Fiction Collective Two is an author-run, not-for-profit publisher of artistically adventurous, non-traditional fiction.

The Beginning of the East

Beginning of the East
by Max Yeh

Price: $20.95 s

Price: $10.95


Columbus called the lands he discovered and believed to be parts of China "the beginning of the East," and his aberrations, delusions, and fantasies form this compels novel's spiritual center. The Beginning of the East is written from an intriguing point of view that is simultaneously Western and Oriental, by an American scholar who is heir to the Chinese Mandarin tradition.

An earthquake in Mexico City shocks the protagonist of this Scheherazade series of connected tales into mapping the influence of the United States on the rest of the Americas, of Europe on the Native American cultures, and therefore, of Columbus on reason for political kidnappings, death squads, and tortures. That logic comes to him woven around the figure of Columbus and elaborated as an ironic and tragic theory of world history leading inevitably to his own alienation and victimization. He is forced to travel back to Europe and to Seville, the city where Columbus's adventure began. There, as he relives in imagination the voyages of the great navigator, his own life and energized by an immense momentum, the narrative travels both forward and backward at once, both east to a mythic Cathay and west to the New World, where the protagonist ends up in a desolate town in the New Mexico desert in the company of down-and-outers who are fated to relive, as we all are, the primal contact of east and west initiated by Columbus.

The metaphors of self in The Beginning of the East engender vast reverberations, worlds on worlds of complex and reciprocal resonances, rich with echoes and memories. The recognizable, the improbable, the lyrical, the philosophical, the fabulous flow together. As Montesquieu, the grandfather of this genre of the foreign visitor, said about his own work, everything is tired together "by a secret, and in a way, unknown chain."

"Like Henry Miller, Max Yeh is dismissive of literary convention. He's a writer on the rampage, but his appetite is for history, for political meaning, for ethical life. He's an origast, but of the intellect. He imagines American back to Columbus and forward again, mapping his own brain, and possibly ours, in what is finally an original and provocative book."—E.L. Doctorow, author of Billy Bathgate

"For a fresh take on the myth and reality of present-day America, free of cant and pedantry, this book is invaluable. Its quality is clear: first class, untrammeled, an extraordinary work."—John Loftus, painter and author of Toulouse-Lautrec


Some buildings leaned over and slowly sank like great ships, their windows flashing the clear, bright sky, tracing huge arcs with their rays of reflected sunlight across the faces of the surrounding buildings: others, touched by some powerfully magic wand, simply disintegrated in mid-air, their firmness all gone, became for a moment hovering forms of dust, shivering mirages of their former beings, and then collapsed into piles of rubble. Whole floors were sliced away, while those above and below remained intact, so that the buildings looked stunted brothers of themselves, the only sign of their past the loops of bent girders sticking out the corners where once there had been a fifth or sixth floor. Top floors became small garbage dumps, dull, colorless masses of broken glass, bent aluminum frames, bricks, rocks, tangles of iron rods, contrasting with the elegant glass and concrete structures that held them high in the air. Brightly painted walls, blue, brown, maroon, green, ochre, yellow, black, red, orange, turquoise, olive, grey, crackled, flaked, peeled, dulled, and aged, pieces of their masonry jutting out or fallen or falling. High up on these expansive and dilapidated cliffs, he saw bathrooms appear suddenly, shining yellow tile work, gold-trimmed shower stall, a bottle of shampoo still balanced on the stall's edge, a coat rack in the corner behind the toilet with its seat left up by the master of the house, a brown bathrobe blowing slightly in the warm breeze as if it were really real and not the doll house miniature it seemed, or he saw until the heave gas from the tanks on top the buildings slowly leaking down ventilators and stairwells and drain pipes found the hot water heaters in the apartments below and with a sudden blue flash of lightning followed by clouds of dust the buildings disappeared with their peaceful and comfortable dollhouse furniture, miniature bookshelves with even tinier books that actually opened, tinware pans, enameled stove, handknit rugs, small portraits and landscapes painted with human hair brushes hanging on the papered walls.