the cruel loss of innocence that war brings to both sides.”–\u003ci\u003eSan Antonio Express-News\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“This Chinese twist on \u003ci\u003eRomeo and Juliet\u003c\/i\u003e. . . evolves into a rich metaphor for the struggle between an ancient society and a modern one, and the battle between the easy innocence of adolescence and the painfully gained knowledge of adulthood. If you enjoyed the similar theme of \u003cb\u003eBalzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress\u003c\/b\u003e, you’ll like this.”–\u003ci\u003ePeople\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Explosive. . . . Poignant and shattering. . . . While [the] climax is inevitable and the stories lead directly toward it, a reader is still shocked and horrified when it occurs.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Boston Globe\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Shan Sa creates a sense of foreboding that binds the parallel tales of her protagonists. Her measured prose amplifies the isolation amid turmoil that each character seems to inhabit.” --\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Dreamy . . . powerful. . . . This unlikely love story . . . is beautiful, shocking, and sad.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Compelling. . . . Emotionally charged chapters evoke the stop-and-start rhythms of adolescence. . . . Shan handles the intersection of the personal and the political quite deftly.” --\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post Book World\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What makes Sa’s novel so satisfying is the deceptive simplicity of her narrative strategy.” —\u003ci\u003eSan Jose Mercury News\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An awesome read. . . . Shan Sa describes the story so well that you almost forget you’ve never visited the places in her book. . . . This book is truly for every reader.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Decatur Daily\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Entrancing. . . . [With] an ending that you won’t predict.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Austin American-Statesman\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"It has the sweep of war and the intimacy of a love story. . . . Shan Sa is a phenomenon.\" --\u003ci\u003eThe Observer \u003c\/i\u003e(London)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Spellbinding. . . . Sa's language is graceful and trance-like: her fights are a whirling choreography of flying limbs and snow, her emotions richly yet precisely expressed.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Times \u003c\/i\u003e(London) \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"One is struck by the economy of the tale, its speed, and the brutality of its calculations. There is never an excess word or a superfluous phrase: each paragraph counts. . . . Fine literary work.\"--\u003ci\u003eLe Figaro\u003c\/i\u003e Magazine (France)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"An astonishing book. . . . Ends up taking one's breath away. . . . Goes straight to our hearts.\" --\u003ci\u003eLe Point\u003c\/i\u003e (France)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Gripping. . . . A wrenching love story. . . . [The protagonists’] shared sense of immediacy and the transience of life is what in the final analysis makes this novel so strong, so intelligent, so moving. . . . . . . You’ll have to look far and wide to find a better new novel on an East Asian subject than this finely crafted story, satisfying as it is on so many different levels.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Taipei Times\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eShan Sa was born in 1972 in Beijing. In 1990 she left China for France, where she studied in Paris and worked for two years with the painter Balthus. Her two previous novels were awarded the Prix Goncourt du Premier Roman and the Prix Cazes. This is her first book to be published in the United States.1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In the Square of a Thousand Winds the frost-covered players look like  snowmen. White vapor billows from their mouths and noses, and icicles  growing along the underside of their fur hats point sharply  downwards. The sky is pearly and the crimson sun is sinking, dying.  Where does the sun go to die?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen did this square become a meeting place for go players? I don't  know. After so many thousands of games, the checkerboards engraved on  the granite tables have turned into faces, thoughts, prayers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eClutching a bronze hand-warmer in my muff, I stamp my feet to thaw  out my blood. My opponent is a foreigner who came here straight from  the station. As the battle intensifies, a gentle warmth washes  through me. Daylight is dwindling and the stones are almost  indistinguishable. Suddenly someone lights a match and a candle  appears in my opponent's left hand. The other players have all left  and I know that Mother will be sick with worry to see her daughter  come home so late. The night has crept down from the sky and the wind  has stirred. The man shields the flame with his gloved hand. From my  pocket I take a flask of clear spirit which burns my throat. When I  put it under the stranger's nose, he looks at it incredulously. He is  bearded and it's hard to tell his age; a long scar runs from the top  of his eyebrow and down through his right eye, which he keeps closed.  He empties the flask with a grimace.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere is no moon tonight, and the wind wails like a newborn baby. Up  above us, a god confronts a goddess, scattering the stars.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe man counts the stones once and then twice. He has been beaten by  eighteen points; he heaves a sigh and hands me his candle. Then he  stands up, unfolding a giant's frame, gathers his belongings and  leaves without a backward glance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI stow the stones in their wooden pots. They are crisp with frost in  my fingers. I am alone with my soldiers, my pride gratified. Today, I  celebrate my one hundredth victory.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e2\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy little mother barely comes up to my chest. Prolonged mourning for  her husband has dried her out. When I tell her I have been posted to  Manchuria, she pales.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Mother, please, it is time your son fulfilled his destiny as a soldier.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe withdraws to her room without a word.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll evening her devastated shadow is silhouetted against the white  paper screen. She is praying.