Pearl S. Buck was born on a day like today in 1892 and is one of the few women to win the Nobel Prize for Literature which he obtained in 1938. He wrote more than 45 novels of various genres. And most of it is set in China and its culture in the first half of the XNUMXth century. Among his most famous titles is East wind, west wind o women's pavilion. To remember it goes this snippet selection de his work.
Pearl S. Buck—Excerpts
El patriota
The ship moved slowly among the green islets, making its way through the blinding sunlight. The air was calm and mild, and as they glimpsed the islands they saw little Japanese fishing boats, their sails silhouetted against the blue of the sky. Sitting in a deck chair, he looked at everything without wanting to think about anything. The only way to endure his desperation was…not to think.
Sometimes the idea of how important it would have been to be able to say something to En-lan would assail him... but soon he would return to his passivity. He hadn't had a chance to say anything to his friend. He probably wouldn't live. He couldn't write to Peonía either. He had disappeared. He perfectly remembered the incredulous exclamation of his father: "Peony disappeared...!" He went back to the desire and the will not to think.
Everything faded... all the hopes they cherished together. She felt acute remorse at the memory of the brigade. Surely the workers would have returned to the factory to work as before, in the midst of their despair. They may have believed him a liar who had betrayed them... Although it was also possible that they presumed him dead. He preferred the latter. For his part, he didn't think he'd ever see them again.
women's pavilion
On nights like this it was hard for him to sleep. Silently he would allow Ying to get her ready, then climb on the redwood platform of her bed. She abandoned herself to her soul behind the silk curtains and pondered the meaning of all she had learned. Brother André had become a kind of well for her, wide and deep, a well of knowledge and learning. At night she thought about the many questions she wanted answers to. Sometimes, when her exceptional number troubled her memory, she would get out of bed and light a candle. And she would take her camel's hair brush and, with her delicate writing, she would jot down the issues on a sheet of paper. The following afternoon, when brother André arrived, she would read them to him one by one and she would listen attentively to everything he explained to her.
His way of answering him was tremendously simple, and it was because he was a highly educated person. He did not need, like men of lesser intellect, to ramble long and hard on the nitty-gritty of the matter. Just like the ancient Taoists, he knew how to express in a few words the essence of the essence of truth. He stripped it of its leaves, extracted the fruit and cracked the shell, peeled the inner pod, split the pulp, took out the seed and divided it, and there was the heart, pure and clean.
Death in the castle
Lady Mary stirred in her bed, covered by a wide canopy. She opened her eyes, looked into the darkness, and remained motionless. Something had woken her, a noise, a voice perhaps. Would Sir Richard have called her? She sat down on her bed, yawned delicately, hiding her mouth with the back of her hand, and turned on the light on the bedside table. The white curtains in the room, which protected the large windows, billowed gently, and the air was humid. The expected rain had appeared and the mist coming from the river should invade everything. He pulled the covers from her body and fumbled with the satin slippers that were on the floor. She had to go to Richard right away and see if he needed anything. She slid into her white negligée, lit a candle to light her through the corridor, devoid of electric light, and with soft steps she made her way to Sir Richard's room. He easily turned both doors, entered the room and, going to the bed, stood beside him and watched him, using one hand as a screen so that the flickering of the flame would not wake him.
Pearl S. Buck—Last Novel
The eternal wonder
Lying in bed, unable to sleep, he reviewed his life as he remembered it, a short life if he counted it in years, though old in a way. He had read so many books, had so many thoughts of his own, his mind was always abuzz with ideas... and suddenly, with his ability to visualize things, he remembered the goldfish in the pond under a willow tree in the garden, and how in on the first warm days of spring, when the sun shone, the water churned and came alive with golden sparkles as fish poured out of the mud where they had sheltered for the winter. That, he believed, was the spitting image of his mind, a constant succession of flashes, always on the move with bright thoughts that ran over in search of unexplored terrain. Often he was exhausted by that mind of his from which he could find rest only in sleep, and even sleep was brief but deep. Sometimes his mind would wake her up with his activity. He visualized his brain as a being independent of himself, a creature he had to live with, a spell, but also a slab. What was he born for?
Source: Epdlp