I recently read Lao She's classic Chinese novel Rickshaw Boy. Here's my review of the book. One thing I enjoyed was his description. Eloquent and beautiful descriptions of the weather and scene, but also vivid psychological detail that conveyed a certain existentialism. Two samples:
The best he could come up with was self-pity, but even that seemed impossible, since his head was empty; he no sooner had thoughts about himself than he forgot them, like a dying candle that won't light. Enveloped by darkness, he felt as if he were floating inside a black cloud. Though he was aware of his existence and that he was walking forward, there was no evidence of where he was headed. He was like a man tossed about on the open sea, no longer able to believe in himself. Never in his life had he felt so bewildered, so downhearted, so very alone.
He could not shake the feeling that he'd never again be happy. He swore off thinking, speaking, and losing his temper, and yet there was a heaviness in his chest that went away for a while when he was working but always returned when he had time on his hands--it was soft, but large; it had no definable taste, yet it choked him, like a sponge. He's keep this suffocating something at bay by working himself half to death so he could fall into an exhausted sleep. His nights he'd give over to his dreams, his days to his arms and legs. He'd be like a working zombie: sweeping away snow, buying things, ordering kerosene lanterns, cleaning rickshaws, moving tables and chairs, eating the food Fourth Master supplied, and sleeping, all without knowing what was going on around him, or speaking, or even thinking, yet always dimly aware of the presence of that spongelike thing.