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis morning the first snows fell on Tokyo. Kneeling with my hands  flat on the tatami, I prostrate myself before the altar of my  ancestors. As I come back up I catch sight of the portrait of  venerable Father: he is smiling at me. The room is filled with his  presence--if only I could take a part of it all the way to China!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy family is waiting for me in the living room, sitting on their  heels and observing a ceremonial silence. First of all, I say  good-bye to my mother, as I used to when I left for school. I kneel  before her and say, \"Okasama,* I am leaving.\" She bows deeply in  return.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI pull on the sliding door and step out into the garden. Without a  word, Mother, Little Brother and Little Sister follow me out. I turn  and bow down to the ground. Mother is crying and I hear the dark  fabric of her kimono rustling as she bows in turn. I start to run.  Losing her composure, she launches herself after me in the snow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI stop. So does she. Afraid that I might throw myself into her arms,  she takes one step back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Manchuria is a sister country,\" she cries. \"But there are terrorists  trying to sour the good relations between our two emperors. It is  your duty to guard this uneasy peace. If you have to choose between  death and cowardice, don't hesitate: choose death!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe embark amid tumultuous fanfares. Soldiers' families jostle with  each other on the quay, throwing ribbons and flowers, and shouts of  farewell are salted with tears.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe shore draws farther and farther away and with it the bustle of  the port. The horizon opens wide, and we are swallowed up in its  vastness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe land at Pusan in Korea, where we are packed into a train heading  north. Towards dusk on the third day the convoy comes to a halt, and  we leap gleefully to the ground to stretch our legs and empty our  bladders. I whistle as I relieve myself, watching birds wheeling in  the sky overhead. Suddenly I hear a stifled cry and I can see men  running away into the woods. Tadayuki, fresh from the military  academy, is lying stretched out on the ground ten paces from me. The  blood springs from his neck in a continuous stream, but his eyes are  still open. Back on the train I cannot stop thinking about his young  face twisted into a rictus of astonishment.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAstonishment. Is that all there is to dying?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe train arrives at a Manchurian station in the middle of the night.  The frost-covered ground twinkles under the streetlamps, and in the  distance dogs are howling.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e3\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCousin Lu taught me to play go when I was four years old and he was  twice my age. The long hours of contemplating the checkered board  were a torment, but the will to win kept me there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTen years later Lu was considered an exceptional player, so famous  for his talents that the Emperor of independent Manchuria received  him at his court in the new capital. He never thanked me for  propelling him to this glory: I am his shadow, his secret, his best  opponent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt twenty, Lu is already an old man, and the hair that falls over his  brow is white. He walks with his back hunched over and his hands  crossed, taking small steps. A few pubescent hairs have appeared on  his chin, a baby-beard on a centenarian.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA week ago I received a letter from him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I am coming for you, my little cousin. I have decided to talk to you  about our future...\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe rest of the letter is an illegible confession: my painfully  discreet cousin must have dipped his pen in very weak ink because his  cursive ideograms are strung out between the watermarks like white  storks flying in the mist. Endless and indecipherable, his letter  written on a long sheet of rice paper undid me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e4\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt is snowing so heavily that we have to stop training. Trapped by  the frost, the cold and the wind, we spend our days playing cards in  our rooms.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eApparently the Chinese who live out in the country in northern  Manchuria never wash, and they ward off the cold by coating  themselves in fish fat. As a result of our protests, a bathhouse has  been built in our barracks, and officers and soldiers alike queue up  outside it. Inside the bathhouse, through the haze of steam, the  walls can be seen trickling with condensation. In the doorway, molten  snow boils furiously in a huge vat. Each man draws off his ration in  a cracked enamel bucket.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI undress and wash myself with a towel dampened in this cloudy  liquid. Not far away the officers have formed a circle, and as they  scrub each other's backs, they discuss the latest news. As I go over  to them, I recognize the man speaking: Captain Mori, one of the  veterans who fought for Manchurian independence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis morning's newspaper tells us that Major Zhang Xueliang has taken  Chiang Kai-shek hostage in the town of Xian,* where he and his exiled  army have sought refuge for six years. In exchange for the  generalissimo's freedom, Zhang Xueliang has demanded that the  Kuomintang be reconciled with the Communist Party to reconquer  Manchuria.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Zhang Xueliang is unworthy of his good name and he's an inveterate  womanizer,\" Captain Mori says dismissively. \"The very day after  September 18, 1931, when our army had surrounded the town of Shen  Yang where he had his headquarters, the degenerate weakling fled  without even attempting to resist us. As for Chiang Kai-shek, he's a  professional liar. He'll welcome the Communists with open arms, the  better to throttle them.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No Chinese army can take us on,\" threw in one of the officers while  his back was energetically scrubbed by his orderly. \"The civil war  has ruined China. One day, we'll annex the entire territory, another  Korea. You'll see, our army will follow the railway that runs from  northern China to the south. In three days we'll take Peking, and six  days later we'll be marching through the streets of Nanking; eight  days after that we'll be sleeping in Hong Kong, and that will open up  the doors to Southeast Asia.