Mo Yan

Award won Role or nomination

1. 1955 age 0

   Born

2. 1988 age 33

   CreditRed Sorghumscreenwriter

• JWJiang Wen1 title
• GLGong Li1 title
• ZYZhang Yimou1 title
• GCGu Changwei1 title
• ZJZhao Jiping1 title
• TRTeng Rujun1 title
• JCJi Chunhua1 title
• WTWu Tianming1 title

• Influenced by

  • WFWilliam Faulkner

Nothing recorded for: Spouse, Partner, Parents, Children, Siblings, Studied under, Taught.

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  Photo:Johannes Kolfhaus, Gymn. MarienthalCC BY-SA 3.0

• Finally, she mused that human existence is as brief as the life of autumn grass, so what was there to fear from taking chances with your life?

  Mo Yan, CC BY-SA 4.0

• I sometimes think that there is a link between the decline in humanity and the increase in prosperity and comfort. Property and comfort are what people seek, but the costs to character are often terrifying.

  Mo Yan, CC BY-SA 4.0

• Over decades that seem but a moment in time, lines of scarlet figures shuttled among the sorghum stalks to weave a vast human tapestry. They killed, they looted, and they defended their country in a valiant, stirring ballet that makes us unfilial descendants who now occupy the land pale by comparison.

  Mo Yan, CC BY-SA 4.0

• A writer should always bravely face life, risking death and mutilation in order to dethrone an emperor.

  Mo Yan, CC BY-SA 4.0

• “Am I drunk?" he asked Crewcut. "You're not drunk, Boss," Crewcut replied. "How could a superior individual like you be drunk? People around here who get drunk are the dregs of society, illiterates, uncouth people. Highbrow folks, those of the 'spring snow,' cannot get drunk. You're a highbrow, therefore you cannot be drunk.”

  Mo Yan, CC BY-SA 4.0

• A tidal wave of trucks and carts moved slowly, inexorably toward the now open gate, bumping and clanging into each other as they squeezed through. The investigator jumped out of the way, and as he stood there observing the passage of this hideous insect, with its countless twisting, shifting sections, he experienced a strange and powerful rage. The birth of that rage was followed by spasms down and around his anus, where irritated blood vessels began to leap painfully, and he knew he was in for a hemorrhoid attack. This time the investigation would go forward, hemorrhoids or no, just like the old days. That thought took the edge off his rage, lessened it considerably, in fact. There's no avoiding the inevitable. Not mass confusion, not hemorrhoids. Only the sacred key to a riddle is eternal. But what was it this time?

  Mo Yan, CC BY-SA 4.0