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTheir comments confirm various rumors, already rife in Japan, in the  heart of our infantry. Despite our government's reticence, the  conquest of China becomes more inevitable every day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat evening I go to sleep relaxed, and happy to be clean.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI am roused by a rustling of clothes: I am sleeping in my own room,  and Father is sitting in the next room, wrapped in his dark-blue  cotton yukata. Mother is walking up and down, the bottom of her  lavender-gray kimono opening and closing over a pale-pink  under-kimono. She has the face of a young woman; there is not a  single wrinkle round her almond-shaped eyes. A smell of springtime  wafts around her--it's the perfume Father had sent from Paris!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI suddenly remember that she has not touched that bottle of perfume  since Father died.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e5\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCousin Lu is becoming more and more stooped. He tries to seem  nonchalant, indifferent, but those dark unsettling eyes peer out of  his emaciated face, watching my every move. When I look into his eyes  and ask him, \"What's the matter, Cousin Lu?\" he says nothing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI challenge him to a game of go. He turns pale and fidgets on his  chair; his every move betrays his volatile mood. The territory he is  trying to defend on the board is either too cramped or too sprawling,  and his genius is reduced to a few strange and ineffectual moves. I  can tell that he has again been reading ancient tracts on go; he gets  them from his neighbor, an antique dealer, and a forger of the first  order. I even wonder whether, after reading so many of these  manuscripts, which are said to have sacred origins and are filled  with Taoist mysteries and tragic anecdotes, my cousin is going to end  up succumbing to madness, as players used to in the past.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"My cousin,\" I say when, instead of thinking about his position, he  is staring at my plait and daydreaming, \"what's happened to you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLu flushes immediately as if I have found out his secret. He gives a  little cough and looks like a doddering old man.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What have you learned from your books, my cousin?\" I taunt him  impatiently. \"The secret of immortality? You look more and more like  those dithering old alchemists who think they hold the secret of  purple cinnabar.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe isn't listening to me. He isn't looking at me either, but at his  own last letter to me, which I have left on the table. Ever since he  arrived he has been waiting for my reply to his illegible demands. I  am determined not to breathe a word.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe goes home to the capital, full of flu, a broken man. I go to the  station with him, and as I watch the train disappearing into the  swirling snow, I have a strange feeling of relief.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e6\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt last, my first mission!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOur detachment has received orders to track down a group of  terrorists who are challenging our authority onthe ground in  Manchuria. Disguised as Japanese soldiers, they attacked a military  reserve and stole arms and munitions.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor four days we follow a river locked under ice, with the wind  against us and the fallen snow swirling round our knees. Despite my  new coat, the cold slices through me more sharply than a saber, and I  can no longer feel my hands or feet. The marching has drained my head  of all thought. Laden like an ox and with my head tucked down inside  the collar of my uniform, I ruminate on the hope that I will soon be  able to warm myself by a campfire.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs we reach the foot of a hill, gunshots ring out. Just in front of  me several soldiers are hit and fall to the ground. We are trapped!   From their positions up above, the enemy can shoot down on us and we  cannot return their fire. A sharp pain twists my gut--I'm wounded!  I'm dying! I feel tentatively with my hand: no wound at all, just a  cramp produced by fear--a discovery that covers me in shame. I look  up and wipe the snow that has stuck to my eyes, and I can see that  our more experienced soldiers have leaped down onto the frozen river,  where they are sheltering behind the banks and returning fire. I leap  to my feet and start to run. I could be hit a thousand times, but in  war the difference between life and death depends on a mysterious  game of chance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOur machine guns open fire and, covered by their powerful barrage, we  make our assault. To make up for my earlier cowardice, I launch  myself into battle at the head of the platoon, brandishing my saber.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI have been brought up in a world dominated by honor. I have known  neither crime, poverty nor betrayal, and here I taste hatred for the  first time: it is sublime, like a thirst for justice and revenge.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe sky is so charged with snow that it is threatening to collapse.  The gunmen are sheltering behind huge boulders, but the smoke rising  from their weapons gives away their position. I throw two grenades  and when they explode, legs, arms and shreds of flesh fly out from a  whirl of snow and flames. I scream with triumphant pleasure at this  hellish sight and, leaping towards a survivor who is taking aim at  me, I strike him with my saber. His head rolls in the snow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt last I can look my ancestors in the face. By handing their blade  down to me they also bequeathed me their courage. I have not sullied  their name.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe battle leaves us in a trancelike state. Stimulated by the blood,  we whip our prisoners to break them down, but the Chinese are harder  than granite, and they do not falter. We weary of the game and kill  them: two bullets in the head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNight falls and, fearing there may be other traps ahead, we decide to  make camp where we are. Our wounded groan in the dark, a dialogue of  moans, and then silence. Their lips are frozen. They will not survive.","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303730008293,"sku":"NP9781400032280","price":15.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781400032280.jpg?v=1767739537","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-girl-who-played-go-isbn-9781400032280","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}